Aristotle and the Virtues

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Aristotle and the Virtues

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Aristotle and the Virtues Howard J. Curzer

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Great Clarendon Street, Oxford OX2 6DP Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide in Oxford New York Auckland Cape Town Dar es Salaam Hong Kong Karachi Kuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Nairobi New Delhi Shanghai Taipei Toronto With offices in Argentina Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece Guatemala Hungary Italy Japan Poland Portugal Singapore South Korea Switzerland Thailand Turkey Ukraine Vietnam Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries Published in the United States by Oxford University Press Inc., New York # Howard J. Curzer 2012 The moral rights of the author have been asserted Database right Oxford University Press (maker) First published 2012 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this book in any other binding or cover and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Data available Typeset by SPI Publisher Services, Pondichery, India Printed in Great Britain on acid-free paper by MPG Books Group, Bodmin and King’s Lynn ISBN 978–0–19–969372–6 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To my parents, Abe and Ruth Curzer, for starting me on the moral development path, and to my wife, Anne Epstein, and my daughter, Mirah Curzer, for keeping me on it.

Acknowledgements I would like to thank the following people for their very helpful comments and suggestions on various parts of this manuscript: Allan Bäck, Aaron Ben-Zeev, Mirah Curzer, Shane Drefcinski, Anne Epstein, Bronwyn Finnigin, Lloyd Gerson, Paula Gottlieb, Herbert Granger, John Heil, Ben Miller, Daniel Nathan, Walter Schaller, Jeremy Schwartz, Thomas Seung, Robin Smith, Matthew Walker, and Charles Young. Special thanks to Rosalind Hursthouse and Christine Swanton for an invaluable series of stimulating conversations about the whole of an earlier draft. Thanks also to Gary Santillanes for his bibliographical assistance. Chapters (3), (6), (11), and (15) are revised versions of the following papers: “Aristotle’s Account of the Virtue of Temperance in Nicomachean Ethics

III.10–11,” Journal of the History of Philosophy, 35 (1997): 5–25. “A Great Philosopher’s not so Great Treatment of Great Virtue: Aristotle’s Treatment of Greatness of Soul,” Canadian Journal of Philosophy, 20 (1990): 517–37. “Aristotle’s Account of the Virtue of Justice,” Apeiron, 28 (1995): 207–38. “Aristotle’s Painful Path to Virtue,” Journal of the History of Philosophy, 40 (2002): 141–62.

Contents 1. Introduction

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Moral Virtues 2. Courage and Continence (NE III.6–9)

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3. Temperance and Incontinence (NE III.10–12)

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4. Liberality and Benevolence (NE IV.1)

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5. Magnificence and Heroic Virtue (NE IV.2)

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6. Megalopsychia and Appropriate Ambition (NE IV.3–4)

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7. Good Temper and Forgiveness (NE IV.5)

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8. Wit and Wounding (NE IV.8)

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9. Friendliness and Civility (NE IV.6)

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10. Truthfulness and Integrity (NE IV.7)

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Justice and Friendship 11. General, Particular, and Poetic Justice (NE V)

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12. Varieties of Friendship (NE VIII–IX)

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13. Justice in Friendship (NE VIII–IX)

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Moral Development 14. Practical Wisdom and Reciprocity of Virtue (NE VI.12–13)

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15. Aristotle’s Painful Path to Virtue: The Many and the Generous-Minded

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16. Shame and Moral Development: The Incontinent, the Continent, the Naturally Virtuous, and the Properly Virtuous

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17. Aristotle’s Losers: The Vicious, the Brutish, Natural Slaves, and Tragic Heroes

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18. Happiness and Luck (NE I and X.6–8)

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Bibliography Index

426 437


If I’d ‘a’ knowed what a trouble it was to make a book I wouldn’t ‘a’ tackled it. Huck Finn in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain


1 Introduction

Moral virtue We shall both know the facts about character better if we go through them in detail, and we shall be convinced that the virtues are means if we see this to be so in all cases. (1127a14–17)1

Aristotle is the father of virtue ethics, and virtue ethics is hot. Yet Aristotle’s accounts of the individual virtues remain opaque, for most contemporary commentators of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics have focused upon other matters. By contrast, I take Aristotle’s detailed description of the individual virtues to be central to his ethical theory. In the first part of this book I work through the Nicomachean Ethics virtue by virtue, explaining and generally defending Aristotle’s claims.2 I try to bring each of Aristotle’s virtues alive. My goal is to bring to light a new Aristotle: an Aristotle fascinated by the details of the individual virtues. Courage Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean is presently in disrepute. It has been disparaged as silly, or at best vacuous. Some commentators complain that the doctrine does not tell us what to do in particular situations. Other commentators object that the doctrine does not say anything very interesting about virtue and vice. Yet others accuse the doctrine of forming a Procrustean bed that distorts various virtues by trying to make all virtues fit the same mold. That is, they deny that Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean fits all of his

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All quotations from Aristotle are taken from The Complete Works of Aristotle, ed. J. Barnes (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984) except that I translate arete¯ as “virtue” rather than “excellence.” 2 I make some use of the Eudemian Ethics, Magna Moralia, and Rhetoric, too. I do not enter into the debates about the priority of the EE, the authorship of the MM, or the purpose of the Rhetoric. For the record, I take the EE to be prior to the NE, the MM to be by an Aristotelian who is not Aristotle, and the Rhetoric to express Aristotle’s own view unless there is a passage-specific reason against it.

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A R I S T O T L E A N D T H E V I RT U E S

virtues. I rehabilitate Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean with a charitable, detailed interpretation. I demonstrate its plausibility and usefulness as an organizing principle, and show that all of Aristotle’s virtues are means in the way called for by the doctrine of the mean.3 Important as the doctrine of the mean is, it is just the beginning. It is only the most famous (or notorious) part of a general theory of virtue ethics. In this book I uncover and compile Aristotle’s architectonic, an architectonic that can be fully articulated and appreciated only by penetrating beyond NE III.5 and examining Aristotle’s forest of virtue-descriptions tree by tree. (Much of this will be done in the chapter on courage which is why that chapter is more introductory, and much longer than the other chapters.) Why bother? Why not rest content with Aristotle’s own sketch of his virtue theory in NE II and III.1–5? One reason is that only a detailed examination of Aristotle’s whole account of the virtues will establish that I am really discovering an architectonic within Aristotle’s text rather than imposing a rigid structure upon the text. Another reason for working through Aristotle’s detailed descriptions of the virtues is to resolve some longstanding interpretive puzzles. Conversely, these resolutions will buttress my claim to have uncovered an architectonic. A final reason is that Aristotle’s sketch is incomplete. Rather than stating his whole theory in general and up front, Aristotle sketches some bits of the theory, and then unfolds the rest gradually within his accounts of the individual virtues. Many general points that actually apply to all of the virtues are mentioned only in the context of a single virtue. For example, in his account of courage Aristotle remarks, “It is not the case, then, with all the virtues that the exercise of them is pleasant, except in so far as it reaches its end” (1117b9–16). This puzzling remark is typically taken to refer to courage alone. To decipher the remark, I must first lay bare certain underlying relationships among goals, pleasures, and pains. Courageous acts have three goals: a characteristic gain (e.g. saving the city from invasion), avoiding a characteristic loss (escaping death, injury, and physical pain), and acting virtuously (performing a virtuous act from virtue qua virtuous for its own sake). Achieving this characteristic gain produces a certain sort of pleasure (proper pleasure); suffering this characteristic loss produces a certain sort of pain (proper pain); and acting virtuously produces a different sort of pleasure (noble pleasure). Aristotle thinks that courageous acts can only be performed in situations where both confidence about achieving a characteristic gain and fear of suffering a characteristic loss are appropriate. Aristotle’s remark means that courageous acts are not necessarily overall pleasant unless they accomplish their characteristic goal. The proper pain of a courageous act sometimes outweighs the act’s noble pleasure, but never outweighs the noble pleasure plus the proper pleasure of the act. All of this is quite nifty, and much more plausible than the cheery thesis, often attributed to Aristotle, that virtuous acts are always overall pleasant to virtuous people, no matter what their outcome. But what is even niftier is that all of this turns out to be

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Well, megalopsychia is not a mean, but then I argue that it is not a virtue, either.

I N T RO D U C T I O N

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true not only of courageous acts, but of all virtuous acts. Each different sort of virtuous act involves different sorts of characteristic gain and loss, different sorts of proper pleasure and pain, and thus different sorts of fear and confidence. And Aristotle’s view is that each virtuous act may be overall painful if it fails to achieve its characteristic gain, but will be overall pleasant if it succeeds. For example, the warm glow generated by an attempt to help deserving other people may be outweighed by the pain of ingratitude if it fails to help, but not by the pain of ingratitude plus the proper pleasure produced by successfully helping. This is an important piece of Aristotle’s architectonic buried within his account of courage. Aristotle’s architectonic is not the whole story. Some issues are peculiar to particular virtues. Perhaps the most notorious matter arising only (or predominately) with respect to courage is the following. According to Aristotle’s taxonomy of character traits, virtuous people reason and feel rightly, and so perform virtuous acts without internal conflict, while continent people overcome bad passions and/or desires to perform virtuous acts. Aristotle’s account of courage is thought to conflict with this taxonomy. Courageous people feel an appropriate amount of fear in risky situations, but if they must overcome this fear, then they seem to be merely continent. Aristotle’s distinction between virtue and continence seems to collapse in the case of courage. I rescue Aristotle with the simple, yet novel observation that a desire to reduce risk need not be a desire to perform cowardly acts. The continent person’s fear generates a temptation to shirk courageous acts, but the courageous person’s fear leads him or her to perform courageous acts more carefully than would a fearless, rash person. Fearful continent people overcome the desire to throw away their shields and run from battle, but courageous people have no such desire, and therefore need not overcome it. Instead, courageous people desire to take appropriate precautions. Their fear prompts them to don armor before battle, for example. Thus, courageous and continent people may be distinguished without denying that both feel fear. Temperance As I move through Aristotle’s accounts of the individual virtues, one of my goals is to show how each account both exemplifies and extends Aristotle’s architectonic. This engenders a fair amount of repetition. Some matters taken up with respect to courage must be taken up again with respect to temperance, and yet again in later chapters with respect to other virtues. For example, I argue that each virtue conforms to what I call the doctrine of disjoint spheres. Each virtue is a disposition to act and feel rightly within completely different sorts of situations. Unfortunately, demonstrating that there is no overlap among Aristotle’s virtues produces some overlap among my chapters. I have tried to ameliorate the tedium by making parallel points in different ways, yet parallel points they remain. My apologies. A silver lining is that each chapter stands alone. Each may be read more or less on its own. Many contemporary virtue ethicists are enamored of Aristotle’s general approach, but few take his accounts of the individual virtues seriously. One of my goals is to

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elevate the scholarly standing of these accounts by showing that they are reasonable and enlightening. I see Aristotle’s account of the virtues as relevant to contemporary life in detail, not just in general approach. Now my project is primarily interpretive. My main contribution to Aristotle’s credibility is simply to make his detailed accounts of the virtues available, to bring Aristotle into the conversation among contemporary virtue ethicists. This alone is sufficient to rebut criticisms based upon ignorance or misconceptions. Moreover, I occasionally turn aside from the task of interpretation in order to defend Aristotle against other criticisms. But many criticisms of Aristotle’s virtue ethics remain unrefuted. Aristotle awaits a champion who will defend the doctrines that this book uncovers. I deploy the interpretive principle of charity liberally, but it must be admitted that Aristotle sometimes goes wrong. To make him sound completely consistent and consistently plausible would go beyond charity to misinterpretation. Aristotle’s corpus should not be treated as a sacred text. For example, Aristotle’s account of temperance clashes with common sense and with Aristotle’s own architectonic when Aristotle claims that a person is intemperate only if he or she is disposed to go wrong with respect to amounts, objects, and occasions of sensual pleasure (1118b21–5). Arguably, wine with a fancy dinner is a right object on the right occasion, but people who reliably binge on those occasions surely lack temperance, even though they go wrong with respect to only one of the three parameters. Luckily, a few tweaks can bring Aristotle’s account of temperance into harmony with his own architectonic and with common sense. A historian of philosophy studies the philosophy of others, but history of philosophy can also be a way of doing philosophy, oneself. As Wolff says in his commentary on Kant’s Groundwork, The willingness to attempt a philosophical reconstruction of a text springs from the conviction that its author possessed genuine insight into his problems and that because, in a manner of speaking, he saw more deeply than he was able to say, it would be fruitful to study even his obscurest passages in an effort to wring from them the truth he dimly perceived.4

Aristotle’s obscurest passages, like Kant’s, repay study. In particular, a philosophical reconstruction of Aristotle’s account of temperance can enhance our understanding of how people relate, and should relate to food, drink, sex, and other sensual pleasures. Aristotle’s account includes important distinctions which are absent from at least one popular, contemporary understanding of alcohol abuse, for example. Liberality and magnificence One goal of this book is to demonstrate that many of Aristotle’s virtues are not quite what they seem to be at first glance. In particular, some readers expect Aristotelian 4

R. P. Wolff, The Autonomy of Reason (New York: Harper and Row, 1973) 4.


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liberality to be a virtue governing all aspects of our monetary life, a virtue consisting of four sub-virtues: monetary benevolence, gratitude, entrepreneurship, and properpurchasing. Aristotle does indeed talk of giving, accepting, making, and spending money throughout NE IV.1. I argue that Aristotelian liberality turns out to be something quite different, however. The reason is that within Aristotle’s account of liberality, spending money is restricted to spending on others, accepting gifts is restricted to accepting on behalf of others, and earning is restricted to making money for the sake of others. On my interpretation, liberality thus turns out to be simply Aristotle’s virtue of monetary gift-giving, characterized not only by an appropriate desire for wealth, but also by an appropriate desire to help other people. It is the economic part of the virtue of benevolence. My interpretation has the welcome side effect of defending Aristotle against two accusations. First, my interpretation goes a long way, though not the whole way, toward exonerating Aristotle from the accusation of ignoring or marginalizing the virtue of benevolence. Second, my interpretation makes Aristotelian liberality into a single, unified virtue rather than a hodge-podge of four different virtues related only incidentally by the fact that they all involve money. Aristotle’s superficial summary of the virtues in NE II.7 can give the reader a head start in the wrong direction. For example, Aristotle there distinguishes magnificence from liberality by saying that magnificence is the virtue governing great wealth, while liberality is the virtue governing small and medium levels of wealth (1107b17–19). But this scale thesis clashes with both Aristotle’s architectonic and common sense at several points. Part of Aristotle’s architectonic is the doctrine that what counts as a right action or passion is relative to the agent’s situation. In particular, what counts as a liberal act or passion depends partially upon the wealth of the agent. Thus, liberality governs giving at all levels of wealth, not merely small and medium levels. If magnificence is understood as a virtue governing great wealth, then it is simply part of liberality. This is common sense, too. The dispositions necessary for dealing appropriately with all levels of wealth are the same (good taste, desire to help others, etc.), although some of the necessary knowledge may differ from level to level. What’s an interpreter to do? Philosophical reconstruction must sometimes resolve counterintuitive claims and contradictions by rejecting passages as later additions, mistranslations, garbled texts, or just the results of a philosopher having a bad day. When faced with the choice between (a) attributing a plausible, consistent view to Aristotle at the cost of ditching or tweaking a passage or two, and (b) retaining every passage as is, leaving Aristotle with an implausible and incoherent view, I opt for the former alternative, appealing to the interpretive principle of charity. So despite the fact that the scale thesis is explicitly stated by Aristotle, I reject it on behalf of Aristotle. Magnificence and liberality are not two virtues differing by scale. Indeed, they are not two virtues at all. Once freed from the grip of the scale thesis, magnificence is revealed to be merely a version of liberality, although a version that is exceptionally good in two ways. First, magnificent people reliably mange to make

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liberal expenditures even in situations where doing so is so difficult that acting illiberally would be excusable. Second, in ordinary situations magnificent people make expenditures that are beautiful (kalon) as well as liberal.5 Megalopsychia, appropriate ambition, and heroic virtue Megalopsychia (sometimes translated “pride” or “greatness of soul” or “magnanimity”) is an important virtue to Aristotle. He calls it an “adornment of the virtues” (1124a2), and takes people with megalopsychia to be moral exemplars of some sort. Megalopsychia is also an important virtue to the historian of ideas. It is Aristotle’s attempt to meld a Homeric notion of greatness with a Golden Age notion of moderation. Unsurprisingly, megalopsychia is a much-discussed virtue, but consensus remains elusive. Moreover, what agreement there is is built upon Aristotle’s statement that megalopsychia is about great honor while the virtue of appropriate ambition is about small honors. Alas, this scale thesis, like the previous one, is quite misleading. I argue that megalopsychia is not concerned with honor at all, except incidentally. Instead, greatness, self-knowledge, and self-sufficiency are the core components of megalopsychia. Moreover, the difference between megalopsychia and appropriate ambition is not a difference of scale, but rather of sphere. Unlike megalopsychia, appropriate ambition is essentially concerned with honor. Worse is to come. Aristotle’s treatment of megalopsychia clashes with his own architectonic in several ways. Despite Aristotle’s protestations, megalopsychia is not a mean between humility and vanity, because greatness is not a mean. Indeed, because it lacks a characteristic passion, megalopsychia is not a moral virtue at all. Overall, Aristotle’s account of megalopsychia is a mess. But an insightful mess. After describing various problems, I show how Aristotle could avoid them by modifying his treatment of megalopsychia, and by fleshing out his doctrine of the mean in a way which allows for great virtue. That is, I propose revisions in Aristotle’s account of megalopsychia which would bring it into harmony with his architectonic and allow it to succeed as a synthesis of greatness and moderation. On my proposal, Aristotle’s account of megalopsychia would become a general account of heroic virtue. Aristotle errs by listing magnificence and megalopsychia as virtues, and this causes various problems. However, Aristotle is on to something. He is sketching, albeit imperfectly, a very interesting virtue ethics analog to the concept of supererogation. Heroically virtuous people are disposed to exercise virtues in two ways: ordinary virtuous actions in extraordinary situations (situations in which vicious actions would be excusable), and extraordinary virtuous actions (beautiful actions) in ordinary situations. Magnificence turns out to be a heroic version of liberality.

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The scale thesis grows out of the incidental fact that Aristotle takes largeness to be an aspect of beauty.


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Good temper, truthfulness, wit, friendliness In my interpretation of Aristotle’s comparatively neglected accounts of the social virtues I return to the project of showing that Aristotle’s claims about the individual virtues fit and extend his architectonic. But I undertake another project, too. In general, some historians of philosophy focus upon situating dead philosophers within their historical context, while others focus upon bringing dead philosophers into current philosophical debates. The former group might accuse the latter of generating anachronistic caricatures; the latter group might accuse the former of doing intellectual history rather than philosophy. Aristotle commentators are no exception. Some commentators emphasize the ways in which Aristotle is different from us. Their Aristotle is a window onto another time and place. He offers an exotic, alternative perspective to ours. This is certainly sometimes a legitimate and useful approach to Aristotle, but it is not my approach. I am a drag-Aristotle-into-currentdebates sort of guy. I emphasize the ways in which Aristotle is working on similar problems from similar perspectives, and arriving at answers similar to those of contemporary philosophers. My Aristotle differs from contemporary virtue ethicists no more than they differ from each other. In particular, Aristotle’s accounts of the social virtues are sometimes invoked as evidence of significant differences between the views of Aristotle and those of most contemporary philosophers about the scope and content of morality. In his account of good temper Aristotle endorses retaliation for slights, while many contemporary philosophers praise forgiveness. Aristotle takes wittiness and friendliness to be top-ten virtues, while contemporary philosophers take them to be nice enough, but trivial, morally neutral character traits. Aristotle thinks telling the truth is important, but unlike contemporary philosophers, Aristotle imposes draconian limits upon the scope of truthfulness. He restricts it to matters concerning one’s own reputation. To some commentators, Aristotle’s social virtues suggest a morality aimed at gentlemen and emphasizing honor or status. Slights are not to be tolerated; hence the importance of retaliation. Style counts for much; hence the importance of humor and demeanor. Image is everything; about that one should not deceive. But gentlemen need not be nice about truthtelling: they may deceive other people (especially non-gentlemen) about other things, if necessary. Contrariwise, I find Aristotle’s social virtues to be quite familiar and not particularly aristocratic. I argue that Aristotelian good temper requires retaliation for injustices as well as insults, so he is not particularly addressing aristocrats for whom honor is everything. True, Aristotle does not endorse forgiveness for unapologetic wrongdoers, but then many contemporary philosophers also oppose unilateral forgiveness. Upon examination, I find Aristotle’s other social virtues to be strikingly modern. Rather than accepting the usual view of Aristotelian wittiness as a keen sense of humor, the disposition to make and appreciate funny jokes, I show wittiness to be a disposition to avoid offending and wounding others through humor. Aristotle’s witty people

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might tell or tolerate unfunny jokes, but not hurtful jokes. Aristotle’s decision to list wit as a virtue does not reflect an aristocratic view that good people have panache. Instead, foreshadowing contemporary liberation movements, Aristotle insists upon the potential of humor to harm, and our duty to ward against this harm. Aristotle does not list a virtue of across-the-board honesty, as most contemporary virtue ethicists do. But that is not because he considers deception to be the prerogative of his target audience of gentlemen. Instead, it is because Aristotle thinks that what motivates people to be honest about this or that is their stance toward this or that rather than their stance toward truth. Some ethicists (e.g. Socrates at Laches 191d) maintain that people can exhibit courage in the face of all sorts of risks, but Aristotle limits courage to physical risks, and considers the right response to the risk of poverty to be an expression of liberality, the right response to the risk of dishonor to be an expression of good temper, and so on. Similarly, while many consider honesty to be a virtue that cuts across all spheres, Aristotle distributes it among the various virtues. He specifies that honesty about agreements is a matter of justice rather than truthfulness (1127a32–b1). Extrapolating, I suggest that honesty about situations of physical risk is required by courage; honesty about sensual pleasure is required by temperance; and so on. What is left for truthfulness? Aristotelian truthfulness turns out to be about shaping an accurate reputation. It is not a radically pruned version of honesty, but rather it is a version of the virtue of integrity. Indeed, I argue that Aristotelian truthfulness has a better claim to be called integrity than most of the character traits put forward as integrity by contemporary philosophers. Finally, by including friendliness on his list of virtues Aristotle is not indicating that good people are socially smooth. Instead, Aristotelian friendliness turns out to be approximately the virtue of civility. Civility is not a peculiarly aristocratic virtue. After all, showing respect for others is important, not only for gentlemen, but for everyone. Overall, Aristotle’s social virtues are not anachronistic throwbacks to an aristocratic age, but rather they are surprisingly modern virtues.

Friendship and justice Friendship and justice seem . . . to be concerned with the same objects and exhibited between the same persons. (1159b25–6)

Many contemporary discussions place justice and friendship at opposite, perhaps even conflicting poles of a spectrum. Justice seems to be very much a public, impartial, and dispassionate thing, while friendship is paradigmatically private, partial, and passionate. Yet I argue that in Aristotle’s view they not only belong together, but they are actually symbiotic. Justice is defined in terms of friendship, and good friendship is defined in terms of justice.


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Justice Aristotle’s account of justice is problematic in various ways. It seems to be an exception to Aristotle’s architectonic because Aristotle lists only one opposite vice rather than two. Aristotle’s account of justice also raises questions about how the virtues fit together. How is justice related to the other virtues? Third, Aristotle’s account of justice seems to ignore several common-sense intuitions such as the intuition that just people want other people to get the goods and evils that they deserve. Finally, Aristotle’s architectonic requires that the set of virtuous actions be the set of actions typically performed by virtuous people, but the set of actions that Aristotle calls “just” includes actions that could not be motivated by the character trait that Aristotle calls “justice.” I try to rehabilitate Aristotle’s account of justice. First, I find a second vice so that justice will be bracketed by two vices and thus conform to the doctrine of the mean. This is a straightforward, though controversial solution to the first problem mentioned above. Second, the relationship between justice and the other virtues is complex. Aristotle distinguishes between general and particular justice. General justice “is complete virtue—not absolutely, but in relation to others” (1129b25–7; 1130a32–b2; 1130a10–13). That is, general justice is not an independent virtue, but rather it consists of the social components of the other virtues. I argue that particular justice is characterized by the desire for one’s fair share. This desire differs from the desires for appropriate amounts of safety, sensual pleasure, etc. that characterize the other virtues. Similarly, the characteristic desire of particular injustice is a desire for an unjust share, a desire to get ahead (or behind) by cheating, which is not a desire for an excessive (or deficient) amount of this or that good, except incidentally. Third, I argue that the actions that flow from justice, plus the character trait of nemesis (sometimes translated “righteous indignation”) match the actions specified by Aristotle’s right rule for justice, and also match our common-sense intuitions about justice. In general, on my interpretation, Aristotle’s account of justice supplemented by his sketchy, scattered account of nemesis constitutes a consistent, plausible, and Aristotelian description of the virtue of justice. Aristotle is sometimes criticized and sometimes praised for not providing principles (sometimes called right rules) that apply his virtues to particular situations. He does give right rules for justice, however. Since general justice is simply the sum of the social components of the other virtues, it follows that the right rules of justice just are the right rules of the social virtues (and the other virtues except in situations involving only the agent). The right rule of courage is Aristotle’s principle of distributive justice applied to the good of safety, for example. In a simple battlefield case, it says that each person’s appropriate contribution is to accept a share of the risk proportionate to what he or she stands to gain from the fighting. Similarly, the right rule of good temper is Aristotle’s principle of rectificatory justice applied to the good of honor. That is, appropriate retaliation is, in some sense, equal to the insult and/or injury. And so on.

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Friendship In his accounts of the various virtues, Aristotle seems to focus upon the ideal, but his taxonomy and descriptions of non-virtuous character traits are also illuminating and helpful for moral improvement. Similarly, in his account of friendship, Aristotle seems to focus upon the best sort of friendship, but his taxonomy and descriptions of the inferior sorts of friendships are illuminating and helpful for relationship improvement. After all, in order to improve a character or relationship it helps to be able to describe the current problems as well as the target. We must know, not only where we want to go, but also where we are now. Technically, Aristotelian friendships involve mutual, unselfish well-wishing, but Aristotle also uses the term “friendship” in a broader sense that comprehends many other relationships of mutual cooperation entered into for the sake of gaining and maintaining a common goal. I argue that pleasure and utility friendships are friendships in the broad sense, but not in the technical sense, and that deviant character friendships are technically friendships, but to a lesser degree. Some commentators worry that Aristotle’s egoism prevents even wholesome character friendships from meeting the technical definition of friendship. However, I allay this fear by observing that, although they are entered into for self-interested reasons, once formed, character friendships dispose friends to seek the common good unselfishly, sacrificing for each other when necessary. In this respect, friendships are like virtues. We set out to develop virtues because it is in our interest to do so, yet once developed, virtues occasionally move us to act in ways which are not in our interest. Aristotle deploys five distinctions to classify friendships: (1) Which goods are aimed at (pleasure, utility, or shared virtuous activity)? (2) How is decision-making allocated (one-party-decides, decisions-shared-equally, and sphere-by-sphere)? (3) Do the decision-makers aim at the common good (wholesome, deviant)? (4) Are contribution by the parties to the friendship equivalent (equal, unequal)? (5) Are benefits proportional to contributions (equalized, unequalized)? Thus, Aristotle ends up with seventytwo types of friendship, not including mixed types. Each friendship may be described in terms of these five parameters. My idea of a well-run college course, for example, is a hierarchically organized group of people working together toward the common goal of gaining knowledge, some contributing more than others, and each getting out of the course roughly what he or she puts into it. It is, therefore, a utility friendship that is monarchic, wholesome, unequal, and equalized. Aristotle’s classification scheme incorporates various aspects of Aristotle’s account of friendship. For example, Aristotle implicitly distinguishes two ways of going wrong in a friendship. Deviant friendships (democratic, oligarchic, and tyrannical), are flawed because the decision-makers aim at their own interests instead of aiming at the interests of all. They are selfish. Unequalized friendships are flawed because the contributions and benefits of the friends are disproportionate. They are unfair. To put it more positively, friends have both duties of care and justice toward each other.


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Justice in friendship The right rules of justice are roughly these. Distributive justice: Treat equals equally, unequals proportionately unequally. Reciprocal justice: Trade equals for equals. Rectificatory justice: Restore to victims something equal to their loss, and remove from wrongdoers something equal to their gain. I argue that equal goods are things that are equally useful in promoting the goals of the friendship, and equal people are people who contribute equally to the friendship. Thus, different sorts of friendships flesh out what and who counts as “equal” in different ways. Outside of all friendships, “equal goods” and “equal people” are undefined. Thus, for Aristotle there is no such thing as universal justice or justice simpliciter. Instead, there is justice with respect to this friendship, justice with respect to that friendship, justice with respect to the other friendship, and so on. The view that justice governs only dealings among friends has the hideous implication that we may treat non-friends without concern for justice. This is not quite as bad as it sounds because Aristotle considers states to be friendships. Nevertheless, outside of states there ain’t no justice. On the bright side, since an Aristotelian state is not made up of individuals who have separately accepted a social contract, but rather it is a collection of nesting and overlapping friendships such as families, villages, corporations, PTAs, BFFs, NGOs, etc. Aristotle’s account of justice in friendship enables him to explain the differences among myriad versions of justice found within states. Moreover, by maintaining that different friendships operate under different rules of justice, Aristotle can give a complex, yet plausible analysis of conflicts of duty among nesting friendships and among overlapping friendships. He can also handle conflicts of duty between justice and care.

Moral development We are inquiring not in order to know what virtue is but in order to become good. (1103b27–8)

Aristotle’s account of moral development is surprisingly sketchy and scattered for a philosopher who takes the primary project of ethics to be neither building a moral theory nor solving moral problems, but rather “to become good.” My reconstruction of Aristotle’s account of moral development is, therefore, the most speculative part of this already rather speculative book. The risk seems worth taking for the sake of ushering Aristotle into contemporary discussions of moral development as well as moral theory. My reconstruction has four parts. First, an investigation into the relationship between practical wisdom and Aristotle’s Reciprocity of Virtue Thesis is a necessary preliminary to an account of Aristotle’s moral development path. Second, I specify the character types that serve as stages of moral development, and the catalysts and mechanisms that lead from one stage to the next. Third, I explain why several

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sorts of people cannot make moral progress. This becomes a description of the preconditions of moral development. Together, the stages plus the losers constitute a taxonomy of all of the character types mentioned in the NE except heroically virtuous people. Finally, I describe the ultimate goal of Aristotelian moral development: happiness. Practical wisdom and the reciprocity of virtue Aristotle distinguishes two sorts of virtue: proper virtue and natural virtue. Roughly speaking, proper virtue is natural virtue plus practical wisdom. Aristotle allows that some people possess only some natural virtues. But Aristotle makes the following argument for the reciprocity of proper virtues: (1) A person with any proper virtue must have practical wisdom. (2) A person with practical wisdom must have all of the proper virtues. (3) Therefore, a person with any proper virtue must have all of the proper virtues (1144b4–1145a2). The usual interpretation of this argument takes natural virtue to be an innate protovirtue. Learners move from natural to proper virtue by acquiring practical wisdom, understood as the knowledge of which acts are virtuous in which situations. On this interpretation, premise (1) implies that everyone who can reliably identify virtuous acts within one sphere of human life can do so within all spheres of human life. Premise (2) implies that everyone who can reliably identify virtuous acts will reliably perform them. The usual interpretation faces numerous problems. One glaring problem is that Aristotle, himself, provides counterexamples to the premises. Unevenly virtuous people (e.g. liberal cowards) and incontinent people are counter-examples to premises (1) and (2), respectively. The usual interpretation also stands in the way of a reasonable reconstruction of Aristotle’s account of moral development. Not only does it conflict with Aristotle’s thesis that we are born morally neutral (1103a23–6), it also leaves habituation, Aristotle’s central method of moral development, out of the picture. I offer an alternative interpretation of Aristotle’s argument in order to clear the way for a reconstruction of Aristotle’s account of moral development. My interpretation does not deny our innate moral neutrality, or ignore habituation. I take natural virtue to be a rather late stage of moral development. I also take practical wisdom in this context to be an understanding of what makes an act virtuous. Naturally virtuous people already know which acts are virtuous; what they learn in order to become properly virtuous is why virtuous acts are virtuous. Thus, neither unevenly virtuous people nor incontinent people are counter-examples to Aristotle’s premises. Pain, shame, and moral development Aido¯s (sometimes translated “shame” or “guilt” or “remorse”) is said to be a learner’s virtue, a virtue only for people who have not yet reached the end of the moral development path. Rather than discussing aido¯s in isolation, I take up the larger project of describing Aristotle’s account of the process of virtue acquisition.


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Most commentators have said little about Aristotle’s account of moral development. A prominent exception is Burnyeat. According to Burnyeat, Aristotle thinks that people learn to identify virtuous acts by being told which acts are virtuous. People then come to desire virtuous acts by taking pleasure in performing them. I raise several objections to Burnyeat’s interpretation, including the surprising observation that according to Aristotle virtuous acts are not typically pleasant for learners or even for virtuous people. I maintain that according to Aristotle, pain rather than pleasure drives moral progress. People come to desire virtuous acts through internalizing punishment, that is, learning to feel aido¯s. Internalizing punishment is internalizing values as well as desires. So by learning to feel aido¯s, people are choosing to lead the virtuous life. Aido¯s not only emphasizes that certain acts in certain situations are wrong, it also sets people thinking about which acts should be performed, instead. Moreover, aido¯s is felt with respect to acts performed by others and acts under consideration, as well as acts performed by the agent. So the pain of vicarious, retrospective, and prospective aido¯s provokes the ability to identify virtuous acts. Overall, Aristotle has a rich and reasonable implicit account of moral development. Most people do not follow the moral development path all of the way to the end. At each stage some learners acquire a new component of virtue and advance to the next stage, but others remain fixated. Now some people are incorrigible because they cannot bring their desires into conformity with rational deliberation. These losers are stuck with whatever desires they happen to have. Aristotle calls people who have the ability to transform their desires according to their deliberation, but no other characteristics of virtue, the many. The many have the wrong values. They choose lives aimed at wealth, honor, or sensual pleasure (1195a22–3). However, they can make moral progress because they can make choices. When forced to act virtuously, they may eventually acquire the motivation to perform virtuous acts for their own sake (1180a4–10). They may fall in love with nobility and the ideal of virtue and become generous-minded. The generous-minded are committed to the virtuous life without really understanding what that life involves. Luckily, they feel aido¯s that enables them to acquire and internalize the knowledge of which acts are virtuous (i.e. the ability to identify virtuous acts), and rise to the level of incontinence. The incontinent have the right values and apply them correctly to choose rightly, but are blocked by their bad passions from reliably acting rightly. When the incontinent feel remorse for their vicious acts, they may acquire habits of virtuous action despite their inner temptations, and become continent. If the continent properly listen to the right music, watch the right plays, read the right books, etc. then they may acquire habits of virtuous passion. People with these right habits of choice, action, and passion have natural virtue. Only these well-brought-up people, the naturally virtuous, are able to make moral progress through teaching and argument. If they are properly taught about happiness, they may acquire the knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous, becoming the properly virtuous.

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Aristotle’s losers Such is the moral development path, but some do not even set foot upon it. Aristotle thinks that there are some people who cannot become good. Who are these people and why are they incorrigible? I argue that the vicious are incorrigible because they have vicious passions, wrong beliefs about virtue, and they are strong-headed (i.e. they will not change their pattern of actions no matter what it costs them). A mentally healthy person with any one or two of these three faults can improve. Taking tragic heroes to be strong-headed people with virtuous habits and right beliefs would solve a longstanding interpretive problem in Aristotle’s Poetics. It would explain how tragic heroes can have a flaw (hamartia) that is not a vice. Aristotle divides people with incurable personality disorders into two groups: those that can be helped (natural slaves), and those that cannot (the brutish). The vicious and tragic heroes can deliberate, but will not listen to reason. Natural slaves have a complementary deficiency. They listen to reason, but cannot deliberate. Thus, they act and feel rightly when rightly ruled, but wrongly when left on their own. By limiting slavery to natural slaves, and stipulating that no one is a natural slave unless he or she is better off enslaved than free, Aristotle severely criticizes the exploitive slavery of his day, and proposes to replace it with a new, benign institution for caring for certain mentally ill people. Aristotelian slavery is an infelicitously named, for-profit, involuntary commitment facility providing a structured environment for the dysfunctional. The rest of the people with incurable personality disorders are the brutish. They cannot be helped because they “lack a rational part.” They can neither deliberate for themselves nor be guided by others. Like natural slaves, they cannot make it on their own; like the vicious, they will not listen to reason. Happiness After describing the stages on the moral development path and those people who do not even set foot upon it, it behooves me to say something about its endpoint. Where does the moral development path lead? Aristotle takes the goal of moral development to be a happy life. He offers two versions. All commentators agree that the secondarily happy life is an ethical life, ultimately aimed at morally virtuous action. What makes ethical people happy is the performance of courageous acts, temperate acts, liberal acts, and so on (intertwined with the appropriate passions, desires, beliefs, etc.). About the supremely happy life there is much controversy. Intellectualists think that it ultimately aims at contemplation alone, neglecting morally virtuous action. Inclusivists think that it ultimately aims at a composite good which includes both contemplation and morally virtuous action. Both intellectualists and inclusivists explicitly or implicitly take Aristotelian contemplation to be a sort of concentration upon esoteric objects, open only to an intellectual elite, and competing for time and energy with morally virtuous action. By contrast, I


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take contemplation to consist in both concentration and reflection, primarily upon the ordinary matters of human life. This activity is available to almost everyone, and can be performed alongside almost any morally virtuous action. The supremely happy life is just a thoughtful version of the secondarily happy life. The contemplator feels and does just what the ethical person feels and does, but also strives to understand things just for its own sake. This striving is what makes contemplators happy. Thus, my account of the supremely happy life is neither intellectualist nor inclusivist. I take the supremely happy life to aim ultimately at contemplation alone, but without neglecting morally virtuous action. To justify my interpretation of Aristotle’s supremely happy life, I painstakingly list numerous things that Aristotle says about happiness, and argue that my interpretation fits these passages better than both the intellectualist and the inclusivist interpretations. For example, Aristotle says that if there are more than one virtue, then happiness is an activity “in conformity with the best and most end-like” virtue (1098a16–18). The usual interpretation of this remark takes Aristotle to be non-committal about whether virtue is singular or plural. By contrast, I take him to be observing that people possessing only one virtue gain happiness by exercising their virtue, but when more than one virtue is present in a person then that person gains happiness by exercising his or her “best and most end-like” virtue. That is, people possessing only moral virtue gain happiness through morally virtuous action, but people with both moral virtue and philosophical wisdom gain happiness by contemplation.


Moral Virtues


2 Courage and Continence (NE III.6–9)

Introduction Although courage (andreia) is one of the few character traits that show up on everyone’s list of virtues, there is no agreement about the nature and features of courage. Since Aristotle is said to be the father of virtue ethics, Aristotle’s account of courage would seem to be a natural starting point for an investigation of the virtue of courage. And since courage heads Aristotle’s list of virtues, his account of courage would seem to be a natural starting point for an investigation of Aristotle’s virtue ethics. Yet Aristotle’s account of courage is not widely accepted these days, either as the truth about courage or as a model of Aristotelian virtue. Indeed, Aristotle’s account is thought to conflict both with his own architectonic and with the facts at crucial points. In particular, Aristotle is criticized for (a) narrowing the sphere of courage too severely, (b) conflating what should be two separate virtues, (c) vacillating about whether courageous acts are pleasant for courageous people, (d) applying an implausible version of the doctrine of the mean to courage, and (e) making courage into a form of continence. I shall provide an interpretation of Aristotle’s account of courage in NE III.6–9 that will acquit Aristotle of these five charges, while articulating some of Aristotle’s views about virtue in general terms. This will position Aristotle to make a significant contribution to the contemporary discussion of courage, and also launch an account of Aristotle’s architectonic.

The sphere of courage A pantheon divides human life into different clusters of situations, each the concern of a different god or goddess who demands certain sorts of responses, and specifies what things are valuable within these situations. Familial relationships and antagonisms among gods and goddesses symbolize parallel relationships among the aspects of human life that they govern. A virtue ethics also divides life into spheres. When virtue ethicists opt for this or that list of virtues, they are making statements about how the

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aspects of human life fit together. For example, when Aristotle makes liberality a virtue, but not piety, he implies that wealth, but not the divine, is important enough to merit consideration. When Aristotle stipulates that one virtue, temperance, governs food, drink, and sex, he is saying that these three pleasures are so intertwined or parallel that a single trait is right for all three. By contrast, when Aristotle separates appropriate ambition (love of honor), megalopsychia (knowledge of the great honor one deserves plus a disposition to claim that honor), truthfulness (disposition to present the facts about oneself that determine what honor one deserves), and good temper (disposition to react appropriately when one does not get the honor one deserves), rather than deploying one mega-virtue to deal with all aspects of honor, he indicates the complexity of honor’s role in human life. Aristotle begins his discussion of each virtue by specifying the sphere (peri ho) of life governed by that virtue. What is the virtue about? With what sorts of things does a person possessing the virtue reliably deal correctly? What situations call for actions and passions expressing that virtue? He determines the sphere of each virtue in several stages. His first stage is always a preliminary, very broad specification of the subject matter. Aristotle begins his account of courage by observing that courage concerns, “the things we fear, evils” (1115a8–9). Short and uncontroversial though this observation is, it does call for a couple of clarificatory remarks; one about evils, another about fear. Of course, what scares people is what they believe to be an impending evil or harm, whether or not it actually is harmful. Aristotle thinks that some things are, objectively speaking, harmful. Standing up to whatever one fears is admirable in a way, but it is not Aristotelian courage unless one fears the right things. As passage [M] below indicates, one can go wrong with respect to courage by fearing the wrong objects as well as by fearing the right objects too little or too much. A person who fears the wrong things lacks courage. Which things are the right things? Aristotle actually specifies the fearful as what most people fear, and as what is human nature to fear (EE 1228b24–6). However, his general principle is that virtuous people are the standard for what should be done, felt, enjoyed, valued, etc. We might call this his virtue-is-the-measure doctrine. Aristotle states it as follows: [A] The good man judges each class of things rightly, and in each the truth appears to him. For each state of character has its own ideas of the noble and the pleasant, and perhaps the good man differs from others most by seeing the truth in each class of things, being as it were the norm and measure of them. (1113a30–3; see also 1176a10–21)

In order to hew to his architectonic as articulated in passage [A], Aristotle should say that the truly scary things are the sorts of things that scare virtuous people.1

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Heil argues that Aristotle is right to say that the truly scary things are what most people fear. See J. Heil, “Why is Aristotle’s Brave Man So Frightened? The Paradox of Courage in the Eudemian Ethics,” Apeiron 29 (1996): 57.

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However, this is not the whole story, for courage is expressed by not fearing what should not be feared as well as by appropriately fearing what should be feared. Of course, lots of things should not be feared. If all were included, then the sphere of courage would engulf everything. Perhaps Aristotle assumes that most people fear everything that should be feared plus more,2 and then limits the sphere of courage to a reasonable size by specifying that it includes the things that most people fear. This would be a reasonable view. Not fearing something that is widely but wrongly feared is plausibly construed as an expression of courage, but not fearing something that almost no one fears is clearly not an expression of courage. What is fear? Aristotle does not take passions to be primitives: he analyzes them. He observes in NE III.6 that people define fear (phobos) “as expectation of evil” (1115a9). This is far from adequate, for it is purely intellectual. His definition of fear in the Rhetoric as, “a pain or disturbance due to imagining some destructive or painful evil in the future” (Rhet. 1382a22–3) is an improvement, but still incomplete. In general according to Aristotle, passions are associated with specific types of (a) bodily reactions, (b) actions, (c) desires, (d) pleasures and pains. Passions are (e) in some ways rational, yet (f) capable of conflicting with reason.3 They are (g) persuadable by reason, yet conversely they color our (h) perceptions, (i) beliefs, and (j) reasoning processes. Passions are (k) not completely under our control, yet (l) capable of being trained. They are (m) intentional (i.e. they are felt with respect to objects), (n) quantitative (i.e. they may be felt more and less strongly, more and less frequently, etc.), and (o) natural (arising from innate abilities). Passions are (p) morally neutral in themselves, yet (q) capable of being felt in morally good and bad ways. So courage is about situations in which people feel a certain sort of psychological pain, accompanied by physiological changes, because they picture some impending evil. People desire to avoid this harm, and express that desire in action. Certain aspects of the situation assume a new salience and beliefs change. Courageous people have trained their passions so that the fear they feel is what reason says that they should feel. Courageous people fear real evils in appropriate ways. The doctrine of disjoint spheres Aristotle’s second step in NE III.6 is to narrow the sphere of courage by eliminating objects governed by other virtues. In the Laches, Socrates expresses the common-sense view that courage may be displayed toward many different sorts of objects of fear. Socrates includes, “not only those who are courageous in warfare, but also those who are brave in dangers at sea, and the ones who show courage in illness and poverty and affairs of state” (Laches 191d). Aristotle, however, rejects this common-sense view, explicitly addressing the objects and contexts mentioned by Socrates. Aristotle denies

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If so, I think that he is mistaken, for many things that should be feared are not feared by most people. T. Nisters, Aristotle on Courage (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2000) 26–8.

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that the sphere of courage includes all fearful things. Instead, he limits courage to those fearful things not governed by other virtues: [B] Now we fear all evils, e.g. disgrace, poverty, disease, friendlessness, death, but the brave man is not thought to be concerned with all. . . . He who fears [disgrace] is good and modest, and he who does not is shameless. . . . Poverty and disease we perhaps ought not to fear, nor in general the things that do not proceed from vice and are not due to a man himself. But not even the man who is fearless of these is brave. Yet we apply the word to him also in virtue of a similarity; for some who in the dangers of war are cowards are liberal and confident in the face of the loss of money. Nor is a man a coward if he fears insult to his wife and children or envy or anything of the kind; nor brave if he is confident when he is about to be flogged. (1115a10–24)

In passage [B], particularly in the last sentence, Aristotle indicates that inappropriately fearing this or that does not necessarily show a person to be a coward, and appropriately fearing this or that does not necessarily show that a person is courageous. Of course, no single act or passion could definitively prove a person to have any character trait since people can act out of character. Moreover, people with different character traits may share some of the same dispositions and reliably perform some of the same acts or have some of the same feelings. But a single action or passion can provide evidence of a character trait. So a more precise statement of Aristotle’s claim is that appropriate fear or lack of fear is not necessarily evidence of courage or cowardice. Why not? Aristotle argues here that, even though people fear disgrace, disgrace is not an object in the sphere of courage because it is an object in the sphere of a different virtue, instead, namely the learner’s virtue of shame. Similarly, even though some people fear poverty, monetary matters are governed by the virtue of liberality, and therefore not by courage.4 People fear insult, envy, and flogging (presumably as punishment), but these are already governed by good temper, nemesis (sometimes translated “righteous indignation”), and justice, respectively. People who express appropriate fear in appropriate action toward these objects are sometimes called “courageous” because of a resemblance to true courage, but this is an imprecise use of the term, according to Aristotle. Such actions and passions are not actually evidence of courage because they are evidence of shame, liberality, good temper, nemesis, and justice, instead. Now a virtue is a compound disposition (or an integrated package of dispositions) to perceive and believe, feel and desire, choose and act. Virtues differ if they consist of different dispositions. So Aristotle’s claim that, say, courage and temperance are different virtues is the claim that the disposition appropriate for dealing with situations

Aristotle’s suggestion that we should not fear poverty, disease, or “in general the things that do not proceed from vice and are not due to a man himself” is a mistake. First, poverty and disease often result from the vices of prodigality and self-indulgence (1119b34–1120a1; 1119a16–20). Second, Aristotle acknowledges that we should fear death in battle which typically is not the result of vice. So Aristotle’s specific claim about poverty and disease as well as his general claim about fearing things that do not arise from vice are incorrect and inconsistent with his other claims. 4

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involving physical harm is different from the disposition appropriate for dealing with situations involving sensual pleasure.5 Suppose that some action or passion could issue from either liberality or courage. Then the occurrence of that action or passion would be evidence of either virtue. But in passage [B] Aristotle claims that if an act or passion is evidence of liberality, then it is not evidence of courage. Thus, he thinks that no actions or passions can issue from both virtues. Aristotle makes parallel claims about most of the other virtues (e.g. 1117b31–1118a1; 1119b23–7). In general, no action or passion exhibits more than one virtue (or vice) because each virtue governs completely different objects. We might express this point by saying that the spheres of virtues do not intersect. Each virtue is a disposition to get a completely different set of actions and passions right, to act and feel rightly within completely different sorts of situations. I shall call this the doctrine of disjoint spheres. Let me inoculate against some possible misunderstandings of this doctrine. First, the doctrine of disjoint spheres does not commit Aristotle to the claim that his way of dividing life into spheres is the only right way, that his list of virtues is the definitive list. The doctrine merely stipulates that howsoever one divides life into spheres, the divisions must be non-overlapping partitions.6 Second, Aristotle is committed to the view that a single type of act may be caused by a variety of different character traits operating within the sphere of courage (1105b5–12). Continent as well as courageous people reliably perform courageous acts, and even cowardly people occasionally do so. Similarly, cowardly acts are reliably performed by incontinent people as well as by cowardly people, and occasionally performed by continent and courageous people. The doctrine of disjoint spheres does not imply that courageous acts are performed only by courageous people, and cowardly acts only by cowardly people. Third, although the doctrine of disjoint spheres prohibits each action or passion from being both virtuous in one respect and vicious in another; it does not prohibit each person from being both virtuous in one respect and vicious in another. Aristotle’s version of the unity of virtues thesis implies that a person with one perfect virtue has all perfect virtues, but a person may possess some virtues of a lesser sort called natural virtues without possessing all natural virtues (1144b34–1145a2). Cowards may possess the (natural) virtue of liberality, says Aristotle in passage [B]. Indeed, moral development is typically uneven. Some people are much closer to proper courage than to proper temperance, for example.7

5 Conversely, Aristotle’s assertion that temperance governs food, drink, and sex implies that he takes a single disposition to be appropriate for dealing with all three. Responding rightly to a seduction constitutes evidence of a disposition to eat well and drink moderately! 6 Not just any partition will content Aristotle, as I shall argue below. 7 This suggests, by the way, that when Aristotle talks of virtue, he has in mind natural virtue rather than proper virtue. And that, in turn, suggests that natural virtue is not the innate gut reaction that it is sometimes thought to be, but instead natural virtue is rather closer to proper virtue. See ch.14.

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Fourth, for Aristotle, an action is always a behavior-under-a-description. The same set of physical motions may have several different descriptions, and therefore may be several different actions. The same behavior may exhibit different virtues or vices under different descriptions. For example, Alfred’s running may be described as fleeing from the field of battle or hurrying to post bail for an unjustly accused friend. So Alfred’s running exhibits at least two different actions, a cowardly act and a liberal act. The doctrine of disjoint spheres does not say that each behavior exhibits a single virtue or vice, but only that each action does. The doctrine of disjoint spheres expresses an important fact. When we consider a behavior such as Alfred’s running first as one act and then as another, we see this behavior from different perspectives. Different features of the act and the situation strike us as salient; different possibilities and implications spring to mind; different ways of explaining and evaluating the behavior stand ready to be deployed; and so on. We perceive two separate collections of passions and desires, two separate sorts of pleasure and pain, two separate complexes of motivations and disinclinations, and so on. The behavior presents itself as a duck/rabbit. This fact about behaviors is captured by Aristotle’s doctrine of disjoint spheres. Each sphere represents a different constellation of perspectives, passions, etc. The lack of overlap expresses the fact that these constellations are alternatives: they do not blend. In particular, sometimes a behavior like Alfred’s running strikes us as good in one way and bad in another. When that happens, we are seeing it as two actions, first as an expression of a virtue in one sphere, then as an expression of a vice in a different sphere. When such a behavior is the right thing to do, agents perform it with dirty hands, for although they are doing the right thing and acting in accord with virtue, they are also performing a vicious act. Alternatively, agents display admirable immorality by declining to perform it, for although they are acting wrongly and viciously by declining, they are also acting in accord with a virtue. Such behaviors are particularly interesting to those moral philosophers with pizzazz whom we call tragedians, for agents confronting such choices provoke observers to pity and fear. Thus, Aristotle’s doctrine of disjoint spheres expresses the possibility of a certain sort of tragedy.8 While behaviors lend themselves to being perceived from different perspectives, it would be disastrous for a single action or passion to express both a virtue and a vice (e.g. both cowardice and temperance), for this would be an inconsistency within moral theory. Indeed, I speculate that Aristotle is committed to the doctrine of disjoint spheres at least partially to preclude such a possibility. Aristotle demands disjoint spheres in order to achieve harmony among the spheres. Facing death After eliminating various objects of fear from the sphere of courage, Aristotle naturally asks what fearful objects remain: 8

I hope to explore this nexus of claims elsewhere.

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[C] With what sort of terrible things, then, is the brave man concerned? Surely with the greatest; for no one is more likely than he to stand his ground against what is dreadful. Now death is the most terrible of all things; for it is the end, and nothing is thought to be any longer either good or bad for the dead. But the brave man would not seem to be concerned even with death in all circumstances, e.g. at sea or in disease. In what circumstances, then? Surely in the noblest. Now such deaths are those in battle. (1115a24–30)

On the basis of passage [C] some commentators attribute to Aristotle the belief that courage is only concerned with death (or even more narrowly, with death in battle). These commentators take Aristotle’s view to be that courage, cowardice, and rashness can be displayed only in life-threatening (battlefield) circumstances.9 Now this cannot be quite right because, as I mentioned above, courage is expressed not only by appropriately fearing what should be feared, but also by not fearing what should not be feared. The coward who goes wrong by fearing the wrong objects, and the courageous person who does not fear them deal with the sphere governed by courage. Even though one should not generally fear a wall of flames (since walking briskly through such flames is not dangerous as long as one doesn’t dawdle), such situations must be part of the sphere of courage so that not fearing them can count as an expression of courage. More importantly, we need not read passage [C] as saying that death is the only terrible thing with which the courageous person is concerned. The passage may be saying merely that death is one thing with which the courageous person is concerned. Aristotle’s claim may be that courage is clearly concerned with death, as one thing among many. Reading passage [C] in this way is not only possible, but also charitable. Limiting courage to life-threatening situations flies in the face of common sense. People who choose to risk torture and mutilation, but not death, in order to accomplish worthy goals are not expressing temperance, liberality, good temper, etc. If they are not expressing courage, then their admirable actions and passions have fallen through the cracks. Moreover, the view that courage governs only life-threatening situations contradicts Aristotle’s later inclusion of injuries and physical pain in the sphere of courage (1117a32–3; 1117b7–9). Thus a charitable interpretation will not accuse Aristotle of restricting courage to life-threatening situations, but will also include situations involving merely injuries and physical pain. Broadening the sphere of courage parallels Aristotle’s accounts of the other virtues. He does not limit them to tiny spheres. Temperance covers all sensual pleasures, not just cabernet and chocolate. Liberality covers all monetary goods, not just money. And so on. Narrowly specifying the spheres of the virtues would leave most of life ungoverned by virtue, but virtues should govern most of life.

M. Brady, “The Fearlessness of Courage,” Southern Journal of Philosophy 43 (2005): 198–201; A. Duff, “Aristotelian Courage,” Ratio 29 (1987): 2–155; G. Lear, Happy Lives and the Highest Good (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004) 150–3; W. D. Ross, Aristotle (London: Methuen, 1923) 207. 9

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If life-threatening situations are not the whole sphere of courage, are they at least paradigmatic? Aristotle elsewhere espouses a view which might be called the doctrine of focal meaning. Roughly speaking, the meanings of terms like “health food,” “health nut,” “health clinic,” and all other terms involving health are to be understood in terms of a central meaning of health. Similarly, some commentators maintain that appropriately risking death on the battlefield is the paradigm of courage, and all other uses of the term “courage,” are intelligible only in terms of this sort of case.10 However, Aristotle does not claim that courage in life-threatening situations is the focal meaning of courage. He nowhere suggests that all courageous acts (and passions, beliefs, etc.) must be understood in terms of such situations. And Aristotle is right to make no such suggestion. Surely, making sense of courageous acts does not always require relating them to acts performed in life-threatening situations. Prosaically, I suggest that Aristotle focuses upon life-threatening, battlefield situations because he takes these to provide the clearest, most straightforward exercises of courage. But they constitute neither the sole, nor the focal type of situation for courage.11 For Aristotle, the sphere of courage consists of situations involving risk of physical harm. The objects of courage are injuries, physical pain, and especially death. Nobility, showing prowess, or neither After narrowing the sphere of a virtue by applying the general doctrine of disjoint spheres, Aristotle sometimes narrows it further by using considerations peculiar to that virtue. For example, after narrowing the sphere of temperance from all pleasures to sensual pleasures (1117b31–1118a1), Aristotle further restricts temperance to pleasures of touch, averring that temperance is concerned only with those pleasures we share with animals (1118a16–26). Similarly, after using the doctrine of disjoint spheres to eliminate agreements or contracts from the sphere of truthfulness (1127a33–b1), Aristotle then restricts truthfulness to those things that matter to one’s own reputation (1127a20–3). Aristotle narrows the sphere of courage in the following crucial passage: [D] Yet at sea also, and in disease, the brave man is fearless, but not in the same way as the seamen; for he has given up hope for safety, and is disliking the thought of death in this shape, while they are hopeful because of their experience. At the same time, we show courage in situations where there is the opportunity of showing prowess or where death is noble; but in these forms of death neither of these conditions is fulfilled. (1115a35–b6)

Unfortunately, passage [D] is less than pellucid. Let us begin with what is clearest. In the last sentence of passage [D] Aristotle claims that courage can be expressed (1) in situations where “death is noble” (kalon, often translated “fine”), and also (2) in situations where one can “show prowess.” But not (3) in situations which meet neither 10 S. Leighton, “Aristotle’s Courageous Passions,” Phronesis 33 (1988): 76; F. Sparshott, Taking Life Seriously (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1994) 150. 11 See M. Pakaluk, Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics: An Introduction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005) 162–4.


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condition. In the first sentence, Aristotle presents two examples of situations where courage cannot be expressed: (3a) life-threatening situations at sea (for non-sailors) and (3b) terminal illness. So courage does not govern all situations in which physical harm is at stake, but only those in which “death is noble” and/or one can “show prowess.” What are these situations, and why does courage require them? Let us consider the three different sorts of cases. (1) When Aristotle uses the phrase “death is noble” in passage [D], he is obviously talking about the process of dying rather than the state of being dead. His claim is that dying is courageous when it is noble. But Aristotle means different things by “noble” in different contexts. What does he mean here? The fact that Aristotle does not explain what he means by the term “noble” within the NE suggests that he generally uses the term in a straightforward and common-sense way rather than in some complex manner. And indeed, most of the time in the NE “noble” is just used interchangeably with “virtuous.”12 This is the way in which I shall take “noble” unless there is some contextual clue to do otherwise. But this cannot be what he means by “noble” in passage [D] because he is using the notion of nobility to specify what counts as courageous. Aristotle cannot define nobility in terms of courage, and then define courage in terms of nobility. Kalon can mean “beautiful” in everyday Greek, and Aristotle states that the noble is the beautiful (Topics 135a13). When Aristotle surrounds the term “noble” with other aesthetic terms, as he does in his account of magnificence, for example, I take “noble” to mean beautiful. By the phrase “noble death” in passage [D], does Aristotle mean a death with dignity and without such things as vomiting and seizures, a death that leaves a serene-looking corpse without disfigurement? Aristotle obviously does not mean a beautiful death in this sense, for it is quite possible to die aesthetically from disease or at sea, and unaesthetically on the battlefield, yet these are Aristotle’s examples of nonnoble and noble death, respectively. Does a “noble death” mean an admirable, glorious, praiseworthy death? Perhaps, but that just pushes back the question. What makes dying admirable, glorious, and praiseworthy? For those who see Aristotle as a philosopher of a very different time and place, it is tempting to take the noble to be something strange and exotic. But is nobility a mysterious, ineffable, unanalyzable property that everyone just understands? Aristotle gives no hint of such a property. I do think that the Greek word “kalon” has connotations, or perhaps overtones, that make it slightly skew to the general thrust of Aristotle’s moral theory. These overtones are particularly manifest in Aristotle’s account of

J. Annas, The Morality of Happiness (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993) 370–2; A. Lännstro¨m, Loving the Fine (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2006) 12–13; J. Owens, “The Kalon in the Aristotelian Ethics,” Studies in Aristotle, ed. D. O’Meara (Washington, DC: Catholic University Press, 1981) 30. 12

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megalopsychia. The term invokes an older, Homeric, aristocratic morality, a morality focused on fulfilling one’s social role as a member of the nobility. I speculate that Aristotle is sometimes trying, perhaps unconsciously, to harmonize this older morality with his own views. But this allusion to Homeric morality seldom rises to the level of explicit reference. Rogers and Lear argue that for Aristotle the noble is approximately the fitting (to prepon). Things that fit their function or end (telos) well are noble. This explains some things. Whatever is noble is praiseworthy, since teleologically well-adapted things are praiseworthy. Since virtues are the character traits most conducive to the human end (i.e. the happy life), virtues are fitting and thus noble, and thus praiseworthy. But other things are noble, too. “Noble” is a wider term than “virtuous.”13 This understanding of nobility as fitting fits Aristotle’s use of the term in passage [D].14 To be noble, death must be fitting. Dying must somehow help the dying person achieve some end.15 A noble death must begin with a choice to die, or to die in one way rather than another (e.g. with fortitude rather than “breaking down”). A death that just happens to a person without some sort of choice on his or her part is non-noble, even if it accomplishes something very good. Second, a noble death must have a point, a good reason, a valuable goal. One must die for the sake of something worth dying for.16 A meaningless, futile, pointless death is not noble. (2) Passage [D] says that courage can be shown in situations where death is not noble, so long as the agent can show prowess. Does “showing prowess” mean displaying one’s abilities before an audience? Surely not. I suggest that “showing prowess” means using one’s abilities to accomplish something worthwhile. Sometimes one’s death would achieve nothing, but one has a chance to achieve something worthwhile through one’s actions. Now one can show prowess either in the attempt (2a) to save oneself from physical harm or (2b) to accomplish some further goal. Blanche can use her martial arts skills to fight off an attacker or rescue her lover. (3) The problem with terminal shipwrecks and illnesses is that in these situations, death is both pointless and unavoidable. One’s life is not sacrificed to free one’s city from tyranny, or rescue someone in need, or maintain one’s honor, etc.

13 Lear 122–46; G. Lear, “Aristotle on Moral Virtue and the Fine.” In Blackwell Guide to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, ed. R. Kraut (Blackwell, 2006) 116–36; K. Rogers, “Aristotle’s Conception of to Kalon,” Ancient Philosophy 13 (1993): 355–71. 14 Both Rogers and Lear argue against Irwin’s claim that part of the meaning of to kalon is to be beneficial to others. See T. Irwin, “Aristotle’s Conception of Morality,” Proceedings of the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy 1 (1986): 115–43; Lear 134–6; Rogers 361–71. 15 Rogers and Lear err by claiming that the end of a noble death is the happy life. When dying is noble, it is the end of dying rather than the end of living that death must fit. And the end of noble dying might be to help others rather than oneself. 16 B. Finnigan asks whether a death could be noble if it is unproductive or even counter-productive so long as the agent believes, on the basis of good reasons, that the death could accomplish something worthwhile.


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Moreover, at sea or in terminal illness the brave man “has given up hope for safety.” Not only can nothing good be accomplished through death, death cannot even be avoided. Nor can any important further goal be achieved through action in this situation. Thus, there are no steps to take, nothing can be done. Death is not noble, and showing prowess is not possible. Courage can be displayed only when one has something to gain and/or something to lose, but in a hopeless situation one has neither. So Aristotle’s claim may be rephrased in the following way. Showing courage is impossible unless a worthy objective can be achieved by (1) choosing to endure the physical harm, or (2a) striving to avoid death and injuries and physical pain, or (2b) striving to achieve some further goal. (1) Thus, Socrates acts courageously by drinking poison calmly, for even though he cannot survive, his death is noble and thus courageous, because it inspires others to lead the philosophic life. (2a) Defending oneself from attack is courageous even if this act has no other purpose than avoiding physical harm. (2b) Finally, the Spartans at Thermopylae display courage even though they know that they are doomed, because they have a reasonable chance of slowing down the Persians.17 (3) But displaying courage is impossible in situations where neither death nor action can achieve anything worthwhile.18 There is a passion which is linked to the possibility of gaining some good or avoiding some harm through one’s own efforts, namely confidence (tharsos). So Aristotle’s point could be put this way. The non-sailors of passage [D] can display no courage because confidence would be inappropriate in their situation. On the other hand, the sailors of passage [D] feel no fear because their experience tells them that they are not in danger. Thus, they display no courage. As Aristotle later says, soldiers who are “experienced with respect to particular facts” and “sanguine people” are not courageous, because their past experience and disposition, respectively, tell them that they are in no danger so they feel no fear (1116b6ff; 1117a10ff ). Thus, courage can be expressed only in situations where both fear of physical harm and confidence of avoiding the harm and/ or achieving some further worthwhile good (either by how one accepts the harm or independent of it) are appropriate.19

17 Pears denies and Duff affirms that, according to Aristotle, the Spartans at Thermopylae can display courage. See D. Pears, “Courage as a Mean,” Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, ed. A. Rorty (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980) 183; Duff 10–14. Pears affirms and Rogers denies that courageous acts are always performed for the sake of some external goal. Thus, Pears denies and Rogers affirms that, according to Aristotle, the person defending herself from attack can display courage. See D. Pears, “Aristotle’s Analysis of Courage,” Midwest Studies in Philosophy 3 (1987): 273; K. Rogers, “Aristotle on the Motive of Courage,” The Southern Journal of Philosophy 32 (1994): 304–5. 18 Brady argues that the crucial difference between facing death in battle and facing death at sea or by disease is that in battle one faces death for the preservation of the polis (Brady 198–200). I think that this limits the possible legitimate accomplishment too severely. Surely one can display courage by fighting an engagement to preserve one’s comrades, even if doing so is detrimental to one’s polis. 19 Not just any worthwhile achievement will work; the gained good must be generally appropriate. See below.

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Challenges One can clearly be confident of achieving something in situations where there is nothing to fear. Can one fear death, injuries, or physical pain in situations where confidence is inappropriate? Aristotle says that hope is a necessary condition of fear in the first sentence of passage [D] (see also Rhet. 1383a3–8). If harms are seen as inevitable, then one cannot fear them. But this does not preclude the possibility of feeling fear without confidence, because confidence and hope are different. Confidence is a function of what the agent believes that he or she can achieve; hope is a function of what the agent believes is possible.20 In some situations the agents recognize that they can do nothing to avoid harm, so they have no confidence. Yet the agents also recognize that harm may be forestalled by forces beyond their control, so they have hope, and therefore fear. Thus, one can feel fear without confidence, as well as confidence without fear. Is Aristotle right to maintain that courage can be displayed only in situations involving both fear and confidence? Should courage also cover situations in which only one of these passions is appropriate? A situation in which fear should not be felt is a riskless situation. Courage would be superfluous. A situation where confidence should not be felt is a futile situation. Courage would be useless. From an intellectual perspective, situations calling for courageous action demand that the agent weigh the risks and benefits of different options. The agent must balance the seriousness and likelihood of some physical harm against the value and probability of achieving some worthwhile goal. Without the risk of enduring some harm and the possibility of attaining some good in a situation, there can be no meaningful choice: the correct course of action would be automatic. And without meaningful choice, there can be no virtuous action. This point is not limited to courage: it generalizes to any virtue involving fear. And passage [B] suggests that many other virtues involve fear. So it seems that many virtues govern only situations where both fear and confidence are appropriate, situations where both gains and losses are possible.21 We do applaud people who face inevitable death, injuries, or physical pain with fortitude.22 Typically, however, these harms are not pointless. The dying, injured, or suffering person has a goal of inspiring others or proving a point, and hopes to achieve that goal by facing suffering with fortitude. These acts are not counterexamples to Aristotle’s view. We also applaud people who face inevitable, pointless death, injuries, or physical pain with fortitude, people who suffer these harms calmly, even though nothing is to be gained. Sometimes we applaud these people because we take their acts to be evidence

S. Gravlee, “Aristotle on Hope,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 38 (2000): 468. I speculate that any virtue worth its salt will involve trade-offs among different and incommensurable goods, for that is what choice is really about. 22 Indeed, Duff takes the martyr who “goes willingly (even gladly) to her death” to be a paradigm of Aristotelian courage (Duff 10). It is not clear whether Duff takes the martyr’s death to have a further goal beyond nobility, however. 20 21

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of courage, even though the acts themselves are not courageous acts. After all, as passage [D] indicates, courageous people are fearless even in situations where courageous acts are impossible. Technically speaking, in such cases we are praising the agent, but not the act. Sometimes we applaud these people because we conflate their acts with acts like that of Socrates that are not pointless. However, I submit that we simply should not admire fortitude when the harm is unavoidable and the good is unachievable, for fortitude in such situations is not courageous. The mere mastery over fear in the face of the fearsome is not a valuable accomplishment, in itself. And how can the act of not breaking down be either good or bad when, by hypothesis, it makes no difference to anything, when it has no chance of accomplishing any worthwhile further goal?23 Aristotle is right to maintain that courage does not govern situations where confidence should not be felt. What about situations in which fear should not be felt? Riskless acts are not courageous, as I have said. But Aristotle says that Cuthbert displays courage when he resigns himself to a useful death. But to resign himself is to abandon hope, and without hope Cuthbert feels no fear. So it seems that courage can be felt in situations where fear is inappropriate. However, even in hopeless situations fear plays a role. Agents feel fear as they recognize the danger. Fear stimulates the search for escape options. Fear demands an evaluation of whether the goal is worth dying for. Eventually, fear evaporates along with hope. Yet even in hopeless situations, courage presupposes fear.24 Is Aristotle right to consider fear and confidence to be different passions? At first glance, confidence and fear seem to be just opposite ends of the same continuum, lower and higher degrees of the same passion. Indeed, Aristotle claims that fear and confidence are opposites at Rhet. 1383a15–20 and at EE 1228a29. However, they are actually qualitatively different passions. First, confidence can take different objects than can fear. The objects of fear are evils or harms of various sorts (or people and things associated with that harm). Although people sometimes colloquially say, “I fear that I will be unable to achieve X,” fear of failure is really just lack of confidence. On the other hand, one can be confident of avoiding harm, but one can also be confident of achieving some good.25 Thus, the goals of fear and confidence are asymmetrical. Second, fear and confidence feel different, even when they have the same object. Cuthbert’s fear that some harm will befall him is a very different experience from the lack of confidence that he will avoid this thing. Indeed, people commonly experience 23 Such acts can be evidence of courage, the sort of thing that courageous people do and cowards do not do. But that does not make them courageous acts. After all, courageous people characteristically resign themselves to death at sea with distaste. But passage [C] says that such resignation is not a courageous act. 24 Gravlee 463–4. 25 Stocker suggests that just as the objects of fear are harms, so the object of confidence are worthwhile achievements. However, one can also feel some confidence about the avoidance of harms. See M. Stocker, Plural and Conflicting Values (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990) 131, 140.

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both fear and confidence about the same object. They feel quite confident of avoiding a certain terrible thing, yet fear it nonetheless. Extreme optimists are not necessarily fearless, nor are pessimists necessarily fearful. Third, the core of confidence is a belief in one’s own ability to achieve a good or avoid a harm, but fear is not a function of one’s view of oneself, except incidentally. Confidence is tied to self-respect; fear is not. Some commentators, impressed by the difference between the passions of fear and confidence, maintain that Aristotle should have divided courage into two virtues: one governing fear and the other governing confidence.26 However, replacing Aristotle’s virtue of courage with one virtue governing fear and another governing confidence would be a mistake for several reasons. First, the fear virtue would presumably include both situations in which confidence should be felt and situations in which it should not be felt. Similarly, for the confidence virtue. But I have argued above that situations in which only one of these passions should be felt allow insufficient scope or challenge for virtuous actions. And situations in which both should be felt would be governed by both virtues, violating the doctrine of disjoint spheres. Second, experience tells us that in situations where both are appropriate, the agent does not feel two separate passions. Instead, the agent feels a blend of fear and confidence. As Stocker says, “We must talk of the feelings overlaying, suffusing, interpenetrating each other: e.g. boldness shot through with fear, fear mastered by confidence, spirited but worried determination, phlegmatic determination, ambivalence.”27 Fear and confidence are inextricably intertwined, not only in the agent’s decision-making process, but throughout his or her entire response to the risky situation. Bundling fear and confidence together under one virtue captures this fact, while placing fear and confidence into separate virtues contradicts it. Third, cowardly actions may be motivated by either excessive fear or insufficient confidence (or both). Similarly, rash actions may be motivated by either insufficient fear or excessive confidence (or both). The same vicious actions reliably arise from different passions. Thus, analysis of both cowardice and rashness must refer to both fear and confidence. Interim summary In NE III.6, Aristotle begins by assigning courage to an important sphere of life, namely situations in which fear is appropriate. He then applies the doctrine of disjoint spheres to

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Ross accuses Aristotle of conflating the disposition to resist the impulse to avoid danger, and the disposition to resist the impulse to seek danger. The former is opposed to cowardice; the latter is opposed to rashness. Urmson also accuses Aristotle’s account of courage of conflating two virtues, not because he subscribes to the corrective view of virtues, but rather because he thinks that each passion should be governed by a different virtue. See Ross 205–6; J. O. Urmson, Aristotle’s Ethics (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1988) 64–5. 27 Stocker 143.

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narrow the sphere of courage by eliminating fears governed by other virtues. Arguably, what remains is fear of physical harm, (i.e. death, injury, and physical pain). Aristotle next identifies a class of situations that clearly exhibit courage (and its associated vices) namely life-threatening, battlefield situations. Finally, Aristotle limits the sphere of courage to situations where confidence as well as fear of physical harm is appropriate. In tracing this process I have made four general claims about Aristotle’s theory of virtues. First, the objects of the virtues are objective. Virtues are expressed in action and passion with respect to what virtuous people take the objects to be. Second, no action or passion token may exhibit more than one virtue or vice. Each virtue governs a completely different set of situations and objects. Third, virtues are not limited to a tiny set of paradigmatic situations. They cover broad swaths of life. Fourth, virtues do not govern riskless or futile situations. Virtuous actions and passions occur only in situations where both fear and confidence are appropriate.

The motivation of courage Aristotle’s view of choice (prohairesis) is both convoluted and contested, but some things about choice are fairly clear. Aristotle emphasizes that choice is neither purely deliberative nor purely desiderative, but rather partakes of both. Choice distinguishes us from both beasts and gods, for the former lack deliberation, while the latter lack desire. In NE III.1 Aristotle says, [E] Choice will be deliberate desire of things in our own power; for when we have decided as a result of deliberation, we desire in accordance with our deliberation. (1113a11–12)

According to passage [E], a virtuous person’s choice to perform a virtuous act consists of a reasoning process called deliberation leading to the formation of a desire to perform the act. But this turns out to be too simple, for deliberation not only issues in desire, but also is initiated by a form of desire called wish (boule¯sis). We only deliberate about how to achieve something because we wish for it (1111b26). Yet we deliberate about how to develop certain wishes as part of the moral development process. But we only engage in this sort of deliberation because we already desire a certain sort of life. But we desire that life because reason tells us that it is a good life. Overall, deliberation and desire interpenetrate in various ways. We might say that various feedback loops exist between them. Thus in VI Aristotle says, [F] Choice cannot exist either without thought and intellect or without a moral state, for good action and its opposite cannot exist without a combination of intellect and character. . . . Hence choice is either desiderative thought or intellectual desire, and such an origin of action is a man. (1139a33–b5)

While addressing the puzzle of incontinence in VII, Aristotle seems to reframe choice as syllogistic or rule/case reasoning rather than instrumental or means/ends reasoning. But he retains the belief that deliberation and desire interpenetrate. Desire provides, or

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at least highlights, certain premises within the deliberative process, and blocks, or at least backgrounds, other premises. Overall, talking of either desire or deliberation in isolation from the other is a misleading simplification. Nevertheless, Aristotle’s account of courage says almost nothing about the deliberative side of motivation. Deliberation might be described as the application of what Aristotle calls the right rule (orthos logos) to a particular situation. Aristotle offers the right rule for temperance (1119a16–20) and for justice (1134a1–7), but Aristotle does not articulate such a rule for courage, perhaps because it is so obvious. I offer the following suggestion: [Right Rule for Courage] Take risks of physical harm that are worth taking. More precisely, an action risking death, injury, and/or physical pain should be performed whenever the following relationship holds: (value of the potential gains) x (probability of achieving these gains) > (disvalue of the potential losses) x (probability of not-avoiding these losses)

Of course, this is quite vague. How are we to determine the value of the gains and disvalue of the losses, for example? How are we to compare these values when they turn out to be incommensurable? Nevertheless, this rule provides a start and a structure for thinking about actions within risky situations. When fleshed out and combined with facts about particular situations, such a general rule can be action-guiding. The desiderative or passional side of courageous action is intricate. On the one hand, we are motivated by various sorts of pleasure and pain (1104b8–11) in both direct and indirect ways. We strive for certain goals because we believe that achieving them gives us pleasure, and failure to achieve them pains us. And we train ourselves (or are trained) to perform certain acts, feel certain passions, and generally acquire certain character traits by positive and negative conditioning. On the other hand, we do sometimes opt to perform acts despite believing them to be overall painful. This we do from incontinence, virtue, or friendship, as I shall later explain. But before I can describe the roles of goals, desires, pleasures, and pains in choice, I must catalog some different types of each. Pears introduces a helpful three-way distinction among goals.28 Achieving each sort of goal produces a different sort of pleasure; failing to achieve each produces a different sort of pain. Moreover, the expectation of pleasure is itself a pleasure called “hope,” and the expectation of pain is itself a pain called “fear.” The virtuous person performs a virtuous act at least partially for its own sake (1105a31– 2) and as an end in itself (1139b1–4; 1140b6–7). The virtuous person desires to perform the act as an end in itself because he or she believes that the act is virtuous. That is, virtuous people take virtuous acts qua virtuous, rather than qua something else (customary, profitable, etc.), to be intrinsically, rather than merely instrumentally valuable. Virtuous people are motivated to perform virtuous acts because they are virtuous acts, and not as mere means. This is what Pears calls the “internal goal” of a virtuous act.29 Pears, “Aristotle’s Analysis of Courage,” 273–4; Pears, “Courage as a Mean,” 174. Although Aristotle does not mention it, the two parts of “desiring to perform virtuous actions for their own sake” are separable. One may desire to perform an act because it is virtuous without desiring to perform 28 29


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Aristotle also says that courageous acts are performed “for the sake of the noble” (e.g. 1115b12–13; 1116b30–1; 1117a8). Is this another goal, a different motive? Aristotle fleshes out what he means by acting for the sake of the noble in the following passage: [G] Now the end of every activity is conformity to the corresponding state. This is true, therefore, of the brave man as well as of others. But courage is noble. Therefore the end also is noble; for each thing is defined by its end. Therefore it is for a noble end that the brave man endures and acts as courage directs. (1115b20–24; see also EE 1248b34–7)

According to passage [G], the end of courageous actions is “conformity to” the character trait of courage. Courageous acts are noble simply because they are courageous. Thus, performing virtuous acts “for the sake of the noble” is no different than performing them for their own sake, that is, performing them because they are virtuous, because they are the right thing to do (Rhet. 1366a33–4). It is not an additional sort of motive.30 Virtuous people gain a certain enjoyment from performing virtuous acts simply because they know that the acts are virtuous, even if nothing else comes of the acts. We might call the pleasure “noble pleasure.” If virtuous people somehow come to perform, or even think about performing vicious acts, then they are correspondingly pained. Aristotle calls this pain “shame” (aido¯s). No virtuous act is performed merely because it is virtuous.31 After all, what makes it virtuous is that it aims appropriately at some appropriate further good.32 Sometimes the further purpose of a virtuous act is to gain some good for the agent or someone else. Liberal people don’t give gifts solely because it is a liberal thing to do: they do it to benefit the recipients, too. When the commander says, “Take that hill,” courageous soldiers do not fight solely because doing so is courageous, but also to take the hill. To each type of virtuous act there corresponds a different type of good to be achieved. The

it as an end in itself or vice verse. For example, Uno helps the poor for no further reason than because she enjoys it, but being a certain sort of Libertarian, she does not consider the act to be virtuous. In fact, she is a bit ashamed of supporting the unworthy. She performs the act as an end rather than as a mere means, but she does not perform the act qua virtuous. On the other hand, being a certain sort of Christian, Valentine beats up homosexuals solely because he thinks that virtuous actions will get him into heaven. Valentine performs the act qua virtuous rather than qua something else, but he does not take the act to be an end in itself. 30 Lear agrees that to choose acts because they are noble is just to choose them for their own sake. She then goes on to give an account of what that means. She argues that “actions are fine when they . . . [make] the agent’s commitment to his good visible,” and that the agent’s good is philosophical contemplation as a free person living a leisurely, peaceful life within a polis. (See Lear 124–5, 145–6, 149.) The point of showing off one’s virtue is that the fine person “benefits others for the sake of fame and honor” (Lear, “Aristotle on Moral Virtue and the Fine,” 125). I cannot follow Lear so far. In particular, I do not think that a noble action must make something visible to other people or that noble people aim at honor. Aristotle is explicit that the life aimed at honor is not the happy life (1095b22–30). Moreover, Aristotle’s moral exemplars, the megalopsychoi, do not care about honor very much (1124a17). The problem with the citizen soldiers is that the honor they seek is not, in itself, worth fighting for (1116a15–b3). 31 In this respect, Aristotle’s view differs from that of some deontologists. 32 The further goal might be the act itself, if it is an energia, but not qua virtuous.

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characteristic good at which a virtuous act aims is what Pears calls the “external goal” of an act. Temperate acts aim at sensual pleasure, witty acts aim at amusing others, and so on. Aristotle indicates that citizen soldiers who strive to gain honor and avoid dishonor (1116a15–b3) have the wrong goals. But Aristotle does not specify the right goals, the characteristic goods of courage. Unsurprisingly, this has led commentators to make various proposals on Aristotle’s behalf.33 But many ways of filling in the blank are too restrictive or expansive, for people can display courage in any situation where fear of physical harm and confidence of achieving any morally acceptable goal are appropriate. What is distinctive about courageous acts is not their goal, but rather that they take a reasonable risk of physical harm to accomplish something worth the risk. Accomplishment itself is pleasant, even if (perhaps especially if ) the task itself is painful or arduous. We might call this pleasure “satisfaction,” and the corresponding pain of failure “frustration.” In addition to this generic pleasure, achieving an act’s characteristic good provides a distinctive sort of pleasure. As Aristotle says, [H] To each activity there is a proper pleasure. . . . As activities are different, then, so are the corresponding pleasures. (1175b26–36)

Virtuous acts are pleasant for virtuous people: they develop a taste for it. Temperate people savor cheesecake in proper quantity; liberal people are pleased that they have helped appropriate others appropriately, etc. This pleasure, which differs from sphere to sphere, is sometimes called the “proper pleasure” of a virtue. Courage’s proper pleasure is the pleasure of accomplishing something worthwhile despite a risk of physical harm. Proper pleasures may differ in various ways. Notice in particular that the temperate person feels a physical sensation, but the liberal person does not. Aristotle’s accounts of pleasure and pain in NE VII and NE X are complex, contested, and beyond the scope of this book. But one thing upon which interpreters agree is that when Aristotle speaks of pleasure or pain, he is not always, or even typically, speaking of a feeling. Sometimes a virtuous act aims to avoid some harm. To each type of virtuous act there corresponds a different type of harm to be avoided. Courageous acts aim at avoiding physical harm, good tempered acts aim at avoiding dishonor, and so on. Pears calls avoiding this characteristic harm the “counter-goal.” Just as the pleasure of accomplishing something worthwhile includes more than merely the generic pleasure of accomplishment, so the pain resulting from a failure to avoid the harm is not merely generic disappointment. The pain of harm, like the pleasure of achievement, differs from sphere to sphere. The offense of a hateful joke differs from the gall of ingratitude which, in turn, differs from death, injury, and 33 For example, Pears suggests that the characteristic good of courage, at least in battle, is victory, but surely not just any sort of victory would do. It would have to be gained in a just way in a just war. Lear thinks that the characteristic good of courage is peace and the good life because that is what we fight for, but surely a person could exhibit courage in a war fought for other reasons, or even during peacetime. Lear 152–5; Pears, “Courage as a Mean,” 171, 174; Rogers, “Aristotle on the Motive of Courage,” 303–13.


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physical pain. We might call the pleasure of avoiding the virtue’s characteristic harm “relief,” and the pain incurred when the harm is not avoided the “proper pain.” Aristotle’s account of courage and temperance are complementary. His account of courage emphasizes the risk of characteristic harm and proper pain, and says nothing about a characteristic good and proper pleasure, while his account of temperance emphasizes the possibility of characteristic good and proper pleasure, and says nothing about a risk of characteristic harm and proper pain. While most commentators recognize that courage has a characteristic good and proper pleasure, they ignore the proper pain of temperance, and some consider courage to be unique in having a proper pain.34 But the fact that fear is a relevant passion in other spheres than that of courage shows that at least the virtues governing these spheres involve characteristic risks and proper pains. In particular, temperate acts have risks. To bite into an apple is to hazard a hidden worm. To refrain is to risk the pain of unsatisfied desire for the apple. Surprisingly (or perhaps not), sensual pain and pleasure are not far apart. Leave it a bit too long on the warmer and good coffee turns bitter; push a little too hard and a good back rub becomes painful; and so on. Courage and temperance are complementary in another way, too. Many courageous acts have external goals, but sometimes (when repelling an attacker, for example) a person may act courageously just to avoid a counter-goal. Similarly, many temperate acts have the external goal of sensual pleasure, but sometimes (when repelling a seducer, for example) a person may act temperately just to avoid a counter-goal. To summarize, a virtuous act is always performed partially for its own sake, partially for the avoidance of some characteristic harm, and often also for the achievement of some characteristic good. The corresponding pleasures and pains are displayed in the chart below. Anticipation: Pleasure or Pain

Success: Pleasure

Failure: Pain

Internal Goal: Because it is Virtuous

Hope

Noble Pleasure

Shame

External Goal: Achieve Characteristic Good

Hope

Proper Pleasure Satisfaction

Frustration

Counter-Goal: Avoid Characteristic Harm

Fear

Relief

Proper Pain Disappointment

A problem, a solution, and the Panglossian Thesis The distinction among these three types of goals and their associated pleasures and pains presents a solution to the following thorny problem for Aristotle interpreters. 34 E. Garver, “Aristotle on Virtue and Pleasure.” In The Greeks and the Good Life, ed. D. Depew (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1980) 164–5.

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Aristotle seems to contradict himself on the question of whether courageous acts are painful. In NE II.3 he says, [I] We must take as a sign of states of character the pleasure or pain that supervenes on acts; for . . . he who stands his ground against things that are terrible and delights in this or at least is not pained is brave, while the man who is pained is a coward. . . . Hence we ought to have been brought up in a particular way from our very youth, as Plato says, so as both to delight in and to be pained by the things that we ought; for this is the right education. (1104b3–13)

Here Aristotle seems to be saying that a courageous person performing a courageous act is pleased, or at least is not pained. This is a central claim for Aristotle because he uses pleasure and pain both as evidence of a person’s character (as the first sentence says), and as part of a pedagogical strategy (as the last sentence says). Yet in NE III.9 where Aristotle devotes a whole chapter to the relationship of courage to pain and pleasure, he says of the courageous person, [J] Death and injuries will be painful to the brave man and against his will, but he will face them because it is noble to do so or because it is base not to do so. And the more he is possessed of virtue in its entirety and the happier he is, the more he will be pained at the thought of death. . . . It is not the case, then, with all the virtues that the exercise of them is pleasant, except in so far as it reaches its end. (1117b9–16)

In this passage Aristotle seems to be saying that courageous acts are typically painful to perform, and even to contemplate.35 I suggest the following resolution. In passage [I] Aristotle is talking about noble pleasure and shame, the sort of pleasure or pain that results from the belief that one is acting well or badly. Virtuous people who stand their ground in situations where standing their ground is worth the risk are pleased at performing courageous acts, at acting rightly. Vicious people, mistakenly believing that fleeing is the right thing to do, are pained when they stand their ground. Such people are ashamed because they believe that standing their ground is a vicious act, a rash act. By contrast, in passage [ J ] Aristotle is talking about the overall pleasure or pain of a courageous act. In the first two sentences, Aristotle speaks of possible “death and injuries” (proper pains), and the painful “thought of death” (fear). He mentions the nobility of the act as a reason for performing it (alluding obliquely to noble pleasure). In the last sentence of passage [ J ], Aristotle mentions the pleasure felt if the act “reaches its end,” that is, attains its characteristic good (proper pleasure). Together, all of these constitute the act’s overall pleasure or pain.

35

Broadie tries to resolve this contradiction by suggesting that when Aristotle says that the courageous agent is pleased or not pained by a courageous act, Aristotle means that he or she acts without reluctance and takes satisfaction from performing the act. But when Aristotle says that the courageous agent is pained Aristotle means that he or she feels pain. I think Broadie’s attempt at resolution fails, however. Throughout NE II.3 “pleasure” seems to mean pleasure rather than non-reluctance. See S. Broadie, Ethics with Aristotle (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991) 91.


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In the last sentence of passage [J] Aristotle considers two possibilities. On the one hand, Aristotle explicitly repudiates the Panglossian Thesis often attributed to him, that virtuous acts are always overall pleasant to virtuous people, no matter what their outcome. Instead, Aristotle says, “It is not the case, then, with all the virtues that the exercise of them is pleasant.” If a courageous act fails to achieve its characteristic good and also to avoid its characteristic harm, then merely the fact that it is courageous will not insure that it is overall pleasant. Without the proper pleasure of courage, the proper pain may outweigh the noble pleasure so that the courageous act may end up being overall painful. Indeed, it may be disastrous. Suppose that Dorkimer participates in an attempt to overthrow a tyrant. His act is virtuous, for the tyrant is terrible and the revolution has a reasonable chance of success. Sadly, however, the unlikely comes to pass: the revolution fails. Dorkimer is caught, tortured, and about to be killed. Dorkimer doubtless derives some noble pleasure from the thought that he acted rightly, but the claim that Dorkimer’s act is overall pleasant is ludicrous. Hence Aristotle, champion of common sense, quite rightly says, “men have been undone . . . by reason of their courage” (1094b18–19). The Uplifting Thesis Some commentators seem desperate to hang onto as much of the Panglossian Thesis as they can. One maneuver is to retreat from the Panglossian Thesis that each virtuous act is always pleasant, to a somewhat gloomier, but still Uplifting Thesis. Although virtuous acts can be overall painful, performing them is always less painful than not performing them, even if the acts are not successful, because the shame of acting wrongly is always greater than the proper pain risked by virtuous action minus its noble pleasure. In particular, cowardly acts produce overwhelming shame that is worse than death, injuries, and/or physical pain, tempered by the noble pleasure of having acted well.36 While I do not deny that shame can be quite powerful, the harms risked by some courageous acts are just too serious to take the Uplifting Thesis seriously. Surely torture and death plus noble pleasure is worse than a torture-free, long life marred by occasional bouts of shame. Achilles would not agree, but then he is hardly a paragon of practical wisdom. Like the Panglossian Thesis, the Uplifting Thesis is too counterintuitive to attribute to Aristotle. Aristotle does say things that seem to support the Uplifting Thesis. For example he says, [K] For [citizen soldiers] flight is disgraceful and death is preferable to safety on those terms; while [experienced soldiers] from the very beginning faced the danger on the assumption that they were stronger, and when they know the facts they fly, fearing death more than disgrace; but the brave man is not that sort of person. (1116b19–23; see also 1124b8–9)

36

Rogers, “On the Motive of Courage,” 309–10.

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In passage [K] Aristotle compares mercenaries who flee because they fear death more than disgrace, with citizen soldiers who stand their ground because they fear disgrace more than death. Is Aristotle saying that courageous people stand their ground for the same reason as citizen soldiers? No. Citizen soldiers are only pseudo-courageous because they are inappropriately motivated. The desire for honor and the fear of disgrace are not the motives of courageous people. Anyway, disgrace is dishonor, not shame. It is inflicted upon people by others, while shame is inflicted upon people by themselves. Perhaps what passage [K] says about courageous people is simply that they would not flee. In the midst of his discussion of friendship, Aristotle claims that good people will die for their friends, if necessary: [L] [The good person] would prefer a short period of intense pleasure to a long one of mild enjoyment, a twelvemonth of noble life to many years of humdrum existence, and one great and noble action to many trivial ones. Now those who die for others doubtless attain this result; it is therefore a great prize that they choose for themselves. (1169a22–6)

This passage, too, seems to support the Uplifting Thesis. Aristotle claims that good people gain more overall pleasure by sacrificing themselves for their friends than by living on. But in passage [L] Aristotle is presumably describing cases where people succeed in accomplishing something important for their friends by sacrificing their own lives. He is not describing cases where people fail. So passage [L] is not an endorsement of the Uplifting Thesis because the Uplifting Thesis is about cases where nothing worthwhile is accomplished. Note that Aristotle is not maintaining or assuming in passage [L] that people always choose what they think will be the most overall pleasurable act available to them. I shall argue below that Aristotle adopts a two-stage account of both virtue and friendship. People acquire virtues and friends because it is in their best interest to do so. But once acquired, virtues and friends transform the motives of the agents. Virtuous people do the right thing, even to their own detriment, because it is the right thing to do, and people help their friends, even to their own detriment, because they are friends. We do not always choose the most pleasant or least painful option. We are not motivated quite so directly by pleasure and pain. Aristotle had better not be saying in passage [L] that virtuous people sacrifice themselves for their friends because they calculate that they will get more overall pleasure by sacrificing themselves than by living on. Otherwise Aristotle will be stuck with the following unappetizing picture of the courageous person’s calculations. “Should I give my life to save my love, Elgeia? Nah, who cares about her! But wait. If I don’t give my life, I’ll feel guilty. And I’d rather be dead than feel guilty. So I should give my life to save me! It is my best interest that counts, and death is in my best interest, here.” Talk about ignoble! Surely, agents who sacrifice


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themselves do so for the sake of their friends rather than for themselves. Otherwise it is no sacrifice.37 The Exception Thesis Other commentators try to hang on to a different piece of the Panglossian Thesis. They concede that the Panglossian Thesis fails in the case of courage, but maintain that courage is an exception. When Aristotle says in passage [I] that, “It is not the case, then, with all the virtues that the exercise of them is pleasant, except in so far as it reaches its end,” these commentators take Aristotle to be saying that virtuous acts are always overall pleasant for most, but not all virtues. Some courageous acts constitute (the only) exceptions to this general rule.38 By contrast, this sentence may easily be read as saying that for every virtue, it is not the case that virtuous acts are overall pleasant for people possessing that virtue. Painful virtuous acts occur in every virtue’s sphere. Like the Panglossian Thesis and the Uplifting Thesis, the Exception Thesis is obviously false, so attributing it to Aristotle without unimpeachable textual evidence is uncharitable. Why think that there is anything exceptional about courage in this respect? We all know that honesty is not always the best policy, that nice guys sometimes finish last, that crime sometimes pays, and so on. If a slice of cheesecake turns out to be spoiled, then the satisfaction of knowing that eating it was a temperate act will not compensate for the resulting bout of food poisoning. If Ferdinand’s act of minor retaliation prompts an unexpected, massive counter-retaliation, the satisfaction of knowing that his act was good tempered will not compensate Ferdinand for the resulting bout of hospitalization. The Marginally Optimistic Thesis and the truth Aristotle’s view is darker than these theses, although not gloomy. He maintains that possessing and expressing virtues is usually in one’s best interest in life, but not that virtuous acts are less painful than vicious acts in every situation, or that all but the courageous ones are pleasant, overall. Virtues and virtuous acts are the way to bet, but they are no sure thing.39 According to Aristotle, the pleasure Dorkimer gains by participating in the rebellion may be outweighed by the pain of being tortured and killed, so Dorkimer’s act may turn out to be overall painful. His act may be even more painful overall than the cowardly act of refusing to participate in the rebellion, despite the shame. However, Aristotle says in passage [I] that successful virtuous acts are always overall pleasant. If the 37

See ch.12. Brady 192. I do not mean to imply that a virtuous person who recognizes that in a particular situation the best bet is an unjust act should or will perform that act. As I said above, once a person acquires a virtue, he or she is motivated to act in accord with that virtue even to his or her detriment. 38 39

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courageous act achieves its characteristic good, then any proper pain is always outweighed by the proper pleasure plus the noble pleasure. Thus, a courageous act may be unpleasant “except in so far as it reaches its end.” So Aristotle does think that the pleasure Dorkimer gains if the rebellion succeeds in toppling the tyrant outweighs the pain of being tortured and killed on the way to success. If Dorkimer were wavering about whether to participate in the rebellion against the tyrant, Aristotle would not encourage him by urging, “Refusal to participate will be more painful than participation.” Instead, Aristotle would urge, “If the rebellion succeeds, participation will be overall pleasant.” Aristotle’s Marginally Optimistic Thesis is too optimistic. I propose, but shall not defend, the Realistic Thesis that sometimes an act is overall painful even if the characteristic good is achieved, because the pain endured on the way to the characteristic good is so great. Sometimes winning is losing. Interim summary I have distinguished several different sorts of pleasures, pains, and goods, the desiderative component of moral motivation. The different sorts of pleasure and pain are related in complicated ways. (a) Virtuous people enjoy the virtuousness of virtuous acts, but non-virtuous people are pained by these acts. Thus, virtuous acts can be used as a test for virtue. (b) Correlated to the characteristic goods and harms of each virtue are proper pleasures and pains. (c) When they fail to achieve what they set out to gain, virtuous acts may be overall painful, even for the virtuous. The proper pain may outweigh the noble pleasure. Thus, Aristotle does not claim that virtuous people always find virtuous acts (or even the virtuous life) to be overall pleasant.40 (d) On the other hand, virtuous acts are always overall pleasant when they achieve what they set out to gain. I shall call this account of the three types of goals and their associated pleasures and pains Aristotle’s motivation doctrine.

Parameters and failure modes of courage In his general remarks about virtue, Aristotle states an important piece of his architectonic: [M] [Passions] may be felt both too much and too little, and in both cases not well; but to feel them at the right times, with reference to the right objects, towards the right people, with the right aim, and in the right way, is both intermediate and best, and this is characteristic of virtue. Similarly with regard to actions also there is excess, defect, and the intermediate. (1106b20–4)

Aristotle assumes that each instance of a passion, each token of fear or anger or desire to help others, etc., is a function of several parameters. So is each act token. He maintains in passage [M] that acting and feeling virtuously requires getting all of the relevant 40

See ch.15.


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parameters right. Going wrong with respect to any one of the parameters is evidence of a lack of virtue. Thus, within each sphere, “it is possible to fail in many ways. . . while to succeed is possible only in one way” (1106b21–2). I shall call this Aristotle’s parameter doctrine. A closely related pair of assumptions is that the parameters are quantitative, and that getting them right requires hitting some sort of mean for each parameter, that is, a virtuous person feels and acts moderately. A good tempered person, for example, feels a moderate amount of anger about a moderate number of injuries and insults on a moderate number of occasions toward a moderate number of people for a moderate length of time. To go wrong is to go to one extreme or the other of some parameter or parameters. This is Aristotle’s famous doctrine of the mean. Now Aristotle does not believe that only people whose dispositions are exactly medial are virtuous. He says, “People may be more or less just or brave, and it is possible also to act justly or temperately more or less” (1173a20–2; see also 1126a35–b4). A person who feels just a tad more or less fear in each situation than the perfectly courageous person is also courageous. Thus, the mean of each parameter should be understood, not as a single point, but rather as a range centering on the exact mean. What counts as moderate for each parameter, and how that is determined are crucial questions that I shall bracket. Some commentators are skeptical about the idea that Aristotle has a reasonably well worked out idea about what these parameters are. Bostock for example says, You might say: even if the many bad ways of acting cannot all be ranked on some one scale, still they can be ranked on a number of different scales, diverging in different directions from the one central point which is the good way of acting. So the good is still a “middle,” though a middle of many scales and not just one. But I defy you to specify the different “directions.”41

I shall pick up Bostock’s gauntlet. I shall show that Aristotle specifies the parameters of passion and action for each virtue in a way that is reasonably, though not perfectly clear, consistent, and correct. In NE III.7 Aristotle says, [N] Of the faults that are committed one consists in fearing what one should not, another in fearing as we should not, another consists in fearing when we should not, and so on; and so too with respect to the things that inspire confidence. The man, then who faces and who fears the right things and with the right aim, in the right way and at the right time, and who feels confidence under the corresponding conditions, is brave. (1115b15–19)

As I have said above, courage is a disposition to feel fear and confidence rightly, and to act rightly in situations where there is a risk of bodily harm and a reasonable possibility of avoiding that harm and/or achieving some characteristic good. Passage [N] further specifies that a courageous person fears and is confident about the right things, in the right way, and at the right time. So the parameters of courage include objects, amounts, 41

D. Bostock, Aristotle’s Ethics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000) 50n47.

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and occasions of fear and confidence.42 A person disposed to feel one or more of the parameters too much or too little lacks courage. To be courageous, a person must be disposed to get all six of these parameters right. Aristotle’s examples of pseudo-courage in NE III.8 illustrate the possibility of going wrong with respect to some parameters without going wrong with respect to all of them. Professional soldiers go wrong only with respect to the “amount” parameter of fear. They fear the right things at the right times, but they flee from some dangers that are not fearful enough to justify flight because their amount of fear is excessive (1116b15–19). Similarly, sanguine people are excessively confident (1117a9–22). Soldiers sometimes experience flashbacks in which they fear physical harm when the danger is long past and they are already safe. That is, they fear the right things to the right degree, but on the wrong occasions. Again, people sometimes fear the right amount on the right occasions, but displace their fear onto inappropriate objects. In general, these six parameters vary independently. Urmson criticizes Aristotle for not noticing “that it is possible, if unlikely, that one’s character should exhibit deficiency in some respects, the mean in others, and excess in others, even with regard to a single specific excellence.”43 But Aristotle does notice this. He correctly observes that people who are called rash often “are a mixture of rashness and cowardice” (1115b31–2). A person might fear too few objects, but fear each of these objects too much, for example. Thus, Aristotle maintains that it is possible to have both of the vices associated with a virtue at once by being disposed to go to excess with respect to some parameters while being deficient with respect to others. Aristotle introduces another type of character, namely brutishness. He says that brutish people are “beyond the limits of vice” (1148b34–1149a1). I take this to mean that brutish people go very wrong with respect to one or more parameters. So fearing enemy soldiers a reasonable amount is virtuous; being terribly afraid or only a bit scared is vicious; and being petrified or nonchalant is brutish. And so on for each parameter. Aristotle gives an example concerning the object parameter of fear. He says that, [O] The man who is by nature apt to fear everything, even the squeak of a mouse, is cowardly with a brutish cowardice. (1149a7–8)

Today we would diagnose such a person as agoraphobic. Aristotle’s examples of brutishness (phobias, eating disorders, certain sexual problems, and compulsive selfmutilation) are all considered mental illnesses today (1148b19ff ). That the brutish are what we, in the modern world, call mentally ill is further supported by Aristotle’s account of the origins of brutishness. People become vicious by choice, he says, but

42 Aim or goal is not a parameter in the same way as the others, so I have treated it separately. I take “right way” and “as we should” to refer to the degree or amount of fear. See ch.4. 43 J. O. Urmson, “Aristotle Doctrine of the Mean.” In Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, ed. A. O. Rorty (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980) 161.


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brutishness results from trauma, disease, birth defect, or socialization into a corrupt society (1148b17–31). These are just what we take the causes of mental illness to be. Distinguishing vice and mental illness is an important, and somewhat neglected task for contemporary virtue ethicists, and Aristotle’s distinction between vice and brutishness constitutes a plausible suggestion.44 Aristotle’s doctrine of parameters, his doctrine of the mean, and the distinctions among various states of character from courage to phobia may be modeled by a souped-up, three-dimensional version of Aristotle’s target metaphor (1094a23–4, 1138b21–3). Think of the three fear parameters as axes, all intersecting at their exact mean points. Now every possible disposition for feeling fear of physical harm can be represented as a point in three-dimensional space. Each point’s coordinates are the objects of fear, the amounts of fear, and the occasions of fear. The origin represents the person whose disposition to fear is perfectly medial. The mean of each parameter is a range about the origin. If the axes are calibrated so that the medial range is the same length (say r1) on each axis, then the virtuous dispositions for feeling fear may be represented by the interior of a cube of side 2r1 centered on the origin. Suppose that on each axis brutishness is beyond some further point (say r2). Points that have at least one coordinate between r1 and r2 represent dispositions for excessive vicious fear. Points that have at least one coordinate between -r1 and -r2 represent dispositions for insufficient vicious fear. Points with both of these properties represent dispositions for fear that combine both vices, that is, rash cowards. Points with at least one coordinate greater than r2 or less than -r2 represent brutishness. Thus, the exterior of the origin-centered cube of side 2r2 represents brutishness, while the volume between the cubes represents vice. The right stuff Does Aristotle include all of the right parameters in his account of courage? The parameters Aristotle mentions with respect to temperance and liberality are the same as the three he mentions with respect to courage, and in his treatment of several other virtues he does not list parameters at all. But good tempered people correctly feel and exhibit anger with respect to the parameters of people and duration, as well as the parameters of occasions, objects, and amounts (1125b26–1126a27). Should Aristotle have added people and/or duration parameters to his account of courage? We sometimes say that we are afraid of certain people. Now it might be thought that we fear what these people may do to us rather than the people, themselves. But sometimes we actually are afraid of the people, themselves. The people are feared because they are threatening, of course. But perhaps through the mechanism of transference, the people are feared in addition to, or even instead of, the harm they might inflict. Thus, Aristotle says, “the very indications of [terrible] things are terrible” (Rhet. 1382a30). That is, we fear 44

See ch.17.

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the signs of fearful things as well as the fearful things, themselves. And the signs of fearful things are primarily people who are angry, or unjust, or our rivals, etc. (Rhet. 1382a32ff ). Yet this does not indicate a need for a people parameter; instead, it suggests that the objects of courage include not only different sorts of death, injuries, and physical pains, but also the people who threaten to bring these harms upon us. Indeed, the objects of courage include other threatening entities, too. For example, Aristotle indicates that we should fear “earthquakes and waves” (1115b26–7). On the other hand, I suggest that courage does involve a duration parameter. Some people typically feel the right amount of fear and confidence about the right objects on the right occasions, but then “lose their nerve” or “get cocky” while still in the risky situation. That is, they become excessively afraid or confident. Such people do not maintain the right emotions for long enough. Other people remain afraid or confident after the danger and opportunity have passed. Such people maintain the right emotions for too long. Thus, duration seems to be a parameter of courage that is independent of the other three. Aristotle should have included the duration parameter in his account of courage just as he includes it in his account of good temper. And the right duration is a mean between too long and too short. Its inclusion would not threaten Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean. Courage requires more than just appropriate fear and confidence. As passage [N] notes, the courageous person not only fears, but also “faces the right things.” To be courageous one must choose and act rightly in addition to having the right passions. People can go wrong in various ways with respect to choice and/or action, just as they can go wrong with respect to passions. Thus, modeling courage requires two additional targets, a choice target and an action target. With such targets the character traits that constitute the focus of Aristotle’s discussion may be conveniently illustrated. The virtue of courage is illustrated when all of the parameters of all four targets are medial. The virtuous person (arete¯s) or person of practical wisdom (phronimos) is not internally conflicted, for he or she feels, chooses, and acts rightly.45 To go wrong with respect to any of these parameters on any of these four targets is to lack virtue. The continent person (enkrate¯s) chooses and acts rightly despite the temptation or pressure to act wrongly presented by his or her flawed passions. Continence is illustrated when the parameters of the fear and/or confidence targets are not medial, but the parameters of the choice and action targets are medial. The incontinent person (akrate¯s) chooses rightly, but succumbs to the temptation or pressure to act wrongly. Incontinence is illustrated when the parameters of the fear and/or confidence targets and the action target are not medial, but the parameters of the choice target are medial.46 The vicious person (kakos, phaulos, pone¯ros, mochthe¯ros) is

45 This is a simplification. As I mentioned above, virtuous people may be internally conflicted in situations where a behavior is both virtuous with respect to one virtue and vicious with respect to another. Thus, they can be internally conflicted about behaviors, though not about acts. 46 Technically, “continence” and “incontinence” are defined with respect to temperance, but the definitions may easily be extended “with qualification” to the other virtues (1147b23–35).


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not internally conflicted, for he or she feels, chooses, and acts wrongly. Thus, vice is illustrated when the parameters of the fear and/or confidence targets and the choice and action targets are not medial. Since the passions, choices, and actions of vicious people are in accord, they consider themselves to be virtuous. The brutish person (the¯riote¯s) may choose and even act rightly. There are, so to speak, continent, incontinent, and vicious versions of brutishness, depending on whether the brutish person recognizes his or her brutishness and whether he or she can control it (1148b34–1149a4). What is characteristic of brutish people is that their passions are wildly wrong. Brutishness is illustrated when at least one of the parameters of the fear and/or confidence targets are very far from medial. This yields five of the six states of character mentioned in NE VII.1. In later chapters I shall discuss the sixth state, heroic virtue, as well as yet other states not mentioned in NE VII.1. Character Trait

Fear Target

Confidence Target Choice Target Action Target

Virtue

medial

Medial

medial

medial

Continence

extreme extreme medial

extreme medial extreme

medial

medial

Incontinence



medial

extreme

Vice



extreme

extreme

Vicious Brutishness

very extreme very extreme very extreme medial very extreme medial

very extreme

very extreme

Continent Brutishness


medial

medial

Incontinent Brutishness


medial

very extreme

Courage and the doctrine of the mean The parameter doctrine, together with Aristotle’s much celebrated and much criticized doctrine of the mean, constitute the core of Aristotle’s architectonic. The following passage is Aristotle’s general statement of the doctrine of the mean: [P] [Virtue] is a mean between two vices, that which depends upon excess and that which depends on defect; and again it is a mean because the vices respectively fall short of or exceed what is right in both passions and actions, while virtue both finds and chooses that which is intermediate. (1107a2–6)

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As passage [P] indicates, the doctrine of the mean consists of two related components. The first part of the doctrine is a claim about states of character: each virtuous state of character lies between two vicious states of character that stand at opposite ends of some continuum. Each virtue is a mean between an excess and a deficiency. With this doctrine, Aristotle rejects the view that each virtue is opposed to only one vice, that vice and virtue occupy opposite ends of a continuum. For example, he denies that cowardice is the trait to be avoided in the sphere of physical harm. He denies that the further from cowardice one gets, the better. Instead, Aristotle maintains that not only cowardly people, but also people who take high risks without good reasons are vicious. And those who take tremendous risks without good reasons are brutish. Virtue ethicists might get to the one-vice doctrine by different routes. A purely intellectualist account of the virtues such as that often attributed to Socrates lends itself to this one-vice doctrine, for knowledge and ignorance do lie on opposite ends of a continuum. If knowledge is virtue and ignorance is vice, then virtue and vice are at opposite ends of a continuum. But of course Aristotle rejects a purely intellectualist account of the virtues. Other virtue ethicists maintain that each virtue is a disposition to overcome a particular temptation or deficiency.47 This corrective account perhaps derives its current appeal from one interpretation of the Christian doctrine of original sin. If temptation or deficiency is inevitable because of our sinful natures, then the best person is the person who reliably resists the temptation or makes up the deficiency. The more effective the resistance or compensation, the better. Again virtue and vice end up at opposite ends of a continuum. But of course Aristotle rejects this account of human nature and, therefore, this account of virtue. He says, “neither by nature nor contrary to nature do virtues arise in us” (1103a23–4). Temptation and deficiency are not inevitable. People who act rightly only by overcoming temptation or deficiency are continent; virtuous people act rightly without having to overcome temptation or deficiency. The second part of the doctrine of the mean links it to the parameter doctrine. The right quantity for each parameter of action and each parameter of passion is a mean. One can fail to possess each virtue in a variety of ways, each of which is either too much or too little of something. There are many varieties of each vice, and many varieties of continence, incontinence, and brutishness. All can be described quantitatively as deviations from a mean. Passage [P] also indicates the link between the doctrine’s two components. There are exactly two vices per virtue because the right quantity for each parameter is a mean between two extremes. Each virtuous state of character is medial with respect to all relevant parameters. A disposition to go to excess with respect to any parameter(s) is one vice; a disposition to be deficient with respect to any parameter(s) is the opposite vice.48

P. Foot, “Virtues and Vices,” Virtues and Vices (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978) 9. D. Blankenship, “Commentary on Charles M. Young’s ‘The Doctrine of the Mean,’” Topoi 15 (1996): 101–6; C. Young, “The Doctrine of the Mean,” Topoi 15 (1996): 89–99. 47 48


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Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean has fallen on hard times of late. Some critics have suggested that Aristotle is only intermittently committed to the doctrine of the mean or that it is not central to his ethics. Other critics take it to be metaphorical and heuristic rather than literal and quantitative.49 Yet other critics consider the doctrine of the mean to be contentless, “of no practical use to a prospective agent,”50 Finally, some take the doctrine to be quantitative and non-trivial, but patently false.51 This skepticism is surprising. Aristotle states the doctrine of the mean clearly and repeatedly. His statements of the doctrine are replete with expressions such as “too much” and “too few,” so the doctrine seems explicitly and essentially quantitative rather than heuristic or metaphorical. Aristotle works the doctrine of the mean out in detail and interweaves it with other components of his architectonic such as the thesis that we become morally better through habituation (1109a30–b7). Aristotle defends the doctrine against potential objections and misinterpretations. For example, Aristotle insists that the mean is “relative to us” rather than “in the object” (1106a29–b4). He explains the popularity of its rival, the one-vice doctrine, by observing that in many spheres one of the two vices is rare, mild, and thus easily overlooked. He applies the doctrine of the mean again and again to various virtues. The doctrine of the mean is perhaps Aristotle’s most celebrated doctrine. It might turn out to be false, but to dismiss the doctrine of the mean as trivial, foolish, metaphorical, or peripheral takes chutzpah. I shall defend Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean, at least insofar as it applies to courage, and sketch some ways in which it might be deployed as an aid to choice.52 Does Aristotle hold it? Does Aristotle believe that there are exactly two vices corresponding to courage? On the one hand, in NE II.7 Aristotle mentions two opposite vices for every virtue except justice for which he mentions one,53 and courage for which he mentions three: (a) excessive confidence, (b) insufficient fear, and (c) insufficient confidence plus excessive fear (1107a33–b4). He mentions these three vices (plus rash cowards) in NE III.7, too:

R. Hursthouse, “A False Doctrine of the Mean,” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 81 (1980–1): 60–1; R. Hursthouse, “The Central Doctrine of the Mean.” In The Blackwell Guide to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, ed. R. Kraut (Blackwell, 2006) 99, 105–9. 50 Broadie 102; R. Crisp, “Introduction,” Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000) xvii; R. Kraut, Aristotle on the Human Good (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989) 327–34; B. Williams, Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1985) 36. 51 H. Kelsen, “Aristotle’s Doctrine of Justice.” In Aristotle’s Ethics, ed. J. Walsh and H. Shapiro (Belmont: Wadsworth, 1967) 102–9; Ross 205–6. 52 Polansky and Welton use Aristotle’s remarks about the mean in artwork to fashion a defense of the thesis that Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean is quantitative rather than metaphorical. See R. Polansky and W. Welton, “The Viability of Virtue in the Mean,” Apieron 25 (1995): 79–102. Throughout her book Gottlieb explains and defends many aspects of Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean. See P. Gottlieb, The Virtue of Aristotle’s Ethics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). 53 I argue in ch.11 that justice is actually bracketed by two vices and so fits the doctrine of the mean. 49

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[Q] Of those who go to excess he who exceeds in fearlessness has no name . . . while the man who exceeds in confidence about what really is terrible is rash. . . . Hence also most [rash people] are a mixture of rashness and cowardice; for, while in these situations they display confidence, they do not hold their ground against what is really terrible. The man who exceeds in fear is a coward. . . . He is lacking also in confidence. (1115b24–1116a1)

On the other hand, just as he does with most other virtues, Aristotle bundles the people who lack courage into two clusters: those who go to excess (1115b24–35) and those who fall short (1115b35–1116a2). And Aristotle sums up the relationship of the virtue and its associated failure modes by contrasting courage with two extremes. He says, [R] The coward, the rash man, and the brave man, then, are concerned with the same objects but are differently disposed toward them; for the first two exceed and fall short, while the third holds the middle, which is the right, position. (1116a4–7)

Passage [Q] may easily be reconciled with passage [R] and with the doctrine of the mean in the following way. In passage [Q] Aristotle uses the term “rashness” narrowly, to mean excessive confidence. But in passage [R] and in the rest of the corpus he uses this term more broadly to mean either excessive confidence or insufficient fear or both. So Aristotle does believe that there are two vices corresponding to courage: rashness understood broadly and cowardice.54 Pearson takes Aristotle to reject the notion that certain wrong actions and passions can be described as “too much” or “too little” of something (and that avoiding these actions and passions can be described as medial) in the following passage:55 [S] Not every action nor every passion admits of a mean; for some have names that already imply badness, e.g. spite, shamelessness, envy, and in the case of actions adultery, theft, murder; for all of these and suchlike things imply by their names that they are themselves bad, and not the excesses or deficiencies of them. It is not possible, then, ever to be right with regard to them; one must always be wrong. Nor does goodness or badness with regard to such things depend on committing adultery with the right woman, at the right time, and in the right way, but simply to do any of them is to go wrong. (1107a8–17)

I shall dispute Pearson’s interpretation. In passage [S], Aristotle is trying to avoid a misapplication of the doctrine of the mean. He is trying to block someone from rationalizing adultery by saying, “I commit adultery only in moderation.” Aristotle’s

54 Aristotle’s statement that, “The man who exceeds in fear. . . is lacking also in confidence” is a mistake. Instead, Aristotle should make rashness and cowardice symmetrical by allowing that there are three sorts of cowards (people with excessive fear, people with insufficient confidence, and people with both), just as there are three sorts of rash people (people with insufficient fear, people with excessive confidence, and people with both). After all, Aristotle allows for rash cowards. If people can be simultaneously overconfident and excessively fearful, then surely they can be appropriately confident and excessively fearful. Similarly, other people are overly pessimistic without being overly fearful. However, see T. Aquinas, Commentary on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics (Dumb Ox Press, 1963) 182. 55 G. Pearson, “Does the Fearless Phobic Really Fear the Squeak of Mice ‘Too Much’?” Ancient Philosophy 26 (2006): 87.


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point is that it is not right to commit even a smidgeon of adultery, for terms like “adultery” are intrinsically pejorative. They “already imply badness.” Aristotle’s point is not that excess, deficiency, and moderation are irrelevant to adultery, theft, etc., but rather that these are already names for excesses, so one cannot have a moderate amount of them. Aristotle is not forbidding us from saying that adulterers sleep with too many married people, thieves take too much money from others, etc.56 Is it empty? The doctrine of the mean is sometimes criticized for being empty rather than a helpful guide to right action. Indeed, how to utilize the doctrine of the mean is not obvious. The doctrine certainly does not advise, “Be moderately afraid, moderately angry, etc. all of the time, and act that way.” Since virtuous actions and passions are situationally relative (1106a29–b4), one should be terrifically afraid in terribly risky situations, less afraid in less risky situations, but in safe situations one should feel no fear at all.57 A more plausible suggestion is that the doctrine of the mean recommends triangulating in on the right choice. “In scary situations, first determine the range of possible fear. Then arrange to feel medial fear for that range. Then act accordingly.” But this is hardly a useful procedure. How is one to determine what counts as a range of possible fear for each risky situation?58 Aristotle does instruct us on how to use the doctrine of the mean, but his directions are somewhat indirect. He actually introduces the doctrine of the mean twice. First he says, [T] Since we are inquiring not in order to know what virtue is, but in order to become good . . . we must examine the nature of actions, namely how we ought to do them; for these determine also the nature of the states that are produced. . . . The whole account of matters of conduct must be given in outline and not precisely. . . . The account of particular cases is yet more lacking in exactness. . . . But though our present account is of this nature we must give what help we can. First, then, let us consider this, that it is the nature of such things to be destroyed by defect and excess, as we see in the case of strength and of health. . . . So too is it, then, in the case of temperance and courage and the other virtues. For the man who flies from and fears everything and does not stand his ground against anything becomes a coward, and the man who fears nothing at all but goes to meet every danger becomes rash. (1103b21–1104a23)

Here Aristotle clearly does not see the doctrine of the mean as empty and useless. He says that, although precision is beyond us, “we must give what help we can” to those engaged in the project of moral improvement. And then he indicates that we should act medially because extreme acts and passions erode character. Of course, Aristotle also thinks that medial acts and passions build character (1105a18–19). So the doctrine of the mean helps us to maintain and improve our characters by telling us to act medially. 56 Urmson, “Aristotle’s Doctrine of the Mean,” 166; W. F. R. Hardie, Aristotle’s Ethical Theory, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1968) 136–7. 57 Urmson, “Aristotle’s Doctrine of the Mean,” 160–2. 58 Hardie 134–5; Urmson 162.

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A few chapters later, Aristotle presents the doctrine of the mean a second time: [U] We may remark, then, that every virtue both brings into good condition the thing of which it is the virtue and makes the work of that thing be done well. . . . Therefore, if this is true in every case, the virtue of man also will be the state of character which makes a man good and which makes him do his own work well . . . . . . If it is thus, then, that every art does its work well—by looking to the intermediate and judging its works by this standard. . . . and if, further, virtue is more exact and better than any art, as nature also is, then virtue must have the quality of aiming at the intermediate. (1106a15–b16)

In passage [U], Aristotle observes that acts not only shape character, but also forward or hinder the “work” (ergon) of humans. The connection between work and virtue is complex and contested, but clearly acts that forward our work are what we should do. Virtuous acts not only “make a man good” (maintain and improve virtue), but also “make him do his own work well” (do the right thing). Virtuous acts are medial acts according to passage [U]. Thus, Aristotle takes the doctrine of the mean to be a “standard” for action in two related ways. We may ask, (a) “What act(s) will help us develop or maintain virtue in this situation?” or (b) “What act(s) are the right thing(s) to do in this situation?”59 The answer will be the same; “medial acts.”60 Thus, using the mean to build character is also using the mean to determine which acts are right. In NE II.9 he explains how the doctrine of the mean helps to build character: [V] Hence he who aims at the intermediate must first depart from what is the more contrary to it. . . . But we must consider the things towards which we ourselves also are easily carried away; for some of us tend to one thing, some to another; and this will be recognizable from the pleasure and pain we feel. We must drag ourselves away to the contrary extreme; for we shall get into the intermediate state by drawing well away from error, as people do in straightening sticks that are bent. (1109a30–b7)

I expand passage [V] as follows. Together with the parameter doctrine, the doctrine of the mean creates a nuanced taxonomy of character flaws. It also tells us that character flaws are extremes, and that we improve by moving toward the mean. So to each flaw, the doctrine of the mean prescribes a direction for moral improvement along particular parameters. This guides moral trainers and trainees toward certain acts and away from others. For example, suppose Koko recognizes that her children lack courage. Combining the parameter doctrine and the doctrine of the mean with her observations of her children, she sees that Gonzo is afraid of too many things, but Hilo is too afraid of little things. Io expects to succeed even when the odds are against her, but Jocko is not afraid even when he expects to fail. Understanding the vices of cowardice and rashness 59

These correspond to (a) the noble goal and, (b) the goal of achieving some characteristic good and/or avoiding some characteristic harm. 60 Technically, Aristotle’s view in NE II.9 is that the answer will be the same for the virtuous, but not for the mere moral learner. This is an error however. Aristotle should urge us to approach the mean rather than to overshoot it “as people do in straightening sticks that are bent.” See H. Curzer, “Aristotle’s Bad Advice about Becoming Good,” Philosophy 71 (1996): 139–46.


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helps Koko remedy the problems of her children because different sorts of protocowardice and proto-rashness require different fixes. Koko needs to convince and train Gonzo that certain objects are really not dangerous, but she needs to convince and train Hilo that certain outcomes are really not so bad. Koko needs to lower Io’s level of selfconfidence and Jocko’s fear threshold. The doctrine of the mean makes detailed diagnoses and therapies possible. The doctrine of the mean helps people improve themselves, too. For example, knowing that he tends to fear too many objects, when Gonzo begins to feel fear, he reminds himself to be extra careful that what he fears is really dangerous. He can recheck his observations, ask experts, take deep breaths, and try to chill, etc. Other virtues offer examples that are perhaps more familiar. Leo knows that he tends to drink too much at parties, so at parties he tells himself to drink less, drink moderately, move closer to the mean. Marlow knows that she is on the stingy side, so she resolves to write some big checks to charity when her IRS refund arrives. Passage [V] indicates how the doctrine of the mean can be helpful even when people are unsure of their present states of character. Neo has no idea of how much dessert to eat, or whether he needs to diet, but he knows that most people overeat, so he eats less than he wants. Before implementing a course of action, Ono asks herself, “Am I being moderate about all of this?,” which is a more targeted way of asking, “Am I being reasonable about this?” Roughly speaking, the parameter doctrine provides a structure for thinking about situations, and the doctrine of the mean serves as a reality check. Of course, these ways of deploying the doctrine of the mean do not generally provide precise action-guidance. In most situations they only indicate a range of actions, or a structure for thinking about options. But that is a lot of help. Very often what we need is a bit of direction rather than a specific recommendation. Novelists as well as moralists have found that a detailed understanding of moral failings is intrinsically fascinating. And we need to understand the varieties and subtleties of continence, incontinence, vice, and brutishness so that we can deal effectively with other people. But the taxonomy of moral failings and their relationships to virtue is primarily important for our own moral development, for the improvement of others, and for finding the right acts in different situations. The doctrine of the mean guides action by guiding moral improvement. Is it true? Although some people criticize Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean for being empty and metaphorical, other critics take his doctrine to be substantive and numerical, but mistaken. Hursthouse, for example, maintains that people can go wrong with respect to action or passion in ways that do not involve excess and deficiency. Virtue and vice are not always related as mean and extreme. Focusing on courage, she says, the concepts of “right object and right occasion cannot be specified as means, and more generally, some vices that correspond to . . . courage cannot be understood as

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dispositions to exhibit or feel an emotion (pathos) too much or too little.”61 Hursthouse imagines people who fear only the dark, enclosed spaces, and mice instead of death, injuries, and physical pain. She calls such people fearless phobics and observes that they fear the wrong objects without fearing too many or too few objects. They seem to be counterexamples to Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean. Similar counterexamples could be fashioned for the occasion parameter. People who are afraid of death when safe in their comfy beds, but not on the battlefield are afraid on the wrong occasions, but not on too many or too few occasions. My rebuttal hinges upon the fact that going wrong with respect to the amount parameter cannot be described non-quantitatively. A person disposed to feel the wrong amount of fear must feel either too much or too little fear. Thus, fearless phobics may be described as both rash and cowardly. They are cowardly about the dark, enclosed spaces, and mice; rash with respect to death, injuries, and physical pain.62 Although they do not go wrong by fearing too many or too few objects, the concept of quantity is crucial for describing their character flaws, for they fear the right objects too little and the wrong objects too much.63 Pearson objects that this description is unnatural and misleading since the right amount to fear the wrong objects is zero. The quantitative description is an odd way of making a non-quantitative point. Describing fearless phobics as fearing the wrong objects is much more straightforward than describing them as fearing the dark, enclosed spaces, and mice too much.64 Perhaps so. Yet as I mentioned above, the main focus of the doctrine of the mean, like everything else in the NE, is to help people become good. Rather than urging fearless phobics to switch from fearing the dark, enclosed spaces, and mice and to fearing death, injuries, and physical pain, one might help fearless phobics more effectively by urging them to reduce their fear of the dark, enclosed spaces, and mice gradually down to zero, and gradually increase their fear of death, injuries, and physical pain. In other words, it would be helpful rather than misleading to think of the fearless phobics’ problem as a quantitative one, a problem of moving from the very extreme toward the mean of the amount parameter. The doctrine of the mean may generate some awkward-sounding results, but usefulness has priority over elegance. Interim summary Aristotle espouses the doctrine of the mean in many places, and the few passages in which Aristotle’s account of courage seems incompatible with the doctrine are easily 61 Broadie 100; Hursthouse 61; P. Losin, “Aristotle’s Doctrine of the Mean,” History of Philosophy Quarterly 4 (1987): 339; Urmson 43. 62 Technically, fearless phobics are brutish rather than vicious. They are mentally ill, not just because they are phobic (myophobic, claustrophobic, and nyctophobic), but also because they are fearless. No sane person is unafraid of death, injury, or physical pain, as Aristotle himself observes (1115b26–7). 63 H. Curzer, “A Defense of Aristotle’s Doctrine of the Mean,” Ancient Philosophy 16 (1996): 1–10. 64 Pearson 85–6.

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explained. The doctrine of the mean is both useful and plausible, so the principle of charity does not stand in the way of attributing the doctrine of the mean to Aristotle. The doctrine may ultimately turn out to be false, but Hursthouse’s objections do not refute it. “At the very least it is a substantial doctrine worthy of Aristotle’s genius.”65

Courage and continence Aristotle contrasts the virtuous and the continent at various points. For example Aristotle says, [W] Both the continent man and the temperate man are such as to do nothing contrary to reason for the sake of the bodily pleasures, but the former has and the latter has not bad appetites, and the latter is such as not to feel pleasure contrary to reason, while the former is such as to feel pleasure but not to be led by it. (1151b34–1152a3)

So virtuous and continent people differ in that virtuous people have right desires and are, therefore, pleased and pained by the right things, while continent people have wrong desires and, therefore, wrong pleasures and pains. Virtuous people perform virtuous acts motivated by good desires, while continent people must overcome bad desires in order to perform the same virtuous acts. Is Aristotle right to distinguish between virtue and continence? For some situations, the best that most of us seem able to do is overcome our vicious desires. These days for example, almost everyone seems to be either on a diet (resisting bad gastronomic desires) or worse yet, off a diet. Yet we acknowledge, when pushed, that some people do not need to diet. Similarly, we acknowledge that some people give appropriately to charity without reluctance, some people do not get inappropriately angry, etc. Some people are virtuous, rather than merely continent. However, when it comes to courage, contemporary common sense still conflates virtue and continence. Courage is often described as overcoming one’s fear. In battle, for example, it is thought that fear produces a desire to flee, and a courageous person is one who reliably resists this temptation. So courageous people are continent. Aristotle, too, seems to equate courage and continence. Aristotle says that courageous people feel fear. And people who must struggle against fear in order to perform courageous acts seem merely continent. More formally, (1) The courageous person feels fear and acts rightly in situations involving risk of physical harm. (2) This fear involves a desire to avoid physical harm. (3) The courageous person desires to avoid physical harm and acts rightly. (from 1 & 2) (4) The courageous person overcomes a desire to avoid physical harm in order to act rightly. (from 3) 65

Urmson, “Aristotle’s Doctrine of the Mean,” 170.

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(5) Overcoming a desire to avoid physical harm in order to act rightly is continence. (6) The courageous person is continent. (from 4 & 5) This conclusion seems to conflict with Aristotle’s distinction between courage and continence articulated in passage [W] and elsewhere. I shall rebut some solutions to this problem proposed by other commentators, and then propose my own solution. Brady: Courage is fearlessness Brady’s strategy for avoiding the conclusion that, (6) the courageous person is continent is to deny that courageous people feel fear. She seems at first to deny premise (1) of the courage-is-continence argument, above. And indeed Aristotle often says that courageous people are fearless (e.g. 1115a34).66 However, Aristotle’s statements that courageous people are fearless contradict many other things that Aristotle says about courage and fear. For example, Aristotle’s first statement about courage in NE III.6 is that its sphere consists of “the things we fear, evils.” When Aristotle explicitly addresses the question of whether courageous people feel fear, he says, [X] Now the brave man is as dauntless as man may be. Therefore, while he will fear even the things that are not beyond human strength, he will face them as he ought and as the rule directs, for honor’s sake; for this is the end of virtue. (1115b10–14) He would be a sort of madman or insensible person if he feared nothing, neither earthquakes nor the waves. (1115b26–7)

The claim that courageous people are fearless is also incompatible with Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean. For Aristotle, courage is a mean between feeling too much fear and too little, in each situation. People who feel too little fear are rash. Fearless people go beyond rash: they are brutish or mentally ill. Finally, taking courageous people to be literally fearless is uncharitable not only because it makes Aristotle contradict himself, but also because it attributes a false view to Aristotle. There is nothing admirable about not fearing the fearful, just as there is nothing admirable about not desiring the desirable. Both fearlessness and asceticism are impressive in their way, but not praiseworthy. Indeed, both raise the suspicion of mental illness. People can be fearless in the face of apparently impending evils if they do not believe that anything truly evil is impending. Socrates feels no fear in life-threatening situations because he thinks that death is not an evil. But Aristotle rejects this path to fearlessness. He thinks that virtuous people feel fear when appropriate, and that death is an appropriate object for fear.67 Indeed, it is the most appropriate object (1115a26–7, 66 This is the emotional correlate of McDowell’s “silencing thesis,” the thesis that reasons opposed to right action play no role in the deliberation of a virtuous person. See J. McDowell, “Virtue and Reason,” The Monist 62 (1979): 126, 137. 67 Heil 55–7; Leighton 85; C. Young, “Aristotle on Courage.” In Humanitas: Essays in Honor of Ralph Ross, ed. Q. Howe (Claremont California, Scripps College Press, 1977) 197–8.


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EE 1228b14–15). Moreover, Aristotle says that if courageous people were fearless only in situations that others, but not they, themselves, found frightening, then their courage would not be very impressive (EE 1228b10–14; EE 1229a33–5). Brady does not take Aristotle’s courageous person to deny that death, injury, and physical pain are evils. She acknowledges that courageous people are intellectually aware that situations calling for courage are fearful. Moreover, courageous people experience the pain of anticipation of harm in fearful situations. When she claims that courageous people feel no fear, what she means is that “the courageous feel no desire to avoid death, in the particular circumstances of a noble battle.”68 So Brady actually denies premise (2) rather than premise (1) in the courage-is-continence argument, above. Throughout his account of courage Aristotle alternates between saying that courageous people feel fear and saying that they are fearless. On Brady’s interpretation, “to fear” is to view death, injury, and physical pain as evils in the former passages, but in the latter passages, “to fear” is to desire to escape these evils. One problem with Brady’s interpretation is that rapid waffling between such different meanings of “fear” is implausible. It would be kinder to accuse Aristotle of exaggeration rather than equivocation. Aristotle thinks that courageous people feel less fear than most of us, and his statements that courageous people are fearless are mere hyperbole. A second problem for Brady’s interpretation is that Aristotle rejects the separation of anticipated pain from the desire to avoid that pain. Aristotle is committed to a thoroughgoing integration of pleasure and pain, on the one hand, and desire on the other. Aristotle says, [Y] Whatever has a sense has the capacity for pleasure and pain and therefore has pleasant and painful objects present to it, and wherever these are present, there is desire, for desire is appetition of what is pleasant. (DeAnima 414b4–6; see also DeAnima 413b24; 431a8–10)

Finally, Brady’s interpretation attributes a blatantly false view to Aristotle. How could anyone recognize an impending harm, but feel no desire to avoid it? The desire may be outweighed, overridden, redirected, etc., but not absent. The recognition of impending pain and the desire to avoid it are necessarily connected. Heil: Courage is endurance On the opposite extreme from Brady, Heil maintains that courageous people not only feel some fear, they are in fact terrified. When Aristotle says that courageous people are 68 Brady 193. See also Lear 150–1. Duff ’s solution is similar to Brady’s. Duff interprets Aristotle as thinking that the courageous person’s fear in a risky situation is transformed into a purely intellectual expectation or awareness of the possibility of physical harm. On Duff ’s view the courageous person feels fear for a time, then ceases to feel it (Duff 11–13). Duff ’s solution faces three problems in addition to the problems afflicting Brady’s solution. First, Aristotle explicitly says that the courageous person feels pain (1117b9–13). Second, before the transformation the courageous person is merely in the same psychological state as the continent person, for he or she still has an urge to avoid the danger by performing a cowardly act. Third, after the transformation the agent is literally fearless in a situation where fear should be felt, for the danger has not passed.

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fearless, what he means is that, although they feel fear, they do not act on their fear. Heil’s strategy for dealing with the courage-is-continence argument is to deny premise (5). On Heil’s interpretation, both the virtuous person and the continent person sometimes overcome desires. The difference is that the desires overcome by the virtuous person are appropriate, but those overcome by the continent person are inappropriate. Although courageous people on the battlefield overcome a desire to flee, this conflict between reason and desire does not show that they are merely continent. It is appropriate to desire to flee because death is an appropriate object of fear, although actually fleeing the battle is wrong, of course. By contrast, continent people would remain on the battlefield by overcoming inappropriate desires.69 Heil pays a heavy price for his solution. First, Heil’s claim that virtuous people struggle against their desires conflicts with Aristotle’s oft-repeated claim that the virtuous person’s reason and desire are in harmony (e.g. 1102b21–8; 1151b32–1152a6). Second, Heil’s claim that virtuous people are motivated solely by their reason and their desire to do the right thing clashes with Aristotle’s view that other desires play a motivational role. Third, Heil claims that courage is a form of endurance (karteria). Now Aristotle defines endurance as a disposition to overcome a desire to avoid pain in order to act rightly, just as continence is technically a disposition to overcome a desire for pleasure in order to act rightly. Aristotle sometimes subsumes both under the term “continence,” so Heil is conceding that courage is continence, in its broad sense. Fourth, Aristotle does say that courageous people endure their situations at various points (e.g. 1115b10–13, 1117a16–17). But making courage a form of endurance is problematic because Aristotle explicitly distinguishes virtue from endurance (1145a33–b2). Indeed, Aristotle says that endurance is worse than continence (1150a36–b1). So endurance is worse than virtue, and not equal to virtue as Heil’s interpretation requires. A fifth problem is this. On the standard view, good desires are those that should be acted upon, and bad desires are those that should be overcome. But on Heil’s interpretation, some desires that should be overcome turn out to be good desires. What is good about them? How could a desire to do what the vicious person does, be good? Indeed, a final problem for Heil’s interpretation is that sometimes good and bad desires turn out to be the same. Both courageous people and continent people desire to flee the battle, for example. Leighton: Fear is useful Brady and Heil each emphasize passages that the other downplays. Brady highlights Aristotle’s claims that courageous people are fearless; Heil highlights the claims that courageous people endure fear. Yet both focus on fear’s downside. Brady deprives courageous people of the advantages of fear by denying that they feel fear in its usual sense. Heil deprives them by claiming that they fight their fear rather than using it. By pointing out the benefits of fear, Leighton serves as a nice corrective. 69

Heil 50–2, 65–8.


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Leighton tries to exonerate Aristotle by arguing that fear is advantageous rather than merely something to be extinguished or overcome. Leighton brings out several important points about courage, and Aristotelian virtues, generally. He shows that when fear is properly habituated, it is a good thing. First, fear plays an important role in perception. Leighton takes Aristotle to be claiming that “fear provides significant information about our surroundings, the imminence of painful or destructive evils.” Moreover, “fear functions to warn us regarding [this] information.” Finally, fear “provides the motivation, stimulates the thinking, and engages us in the action we need in order to deal with the circumstances of which it warns.”70 I might quibble with Leighton about a pair of points. First, Aristotle rightly understands fear to be a response to information rather than a provider of information. We do not first feel afraid, and then realize that danger is imminent. Instead, we first realize that danger is imminent, and then feel afraid. As Aristotle says, “fear is felt by those who believe something [bad] to be likely to happen to them. . . ” (Rhet. 1382b33–4). So what makes fear a good thing is not that it informs us of danger and warns us that danger is bad, for fear does neither. Instead, fear foregrounds certain things, bringing them to our attention, meanwhile backgrounding other things that would just distract us. Fear transforms a charming country landscape, uncluttered with unsightly structures or fences, decorated with placid, color-coordinated cows and one tall tree, into a nightmarish, flat, unprotected space with only one possible refuge from a furious, charging bull. Second, well-trained fear does motivate us to act, but not directly and not alone. Fear neither sounds an alarm nor kicks us into action. Instead as Aristotle says, “fear sets us thinking what can be done” (Rhet. 1383a6–7). Fear is useful because it stimulates and directs deliberation. It focuses practical reason wonderfully upon the task of avoiding the impending evil. Conversely, practical reason stimulates and directs fear. In many cases, recognizing something as a threat requires some deliberation. So it is fear plus deliberation that motivates us. The main problem with Leighton’s solution is that it is does not address the problem. Leighton rejects neither the validity nor the premises of the courage-is-continence argument. Demonstrating the usefulness of fear does not distinguish the courageous from the continent. Something might be advantageous in some ways and yet still motivate us to perform cowardly acts. The question is not whether the courageous person’s fear is advantageous, but rather whether it issues in bad desires that need to be overcome. Must the courageous person struggle against fear? Me: Proceed with caution My strategy for allowing Aristotle to distinguish courage and continence is to challenge the validity of the courage-is-continence argument. Aristotle maintains that courageous people feel fear, and therefore desire to avoid death, injury, and physical pain. But this 70

Layton 90–4.

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does not imply that courageous people desire to shirk courageous acts such as standing fast in battle, for shirking is not the only way to avoid these harms. That is, statement (4) does not follow from statement (3). Cowardly people strive to avoid physical harms by shirking courageous acts; continent people overcome the desire to shirk courageous acts; but courageous people strive to avoid physical harms by going forward with courageous acts in ways that reduce the risk. The courageous person does not overcome a desire in order to perform courageous acts, so the courageous person is not continent. In the courageous person, fear’s contribution is not to oppose courageous acts, but rather to transform what might otherwise have been rash acts into careful, courageous acts. (Similarly, the contribution of confidence is to transform what might otherwise have been cowardly acts into careful, courageous acts.) Courageous people feel fear, but their fear does not push them toward cowardly acts like “throw away the shield and flee” in a situation where standing fast is worth the risk. Instead, their fear encourages them to make standing and fighting less risky. Although it does not inform us of danger, fear underlines the dangerousness of things and urges the fearful person to think about reducing that danger. By emphasizing the peril, fear prods people to consider what to do about the peril. For the courageous person, the range of acceptable alternatives is limited to courageous actions. So fear’s role is to help the courageous person to choose the safest of these acts, to perform courageous acts in a safer rather than a riskier manner. Fear says to the courageous person, “Since you are going to stand and fight, put on your armor.” It takes the decision to stand and fight as a given, and tries to reduce the danger within this constraint. In continent people, fear prompts a desire to avoid the virtuous act rather than perform it, while in virtuous people it prompts a desire to perform the virtuous act carefully rather than recklessly. Continent people overcome their desire to run from danger; courageous people act on their desire to minimize danger.71 The claim that fear need not involve a desire to shirk courageous acts may seem implausible, but consider some familiar situations: a novice who is eager yet afraid to ride a horse, or a person apprehensive about walking alone through a dangerous area, or a woman preparing to date a physically powerful man, or a skier atop a challenging slope. The state of mind of these people is not best described as a conflict between a desire to avoid the act and a stronger desire to push on. Instead, the fear shapes the desire to push on so as to make it into a desire to push on carefully. The novice holds on tight; the walker strides alertly; the woman avoids certain situations; the skier plans his path. (Indeed, the fear may add zest to the activity, exhilaration enhancing the desire to push on.) The courageous person’s fear includes a desire to reduce risk by performing the activity carefully. It does not include a desire to reduce risk by avoiding the activity altogether. As I mentioned above, fear and confidence are aspects of many virtues. Both the problem of distinguishing between courage and continence and my solution to this

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As Pears says, “fear makes a correct contribution to the act.” See Pears, “Courage as a Mean,” 181.


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problem generalize to these other virtues. Suppose Regulus is both impoverished and nastily resentful of gifts. His friends recognize that they should provide Regulus with financial help, but they fear his painful ingratitude. This fear is appropriate. If liberal Petunia must overcome it, then it seems that she is no different from merely continent Quistle. The courage-is-continence problem has resurfaced in the sphere of liberality. But Quistle and Petunia are different. The fear of ingratitude tempts Quistle to act in a mean way by giving Regulus no monetary help. Nevertheless, she steels herself to endure Regulus’s ingratitude and forces herself to write him a big check. By contrast, Petunia’s better trained fear prompts her to look for ways of helping Regulus without triggering a display of ingratitude. She is more likely to hit on a way to help Regulus secretly, perhaps by convincing his boss give him a raise.72 The courage-is-continence problem and my solution also generalize to passions other than fear. Just as both continent and courageous people feel fear when they encounter enemy soldiers, so both continent and temperate people feel desire when they encounter cheesecake. How are temperate and continent people to be distinguished? Extrapolating from Brady’s way of distinguishing courage and continence, someone might say that temperate people do not desire the cheesecake at all, or recognize only intellectually that it is tasty. Extrapolating from Heil’s way, someone might say that temperate people overcome an appropriate longing for cheesecake while continent people overcome an inappropriate longing. Extrapolating from Leighton’s view, someone might explain how desire for cheesecake can be a good thing. I would say that the desire occasioned by cheesecake tempts continent people to perform intemperate acts which they then successfully resist. But the better trained desires of temperate people prompt them to perform temperate acts. And these acts are likely to be better temperate acts than the ones performed by continent people. While continent people struggle successfully to avoid a cheesecake binge, perhaps by averting their eyes from the dessert tray altogether, temperate people eat one tiny, temperate piece and quit. While criticizing Young’s solution which is quite similar to mine, Jiang objects that if cowardly action is the only way to avoid harm, then the desire to avoid harm just is the desire to perform a cowardly act.73 So for example, a courageous person on a suicide mission is in the same straits as a continent person. Both fear death, and desire to stay alive. So both must struggle to overcome the desire to shirk the mission. I reply that in such cases fear need not degenerate into a desire to flee. Its role is to keep the agent alive and functional long enough to accomplish the mission. Even the Spartans at Thermopile wore armor. Jiang’s challenge does not take into account the difference between the passions of continent people and virtuous people. Virtuous passions have been groomed by habituation and teaching to motivate virtuous action, but the passions of continent people have not. Temperate Tippie has acquired a taste 72

Both acts are liberal, but Petunia’s act is more effective. X. Jiang, “Courage and the Aristotelian Unity of Action and Passion,” Philosophical Inquiry 22 (2000): 25–6; Young 194–9. 73

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for cheesecake in proper quantity: she desires one piece, but not two after a fancy dinner. A second piece generally would make her feel too full or too fat, so she does not want a second piece. Similarly, courageous Sargon’s fear is sophisticated. His fear does not produce a brute desire to avoid danger in any way, including shirking battles worth fighting, but rather his fear includes a desire to take appropriate precautions. And there are always appropriate precautions to take.

Conclusion: Aristotle’s architectonic Aristotle’s account of courage exhibits most of the general principles of his architectonic. First, Aristotle applies to courage what I have called the doctrine of disjoint spheres. (1) Each virtue governs its own sphere which is completely separate from the spheres of all other virtues. In particular, no act is both virtuous and vicious, although some behaviors are both virtuous and vicious. Aristotle then goes on to narrow the sphere of courage by insisting correctly that courage governs only situations in which both fear and confidence are appropriate. Aristotle also does not make the mistake of further restricting courage to life-threatening situations, but rather includes injuries and physical pain along with death in the sphere of courage. (2) Several, but not all possible lists of virtues are acceptable. In particular, virtue lists must insure that virtuous acts occur only in situations which are neither riskless nor futile. Like his accounts of other virtues, Aristotle’s account of courage exhibits his parameter doctrine. (3) Each virtue is a disposition for getting all of the relevant parameters right. Aristotle considers courage to be a function of the objects, occasions, and amount of fear and confidence, as well as right choice and action. Aristotle rightly does not include a people parameter of courage, and wrongly neglects to include a duration parameter. (4) People can be excessive with respect to some parameters while being medial or even deficient with respect to others. For example, some people are cowardly because they fear too many objects; others because they fear the right objects too much; yet others because they fear the right objects on too many occasions. Some people are rash cowards. (5) The fact that people can go wrong in some ways while getting many other aspects of virtue right produces some character traits that are mistaken for virtue because they resemble virtue in many, but not all respects. Professional soldiers seem courageous for they get all of the parameters right except for the amount parameter, for example. Aristotle’s account of courage conforms to his doctrine of the mean. (6) For each virtue there are two general clusters of failure modes, so each virtue is opposed to two vices. Courage is opposed not just to cowardice, but also to rashness. (7) A disposition for going to excess with respect to any parameter(s) is one vice; a disposition for being deficient with respect to any parameter(s) is the opposite vice; and a disposition for getting all of the parameters in a mean is virtue. The doctrine of the mean is not vacuous; it is a useful tool for categorizing and improving characters, as well as a starting


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point and structure for decision-making. Some people seem to fear wrongly without fearing excessively or deficiently, but they are not actually counterexamples to Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean because they are rash cowards. Virtue and vice are not the only members of Aristotle’s taxonomy of character traits. (8) A disposition for getting choice and action right despite going wrong with respect to one or more of the passion parameters is continence. (9) A disposition for getting choice right but action wrong because choice is overridden by passion is incontinence. (10) A disposition for going very wrong with respect to any parameter(s) is brutishness. Phobias are examples of brutish cowardice. As long as we recognize that fear can push people to guard their safety either by performing cowardly acts or by being careful about performing courageous acts, we will see that Aristotle does not conflate courage and continence. In the continent, fear must be overcome; in the virtuous, it contributes. Similarly for other virtues and other passions. Aristotle does not contradict himself by maintaining that courageous acts both are, and are not overall pleasant for courageous people. He distinguishes different sources of pain and pleasure in what I call his motivation doctrine. (11) Virtuous acts are always performed partially because they are virtuous, and partially to achieve a characteristic good, or avoid a characteristic harm, or both. (12) Virtuous people always enjoy performing virtuous acts for their own sake. They enjoy the characteristic good if they gain it, and they suffer if they fail to avoid the harm. In particular, courageous people are pleased by the realization that they are performing courageous acts and by accomplishing appropriate goals. Naturally, they are pained by death, injuries, and physical pain. (13) When they fail to make characteristic gains and fail to avoid characteristic losses, virtuous acts may be overall painful, even for the virtuous. (14) On the other hand, Aristotle thinks that successful virtuous acts are always overall pleasant, even if the characteristic harm is not avoided. I have mentioned a couple of components of Aristotle’s architectonic that do not appear in his account of courage. (15) One of these is the virtue-is-the-measure doctrine which is that virtuous people are the standard for what should be done and felt, what is intrinsically valuable, pleasurable, and useful, etc. (16) Another is the thesis that to each virtue there corresponds a right rule which is a very general, yet not totally useless action-guiding principle. The right rule of courage is something like this. “Take risks of physical harm when they are worth taking.” I have argued that Aristotle rebuts the charges mentioned at the beginning of the chapter. (a) Aristotle does not limit courage to life-threatening situations on the battlefield, but rather the sphere of courage includes all sorts of physical harm. (b) He avoids the temptation to divide courage into a fear virtue and a confidence virtue. (c) Aristotle does not naively affirm that courageous acts are always overall pleasant for courageous people, or even that they are less painful than cowardly or rash acts. Instead, Aristotle holds the more sensible (though still not quite realistic) view that successful courageous acts are always overall pleasant for courageous people. (d) He enunciates a plausible, quantitative doctrine of the mean, and applies it to courage. (e) Aristotle

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appropriately distinguishes courage from continence. Fear does not incline courageous people to shirk courageous acts, but rather it pushes them to guard their safety by being careful about performing courageous acts. It makes a useful contribution. But fear in continent people pushes them toward performing cowardly acts. Thus, it is an obstacle that must be overcome. Overall, Aristotle’s account of courage in NE III.6–9 is a sophisticated and plausible account that illustrates many of the components of Aristotle’s architectonic of the virtues. It does not go wrong in the five ways that critics have suggested. It may even be true.

3 Temperance and Incontinence (NE III.10–12)

Introduction Many contemporary social problems arise from inappropriate indulgence in food, drink, and/or sex. Temperance (sophrosyne) is the Aristotelian virtue which governs these three things, and Aristotle’s account of temperance (and related failure modes) contains important insights and useful distinctions. Yet Aristotle’s account of temperance has been surprisingly neglected, despite the resurgence of virtue ethics. I shall remedy this neglect by providing a passage-by-passage commentary on Aristotle’s account of temperance in Nicomachean Ethics III.10–12. I shall describe the sphere of temperance and Aristotle’s distinctions among the character traits of temperance, selfindulgence, insensibility, continence, incontinence, and brutishness. I shall also describe the passions and parameters of temperance, and argue that Aristotle’s account of temperance is compatible with his doctrine of the mean. My interpretation includes several controversial claims. For example, I maintain that Aristotelian temperance governs not only the enjoyment of certain tactile pleasures, but also the desire (and therefore the pain caused by unsatisfied desire) for these pleasures. Aristotle’s account clashes with common sense and with Aristotle’s own architectonic at several points. For example, Aristotle maintains that a person is intemperate only if he or she goes wrong with respect to all three of the temperance parameters. However, a few modifications will eliminate the tensions in Aristotle’s account. Once modified, his account can enhance our understanding of how people relate and should relate to food, drink, sex, and other sensual pleasures. For example, I argue that Aristotle’s account includes important distinctions which are absent from our contemporary understanding of alcohol abuse.

Narrowing the sphere of temperance Aristotle’s account of a virtue often begins with a lengthy, detailed description of the sphere (peri ho) of the virtue. He describes the aspects of life governed by the virtue,

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what the virtue is about. Aristotle typically starts with a broad range of objects of passion and then gradually narrows the sphere of the virtue. His account of the virtue of temperance follows this pattern. Aristotle devotes the first half of his account to a description of the sphere of temperance. He begins by observing that “temperance is a mean with regard to pleasures . . . ” (1117b24–5), and then narrows the sphere of temperance in four stages: First, Aristotle restricts the sphere of temperance to bodily pleasures. He says, [A] Men who are concerned with [the pleasures of honor or learning] are called neither temperate nor self-indulgent. Nor, again, are those who are concerned with other pleasures that are not bodily; for those who are fond of hearing and telling stories and who spend their days on anything that turns up are called gossips, but not self-indulgent, nor are those who are pained at the loss of money or of friends. (1117b31–1118a1)

Why are these people not called temperate or self-indulgent? Why are the non-bodily pleasures excluded from the sphere of temperance? Notice that the pleasures of honor, learning, money, and friends are governed respectively by the virtues of megalopsychia and appropriate ambition, wisdom, liberality, and the quasi-virtue of friendship.1 I suggest that Aristotle restricts the sphere of temperance to bodily pleasures in order to prevent overlap with other virtues. He wants his virtues to have disjoint spheres. Aristotle never explicitly propounds the doctrine that all virtues have disjoint spheres, but attributing this doctrine to him explains passage [A]. It also explains the way in which Aristotle narrows the spheres of courage (1115a10–24), liberality (1122a3–7), truthfulness (1127a33–b1), and justice (1130a16–32).2 Aristotle’s next move is to limit temperance to the pleasures of touch and taste. He says, [B] Those who delight in objects of vision, such as colors and shapes and painting are called neither temperate nor self-indulgent; yet it would seem possible to delight even in these either as one should or to excess or to a deficient degree. And so too it is with objects of hearing. . . . Nor do we apply these names to those who delight in odor, unless it be incidentally. (1118a2–10)

In this passage Aristotle is saying that the pleasures of sight, hearing, and smell are not considered part of the sphere of temperance in spite of the fact that excess, deficiency, and mean are possible with respect to these pleasures. Aristotle argues for limiting the sphere of temperance to the pleasures of touch and taste in the following passage: [C] Nor is there in animals other than man any pleasure connected with these senses except incidentally. For dogs do not delight in the scent of hares, but in the eating of them, but the scent

1

Gossip is not governed by any virtue in Aristotle’s list. See ch.11. Unfortunately, Aristotle does say that the temperate person will not desire objects of temperance “beyond his means” (1119a18). Does this mean that people who desire such things exhibit both intemperance and illiberality? One way to prevent the spheres of intemperance and illiberality from overlapping is by attributing to Aristotle the plausible view that buying objects of temperance beyond one’s means is illiberal, but desiring or enjoying such objects is intemperate. 2

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told them the hares were there. . . . Temperance and self-indulgence, however, are concerned with the kind of pleasures that the other animals share in, which therefore appear slavish and brutish; these are touch and taste. (1118a16–26)

Aristotle’s argument in passage [C] has the following structure. (a) Animals do not delight in the objects of sight, hearing, and smell. (b) Temperance is concerned only with pleasures we share with animals. So (c) temperance is not concerned with the objects of sight, hearing, and smell. Since (d) bodily pleasures arise from the senses, and (e) the only other senses are touch and taste, it follows that (f) temperance is concerned with the pleasures of touch or taste or both. Aristotle plausibly assumes premises (d) and (e). He argues for premise (a) by showing how cases which seem to be animals taking pleasure in the senses of sight, hearing, or smell can be explained away. But I shall argue that premise (b) is false. Aristotle should not restrict the sphere of temperance merely to pleasures shared with other animals. First, Aristotle is mistaken to exclude the pleasures of sight, hearing, and smell from the sphere of temperance. Many items acknowledged by Aristotle to be objects of temperance involve complicated combinations of senses. Perhaps “dogs do not delight in the scent of hares, but in the eating of them,” but for people the pleasure of food cannot be separated from its smell or appearance or even the atmosphere of the restaurant. Similarly, the pleasure of sex cannot be separated from the appearance of the participants, the murmured terms of endearment, or even the preceding romantic concert and moonlight stroll.3 Thus, the objects of temperance are pleasing partially because of how they look, sound, and smell. The pleasures of touch are intertwined with these other pleasures, and Aristotle’s attempt to separate them ignores the complexity of the objects of temperance. Second, people are plausibly called temperate or intemperate with respect to the pleasures of gambling, video games, recreational drugs, etc. although we do not share these pleasures with animals. The way people go wrong about such things (obsessive behavior, denial, rationalization, etc.) is so similar to the way people go wrong about food, drink, and sex that both classes of objects must be governed by a single virtue.4 Aristotle also uses the argument of passage [C] to exclude the objects of taste. He says, “even of taste [animals] appear to make little or no use” (1118a26–7). This thesis, together with the premise that temperance is concerned with the pleasures we share with animals, enables Aristotle to conclude that temperance does not govern taste. At first glance, the claim that animals make little or no use of taste seems implausible. But Aristotle is not vulnerable to this objection because he is using “taste” in a technical sense to mean “the discriminating of flavors” (1118a27–32). It is quite plausible that animals take no pleasure in distinguishing one flavor from another.

3

Pornography arguably involves sexual pleasure without involving touch at all. Aristotle may have restricted temperance to animal pleasures because of the way in which the term “sophrosyne” was used in his day, or because of the fact that self-indulgence often involves overvaluing sensual pleasures as animals do. See M. Homiak, “Virtue and Self-Love in Aristotle’s Ethics,” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 11 (1981): 645–6. 4

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What about taste in its non-technical sense? It would be uncharitable to accuse Aristotle of ignoring the sense of taste. Moreover, Aristotle includes taste (presumably in the non-technical sense) in the sphere of incontinence proper (1148a3–11, 1147a24–b5), which is the same as the sphere of temperance (1148a11–17; see also De Anima 422a8). Thus, both charity and consistency require us to assume that in passage [C] Aristotle subsumes taste in the non-technical sense under touch. Aristotle seems to narrow the sphere of temperance even further at the end of III.10. He says, [D] Even of the pleasures of touch the most liberal have been eliminated, e.g. those produced in the gymnasium by rubbing and the consequent heat; for the contact characteristic of the selfindulgent man does not affect the whole body but only certain parts. (1118b4–8)

Which tactile pleasures remain after “the most liberal have been eliminated”? Which parts of the body does Aristotle have in mind? Passage [E] below indicates that the pleasures Aristotle has in mind here, the pleasures that remain to be governed by temperance after the “liberal” pleasures are eliminated, are simply the pleasures of food, drink, and sex. I suggest, however, that we should not attribute to Aristotle the view that temperance involves only these three pleasures. Aristotle approaches each virtue not only from the perspective of his architectonic, but also with paradigm cases of virtuous and vicious action in mind. Sometimes he talks as if the virtue is displayed only in its paradigm cases. For example, Aristotle seems to limit the sphere of courage to death in battle (1115a28–30). But at other times Aristotle recognizes that virtues can be displayed in non-paradigm cases. Thus, he later acknowledges that the sphere of courage involves pain and wounds as well as death (1117a32–3; 1117b7–9). Similarly, I suggest that Aristotle’s point in passage [D] is that paradigm cases of self-indulgence involve food, drink, and sex, rather than, say, back rubs. First of all, limiting the sphere of temperance to paradigm cases would be a serious error. Just as people can display courage and cowardice with respect to wounds, so temperance and self-indulgence can be displayed with respect to back rubs. Second, in VII.4 he says that incontinence, like temperance and self-indulgence, is concerned with the pleasures of “hunger and thirst and heat and cold and all the objects of touch and taste” (1148a8). He explicitly includes heat which causes the pleasure of back rubs in passage [D]. Thus, charity and consistency prohibit us from attributing to Aristotle the view that all cases of selfindulgence involve the pleasures of food, drink, and sex. To summarize, III.10 consists solely of Aristotle’s progressive specification of the sphere of temperance. He moves from the preliminary claim that the objects of temperance are bodily pleasures, to the claim that temperance only ranges over tactile pleasures. Aristotle ends with the observation that the pleasures of food, drink, and sex are the paradigm objects of temperance. Aristotle devotes substantial effort to the specification of the sphere because the sphere does important philosophical work. As Martha Nussbaum writes, “What he does, in each case, is to isolate a sphere of human experience that figures in more or less any human life, and in which more or less any


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human being will have to make some choices rather than others, and act in some way rather than some other. . . . The `thin account’ of each virtue is that it is whatever it is to be stably disposed to act appropriately in that sphere.”5 Thus, correctly delineating the spheres of the virtues is the first step to defining the virtues. In III.11 Aristotle goes on to develop the thick account of temperance after first separating temperance and intemperance from brutishness.

Brutishness As we will see below, some people are intemperate because they immoderately desire the same objects temperate people moderately desire, while others are intemperate because they desire different objects than those desired by temperate people (1118b25–7). In VII.5 Aristotle makes a parallel observation about brutishness (a pathological condition, a mental illness).6 People with very extreme desires for the objects which temperate and intemperate people desire are brutish (the¯riote¯s) rather than intemperate. They are “beyond the limits of vice” (1148b34–1149a1). People who desire different objects than those desired by temperate and intemperate people are also brutish. Aristotle illustrates this second sort of brutishness with the desire to eat fetuses, raw meat, human flesh, children, mothers, coal, or earth, and the desire to have sex with children (1148b19–30). Temperance, intemperance, and brutishness differ sometimes in degree, and sometimes in kind. Thus, the objects desired by the temperate are a proper subset of the objects desired by the intemperate which are, in turn, a proper subset of the objects desired by the brutes. When Aristotle describes the highest good as a target (1094a23–4; 1138b21–3) he may be suggesting not only that we should aim at the highest good, but also that the highest good is contained within increasingly larger sets within the sphere of temperance. I shall argue that at the beginning of III.11 Aristotle is presenting another illustration of brutish desires for objects which both temperate and intemperate people find repugnant: [E] Of the appetites some seem to be common, others to be peculiar to individuals and acquired; e.g. the appetite for food is natural, since every one who is without it craves for food or drink, and sometimes for both, and for love also (as Homer says) if he is young and lusty; but not every one craves for this or that kind of nourishment or love. . . . Now in the natural appetites few go wrong, and only in one direction, that of excess; for to eat or drink whatever offers itself till one is surfeited is to exceed the natural amount, since natural appetite is the replenishment of one’s

M. Nussbaum, “Non-Relative Virtues,” Midwest Studies in Philosophy 13 (1988): 35. To each virtue there corresponds a different sort of brutishness as well as a different sort of incontinence. For example, “The man who is by nature apt to fear everything, even the squeak of a mouse, is cowardly with a brutish cowardice” (1149a7–8). In this chapter I shall use the word “brutishness” to stand for the brutishness corresponding to temperance, just as Aristotle uses the term “incontinence” to stand for the incontinence corresponding to temperance. 5 6

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deficiency. Hence, these people are called belly-gods, this implying that they fill their belly beyond what is right. It is people of entirely slavish character that become like this. (1118b8–21)

Here Aristotle distinguishes between tactile desires which are natural and common to all people (and animals), on the one hand, and desires which are acquired and vary from person to person on the other. The natural, common desires are simply hunger, thirst, and lust—desires we all have for the pleasures of food, drink, and sex, in general. The acquired, particular desires are the various individual preferences for different types of food, drink, and sex. Aristotle does not specify what the particular types of food are. They may include chicken and chocolate, or barbecued chicken and chocolate candy, or two-day-old-chicken and someoneelse’s-chocolate. Similarly, for food and sex. Aristotle calls people who go wrong with respect to the common, natural pleasures belly-gods (gastrimargoi, “mad bellies”). The fact that the belly-gods “fill their belly beyond what is right” implies that they are not temperate. Aristotle does not say how far beyond what is right the belly-gods go. We cannot infer that they are brutish because they go “beyond the limits of vice.” But the fact that the belly-gods “eat or drink whatever offers itself ” suggests that they are brutish rather than merely selfindulgent. These people indiscriminately desire food, drink, or sex. They do not care whether they eat chocolate mousse or moldy cheese. They do not care whether they drink Cabernet Sauvignon or grain alcohol. They do not care whether they have sex with their spouse or with a sheep. This indifference, this willingness to satisfy one’s hunger, thirst, or lust with objects that revolt both temperate and intemperate people, is brutish. The belly-gods who desire the natural, common pleasures of food, drink, or sex are brutish, not because they have extreme desires, but because they desire every sort of food, drink, or sex. Thus, Aristotle restricts intemperance to the particular, acquired desires. Aristotle’s claim that the indiscriminate, natural, common desires for food, drink, or sex are pathological conditions rather than moral failings seems clearly to accord with contemporary common sense. We too think that blame and punishment are inappropriate responses to such desires. Instead, we endorse pity and therapy. On the other hand, Aristotle is mistaken to say that “in the natural appetites few go wrong, and only in one direction, that of excess.” At least in our society, a fair number go to excess with respect to indiscriminate desire for food (compulsive eating), drink (psychotic fluid drinking), and sex (satyrism and nymphomania). Moreover, some are deficient with respect to food (anorexia), drink (impaired thirst mechanism), and sex (libido deficiency).7

7 Note that drink (hugros) refers not just to alcohol, but to fluids in general. So alcoholics are not indiscriminately excessive with respect to drink, although they are excessive with respect to alcohol. Similarly, teetotalers who drink enough water to avoid thirst are not deficient with respect to drink. Indeed, teetotalers who desire and enjoy enough other sorts of fluids may not even be insensible.


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Parameters and passions One central component of Aristotle’s architectonic is that each virtue is a disposition to get several parameters right. In his general remarks about virtue Aristotle mentions right occasions, objects, people, goals, and manner (1106b21–3). With respect to temperance, Aristotle says, [F] The temperate man craves for the things he ought, as he ought, and when he ought.” (1119b16–17)

That is, the parameters of temperance are objects, occasions, and amounts. Temperate people desire the right objects on the right occasions to the right degree, while the intemperate go wrong with respect to these parameters. Are any of the parameters redundant? The amount parameter is clearly independent of the other two.8 Both the occasion parameter and the object parameter are necessary because it is possible (even common) to go wrong with respect to either one without the other. People who desire wine which is beyond their means at a banquet have the wrong object on a right occasion; people who desire healthy, affordable wine while driving have the right object on a wrong occasion. Thus, no parameter is redundant. The fact that temperance governs desire is important because unsatisfied desire is painful.9 Longing for a hot fudge sundae, a cup of coffee, or a certain person is definitely unpleasant. Moreover, each person feels the pain of unsatisfied desire with respect to exactly the objects desired, on exactly the occasions the objects are desired (and unavailable), and exactly to the degree of desire for the objects. For each person the aspects of desire match the aspects of the pain of unsatisfied desire. Naturally, temperate people feel these pains at the right times to the right degree about the right objects. Going wrong with respect to these pains is intemperance. Absence of a hot fudge sundae after a movie may produce the pain of unsatisfied desire in the temperate and no pain in the insensible. Absence of a second hot fudge sundae may produce the pain of unsatisfied desire in the self-indulgent and no pain in the temperate. And so on. Thus, temperance governs the pain of unsatisfied desire because temperance governs desire. Aristotle confirms that temperance governs this pain in the following passage: 8 The amount parameter measures the amount of desire felt by the agent, not the number of particular food or drink or sex objects the agent desires. The person who goes to excess with respect to the amount parameter desires some object too much. The person who desires too many objects goes to excess with respect to the object parameter. 9 Young says that, “II.7 [1107b4–6] includes pains within the sphere of temperance, while III.10 [1117b24–6] takes them out . . . [T]he statement of II.7 is an error, and III.10 does well to correct it.” See C. Young, “Aristotle on Temperance,” The Philosophical Review 47 (1989): 523n9. See also D. Konkoly, “Is Temperance Ever Properly Painful?” Paideia (www.bu.edu/wcp/Papers/Anci/AnciKonk.htm). Aquinas, on the other hand, believes that Aristotle includes pains within the sphere of temperance. See Aquinas 196. Young’s claim that “III.10 takes them out” is not supported by 1117b24–6, for the passage says that temperance is less concerned with pains than with pleasures. It does not say that temperance is not concerned with pains. I shall argue that III.10 does not take pains out of the sphere of temperance and that Aristotle does well to leave them in.

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[G] [a] the self-indulgent man is so called because he is pained more than he ought at not getting pleasant things (even his pain being caused by pleasure), and [b] the temperate man is so called because he is not pained at the absence of what is pleasant and at his abstinence from it. [c] The self-indulgent man, then, craves for all pleasant things or those that are most pleasant. . . hence he is pained both when he fails to get them and when he is craving for them (for appetite involves pain). . . [d] The temperate man. . . neither enjoys the things that the self-indulgent man enjoys most – but rather dislikes them. . . [e] nor does he feel pain or craving when they are absent, [f] or does so only to a moderate degree. (1118b30–1119a14)

I take this passage to show that Aristotle includes the pain of unsatisfied desire in the sphere of temperance. Although [b] and [e] say that the temperate person feels no pain at the absence of certain pleasures, [a] suggests, more plausibly, that there is a right amount of pain to feel in such cases. Aristotle does not criticize self-indulgent people for feeling pain at the absence of certain pleasures, but rather for feeling more pain than they ought to feel. Similarly, [f] implies that there is a right amount of pain to feel in the absence of appropriate objects of temperance. Thus, according to Aristotle, temperate people not only experience the right amount of enjoyment over the right objects on appropriate occasions, but they also feel the right amount of pain when these objects are absent because they feel the right amount of desire for these objects. It is easy to become confused about the role of enjoyment and pain in Aristotle’s account of temperance because in NE II.3 Aristotle makes a statement which is superficially similar to passage [G], but which actually uses completely different sorts of enjoyment and pain to distinguish temperate and self-indulgent people. He says, [H] We must take as a sign of states the pleasure or pain that supervenes on acts; for the man who abstains from bodily pleasures and delights in this very fact is temperate, while the man who is annoyed at it is self-indulgent. (1104b3–8)

Passages [G] and [H] concern different sorts of enjoyment and pain. In passage [G] there are no acts mentioned, but in passage [H] Aristotle is speaking of a type of “pleasure or pain that supervenes on acts.” The temperate person of passage [G] does not delight in anything he or she does, but is instead merely “not pained” or “moderately pained” at the lack of something. The temperate person of passage [H], on the other hand, delights in performing temperate acts of abstaining from (presumably intemperate) bodily pleasures. Naturally, this person’s delight is not the tactile enjoyment peculiar to temperance, since this person touches nothing, but is instead delighted at the realization that he or she is performing a virtuous act (noble pleasure). This supervenient delight is common to all virtuous people performing virtuous acts. The courageous person performing a courageous act feels a similar sort of delight, as does the liberal person performing a liberal act, and so on. Since vicious people think that they are virtuous (1108b23–6), they gain similar, supervenient delight from performing vicious acts. Self-indulgent people, for example, are delighted when they perform self-indulgent acts because they think they are acting rightly. Now virtuous people are correspondingly pained when they perform vicious acts. Aristotle says, for


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example, that if the liberal person “happens to spend in a manner contrary to what is right and noble, he will be pained, but moderately and as he ought” (1121a1–4). Presumably, vicious people are superveniently pained when they perform virtuous acts because they think that they are virtuous people performing vicious acts. For example, self-indulgent people feel exactly this sort of annoyance when they perform temperate acts such as abstaining from an intemperate bodily pleasure, because they think that they are acting wrongly. I think Aristotle is making this point in passage [H]. In general, passage [H] concerns the supervenient delight or annoyance common to all of the virtues, resulting from the belief that one has acted rightly or wrongly. Passage [G], on the other hand, concerns the pain peculiar to temperance resulting from unfulfilled desire for particular food, drink, and sex objects.10 Aristotle is right to maintain that the pain of unsatisfied desire is experienced not only by brutish and intemperate people, but also by temperate people. When the waiter fails to deliver coffee, it is inappropriate to throw a tantrum, but quite appropriate to feel a twinge of sorrow. Indeed, a person who failed to feel that twinge would be a bit on the insensible side. Similarly, temperate people feel sorrow when they cannot satisfy their temperate sexual desires. And so on. Since there are appropriate and inappropriate ways of dealing with the pain of unsatisfied desire for the objects of temperance, Aristotle is right to include the pain of unsatisfied desire in the sphere of temperance. Indeed, Aristotle does not go far enough. The presence as well as the absence of food, drink, and sex can produce pain. The food might be spoiled or badly prepared, for example. The drink may be poisoned or bitter. The sex may be disgusting or unwelcome. Unfortunately, Aristotle says, [I] With regard to pains one is not, as in the case of courage, called temperate for facing them or self-indulgent for not doing so, but the self-indulgent man is so called because he is pained more than he ought at not getting pleasant things. (1118b28–31)

So, on Aristotle’s account, temperance is concerned with the pains produced by the absence of food, drink, and sex objects, but not with the pains produced by their presence. However, since there are appropriate and inappropriate ways of coping with the pains occasionally produced by food, drink, and sex, these pains should fall into the sphere of temperance. Aristotle should say, for example, that a hot fudge sundae is enjoyable for the temperate and unenjoyable or even nauseating for the insensible. A second hot fudge sundae is enjoyable for the self-indulgent, but unenjoyable or even nauseating for the temperate. In general, right objects produce enjoyment in the

10 The temperate person does not experience one sort of enjoyment plus the other sort of pain. The continent person, however, experiences the pain of unsatisfied desire together with supervenient enjoyment upon refusing a second hot fudge sundae. Similarly, the incontinent person experiences tactile enjoyment together with supervenient pain upon eating a second hot fudge sundae.

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temperate and pains for the intemperate, while wrong objects produce pains in the temperate and enjoyment in the intemperate. Aristotle is sometimes accused of failing to provide a principle specifying the right way to act and feel, a right rule (orthos logos) for the virtues. Aristotle’s account of the virtues is said to be empty because his account does not specify the right objects, right amounts, and right occasions. Aristotle’s account might also be criticized for being too restrictive, for he says that the desires for particular food, drink, and sex objects, “should be moderate and few” (1119b11). The following passage rebuts both criticisms: [ J ] The things that, being pleasant, make for health or good condition, the temperate person will desire moderately and as he should, and also other pleasant things if they are not hindrances to these ends, or contrary to what is noble, or beyond his means. (1119a16–20)

Here Aristotle gives temperance a positive and wide content. Aristotle does not say merely that temperate people desire the right objects; he goes on to specify what the right objects are. And they turn out to be numerous. Temperate people desire, not only all particular, acquired, tactile pleasures conducive to health and/or good condition, but also all other such pleasures except those which are unhealthy, deconditioning, unaffordable, or ignoble. In the following passage Aristotle confirms that the parameters of temperance are objects, amounts, and occasions, and indicates that temperance governs enjoyment as well as desire of food, drink, and sex. To be temperate one must not only be medial with respect to the objects, amounts, and occasions of desire, one must also enjoy the right objects in the right amounts on the right occasions. So temperance is not simply a matter of hitting one target. Rather one must hit both a desire target and an enjoyment target: [K] [The self-indulgent] delight in some things that they ought not to delight in (since they are hateful), and if one ought to delight in some of the things they delight in, they do so more than one ought and than most men do. (1118b25–7)

People can fail to be temperate by going wrong with respect to enjoyment or desire or both. Enjoyment and desire are independent. For example, one can enjoy too many foods, but desire too few. One can enjoy alcohol too seldom, but desire it too often. One can enjoy sex too little, but desire it too much. (Indeed, one can desire sex too much because one enjoys it too little.) Thus, although the objects of enjoyment and desire are the same, it is not redundant to describe temperance in terms of both enjoyment and desire. Aristotle must include both in his account of temperance. Clearly, desire for particular food, drink, or sex objects can be excessive. Desiring these things too much can squeeze other important items out of one’s life and can drive people to act quite wrongly. Excessive enjoyment seems to be an odd notion, however. People who feel too much fear or anger are, indeed, lacking in virtue, but what is wrong with enormously enjoying appropriate food, drink, or sex objects? If someone accused you of enjoying dinner or sex too much, and urged you to try to get less enjoyment out of your meals or your sexual activity, wouldn’t you find that to be strange? And yet


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I think Aristotle is right to maintain that enjoyment can be excessive. Sensual pleasure is excessive if it tends to lead to excessive desire and/or action. Moreover, people can become too absorbed in the enjoyment of sensual pleasure. The pleasure can distract people from what they should do. As Aristotle say, temperance preserves practical wisdom while “pleasant and painful objects destroy and pervert. . . beliefs about what is to be done” (1140b11–16). Finally, to enjoy any wrong object at all is to enjoy it too much. Thus, Aristotle is right to maintain that enjoyment can be excessive. Aristotle, however, errs when he specifies what counts as an excessive amount of enjoyment. According to Aristotle’s architectonic, the good person sets the standard for right action and feeling (1113a31–3). If Aristotle is going to maintain that enjoyment can be excessive, he should say that an amount of enjoyment is excessive if it is greater than the amount felt by the good person. Passage [ J ] says that the good person does not desire unhealthy, deconditioning, unaffordable, or ignoble objects. Presumably, good people do not enjoy such objects, either. Thus, an amount of enjoyment is excessive if it is an unhealthy, deconditioning, unaffordable, or ignoble amount of enjoyment. Unfortunately, Aristotle does not define excessive enjoyment in this way. Instead, he defines excess with respect to the amount parameter as feeling enjoyment “more than most people do” (1118b21; see also 1150a9–15). Using the majority as a standard clashes with Aristotle’s architectonic, with his treatment of the other virtues, with his general low opinion of the many, and with passage [ J ].11 It is a mistake. Technically, excessive enjoyment of particular, acquired, tactile pleasures is called self-indulgence (akolasia), while excessive desire for such pleasures (and, therefore, excessive pain at their absence) is softness (malakia) (1150a9–15).12 Deficient enjoyment of particular, acquired, tactile pleasures is called insensibility (anaisthesia). Aristotle does not attach a label to the trait of deficient desire for such pleasures (and, therefore, deficient pain at their absence). I shall call it “hardness.” Speaking more generally, Aristotle combines self-indulgence and softness and combines insensibility and hardness so that he can maintain that there are only two vices corresponding to temperance.13 The people with the simplest error modes are excessive with respect to all parameters of both the desire target and the enjoyment target. However, people can also go to excess with respect to the parameters on one target while being medial or even deficient with respect to the parameters on the other. For example, Aristotle mentions rash cowards, people who are both overconfident and fearful (1115b31–2), and mean prodigals, people who both give and take excessively (1121a30–2). Presumably Aristotle would acknowledge the existence of people who are insensible, but soft, and people who are self-indulgent, but hard. That is, Aristotle would allow for people For a detailed description of Aristotle’s view of the many, see J. Garrett, “The Moral Status of the Many,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 31 (1993). 12 Aristotle also uses the term “soft” to refer to people who are incontinent because they are mastered by pain at the absence of the objects of temperance. I shall call this character trait softness/incontinence. 13 Aristotle does this with other virtues, too. For example, Aristotle combines rashness and excessive fearlessness, and combines cowardice and deficient confidence (1115b24–1116a7). 11

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who excessively desire, but insufficiently enjoy (or excessively enjoy, but insufficiently desire) the objects of temperance. Moreover, Aristotle’s architectonic allows a person who goes to excess with respect to one or several of the parameters of a single target to be medial or even deficient with respect to the other parameters of that target. For example, in his account of good temper Aristotle says, [L] The excess can be manifested in all the points. . . yet all are not found in the same person. . . . Now hot-tempered people get angry quickly and with the wrong persons and at the wrong things and more than is right, but their anger ceases quickly. . . . Choleric people are quick-tempered and ready to be angry with everything on every occasion. . . . Sulky people are hard to appease, and retain their anger long. . . . We call bad-tempered those who are angry at the wrong things, more than is right, and longer, and cannot be appeased until they inflict vengeance or punishment. (1126a8–28)

Presumably, it is likewise possible to go wrong with respect to any one parameter of temperance without going wrong with respect to others. Aristotle is famous for focusing on the good person, for describing the ideal, but Aristotle creates a taxonomy of failure modes as well. And the number of failure modes is striking. Aristotle says, “men are good in but one way, but bad in many” (1106b35), but this remark does not adequately prepare the reader for the sheer number of possible character flaws specifiable in terms of Aristotle’s architectonic of parameters and targets. Since each of the three parameters on the two targets can vary independently, and since people can be medial, excessive, deficient, brutishly excessive, or brutishly deficient with respect to each parameter, Aristotle’s account so far allows for 56 – 1 = 15,624 ways of going wrong with respect to temperance. (And I shall introduce two more targets below.) Many of these error modes are rare and odd, such as minimally enjoying while maximally desiring certain objects. Nevertheless, Aristotle’s account of temperance allows for a nuanced categorization of intemperance and brutishness, an important preliminary to the tasks of moral improvement and therapy. There is an important difference between Aristotle’s account of temperance and his account of the other virtues. A person lacks one of the other virtues if and only if he or she goes wrong with respect to any parameter. However according to Aristotle, a person is intemperate only if he or she goes wrong with respect to all three of the temperance parameters: [M] But with regard to the pleasures peculiar to individuals many people go wrong in many ways. For while the people who are fond of so and so are so called because they delight either in the wrong things, or more than most people do, or in the wrong way, the self-indulgent exceed in all three ways. (1118b21–5)

This is an error on Aristotle’s part. Aristotle should say that people are intemperate if and only if they go wrong with respect to any one of the three temperance parameters. He should say this not only to bring his account of temperance into harmony with his architectonic and his accounts of the other virtues, but also because it is true. After all,


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consider Betty who eats enormous amounts of broccoli because she is on some fad diet, but who desires and enjoys each bite exactly as much as most people do. Betty is clearly intemperate, but Aristotle must classify her as merely “fond of broccoli,” for she goes wrong with respect to the objects and occasions parameters, but not the amount of enjoyment parameter. Consider Bob, the binge drinker, who excessively desires and enjoys too much liquor, but only on occasions when drinking some liquor is appropriate. Bob is clearly intemperate, but Aristotle must classify him as merely “fond of drunkenness,” for he goes wrong only with respect to the objects and amount parameter, but not the occasions parameter. Consider Bill who indulges in sex moderately often and desires and enjoys sex a moderate amount, but only has sex with married women. Bill is clearly intemperate, but Aristotle must classify him as merely “fond of adultery,” for he goes wrong with respect to the objects parameter, but not the amount or occasions parameters. Clearly, the thesis that intemperance requires error with respect to all three parameters has numerous counterexamples. To summarize, according to Aristotle the parameters of temperance are objects, amounts, and occasions. Unfortunately, Aristotle maintains that a person is intemperate only if he or she goes wrong with respect to all three of the temperance parameters. Aristotelian temperance governs desire (and therefore pain caused by unsatisfied desire), as well as enjoyment of tactile pleasures, particularly the pleasures of food, drink, and sex. This is quite broad, but Aristotle’s account would have been better if Aristotle had also allowed temperance to govern the pains caused by the presence of certain sorts of food, drink, or sex. The right rule for temperance specifies that people desire and enjoy all tactile pleasures except those which are unhealthy, deconditioning, unaffordable, or ignoble. But Aristotle errs by claiming that it is intemperate to enjoy the objects of temperance more than most people do.

Temperance and the doctrine of the mean Temperance has a unique relationship to the doctrine of the mean. Although common sense says that the right amount of food or drink is a mean amount, it does not say that the right amount of money or honor to give or take is a mean amount. Similarly, it is obvious that sensual desire and enjoyment should be moderate, but it is not obvious that anger or fear should be moderate. And so on. Aristotle uses an example of temperance rather than some other virtue to introduce the doctrine of the mean (1106a36–b4) because the doctrine of the mean is a generalization and codification of the common-sense conception of temperance. As North says, “The fact that Aristotle uses the Mean to arrive at his own definition of sophrosyne should not blind us to the presence of sophrosyne, in a larger sense, as the very foundation of the Mean.”14 It is, therefore, ironic that Aristotle’s account of temperance does not seem to fit his doctrine of the mean. 14

H. North, Sophrosyne (Ithica: Cornell University Press, 1966) 200.

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Aristotle expresses both parts of the doctrine of the mean as follows: [N] [Virtue] is a mean between two vices, that which depends upon excess and that which depends on defect; and again it is a mean because the vices respectively fall short of or exceed what is right in both passions and actions, while virtue both finds and chooses that which is intermediate. (1107a2–6)

The first sentence of passage [N] states that, (a) each virtue is associated with two vices. Here Aristotle is disagreeing with the common view that each virtue has only a single opposite. The second sentence says that, (b) the right quantity for each parameter is a mean, so for each parameter there are two ways to go wrong. Thus, each virtuous action and passion is medial with respect to all relevant parameters. Finally, the passage asserts that principle (b) explains principle (a). There are exactly two vices per virtue because one can deviate from a mean in exactly two directions. Going to excess with respect to any parameter(s) is one vice; being deficient with respect to any parameter(s) is the opposite vice. Principles (a) and (b) constitute Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean. Aristotle’s account of temperance seems to clash with both of these principles. The two vices corresponding to temperance are, of course, self-indulgence and insensibility. Aristotle says that [O] People who fall short with regard to pleasures and delight in them less than they should are hardly found; for such insensibility is not human. . . .If there is any one who finds nothing pleasant and nothing more attractive than anything else, he must be something quite different from a man. (1119a6–10)

The claim that insensible people are “hardly found” poses no threat to the doctrine of the mean.15 For most virtues, one of the vices turns out to be common, while the other is rare. This is part of Aristotle’s explanation for why people believe that virtues have only one opposite. However, Aristotle’s suggestion that “such insensibility is not human” threatens to conflict with the principle that (a) each virtue is associated with two vices. If insensible people are inhuman or brutish rather than vicious, then temperance is left with only one associated vice.16 Aristotle’s suggestion threatens to conflict with the facts, too. Remember that insensible people are deficient with respect to particular, acquired, tactile pleasures. They desire or enjoy too little, too seldom, and too few things. For example, Ed enjoys desserts, but few other foods, and Sally enjoys only one sort of wine once a year. But Ed and Sally are not inhuman or brutish, but merely insufficiently appreciative of the pleasures of food and drink. So, in order to bring his account of temperance into harmony with his doctrine of the mean, into line with his accounts of the other virtues, and into conformity with the facts, Aristotle should not maintain that insensible people are inhuman. Luckily, we need not attribute this thesis to Aristotle. Although the first sentence of passage [O] suggests that insensible people are inhuman, the second sentence states that 15

Contra Ross 207.

16

Young 525.


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it is people who delight in nothing who are inhuman. The claim that people who delight in nothing are beyond vice is perfectly compatible with the doctrine of the mean, as well as being a perfectly reasonable claim. It is also parallel to Aristotle’s treatment of the other virtues. For example, he remarks that a person “would be a sort of madman or insensible person if he feared nothing” (1115b26–7). Thus, a charitable interpretation of passage [O] will take Aristotle’s second sentence as a clarification of his first sentence, and acquit Aristotle of the error of maintaining that insensible people are inhuman. Hursthouse disagrees with Aristotle about the application to temperance of the second component of the doctrine of the mean. She denies that, (b) temperance is a mean for each parameter and intemperance is an extreme. On her view, some forms of intemperance do not involve quantity at all. Some self-indulgence is not too much of anything, and some insensibility is not too little of anything. She presents as counterexamples to thesis (b), people whose desires are not unnaturally high, but who care nothing for what is honorable and are, therefore, prone to food filching and adultery. The first is a slim, healthy, wicked person who takes food from the starving and cheats fellow soldiers out of their rations in pursuit of enjoyment, but does not eat more than is healthy. The second is an adulterer with a normal sex drive.17 Both desire and enjoy the wrong objects, but not too many or too few objects, according to Hursthouse. Hursthouse’s criticism fails. The slim, healthy, wicked person and the adulterer may be counterexamples to the thesis that, (b’) if a person goes wrong with respect to the object parameter then he or she goes to excess or defect with respect to that parameter. However, Aristotle is not committed to, and need not hold thesis (b’). He only maintains and needs the weaker thesis that, (b) if a person goes wrong with respect to the object parameter then he or she goes to excess or defect with respect to some parameter (but not necessarily the object parameter). And neither the slim, healthy, wicked person nor the adulterer is a counterexample to (b). Both can be described as people who desire and enjoy certain objects too much. As we saw above, it is selfindulgent to desire and enjoy objects which are ignoble (1119a16–20). A person who desires and enjoys such objects at all is desiring and enjoying them too much. Thus, the slim, healthy, wicked person and the adulterer may not be excessive with respect to the object parameter, but they are certainly excessive with respect to the amount parameter. They may not desire and enjoy too many objects, but they do desire and enjoy certain objects too much.18 Thus, Aristotle’s account of temperance is compatible with both components of Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean. (a) Temperance is associated with two vices, and (b) the right quantity for each temperance parameter is a mean.

Hursthouse, “A False Doctrine of the Mean,” 63–5. For a more detailed reply to Hursthouse, see Curzer, “A Defense of Aristotle’s Doctrine of the Mean,” 129–38. 17 18

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Choice, action, and goals Of course temperance concerns not only what people desire and enjoy, but also what they choose and do. It is important to choose and act temperately as well as to desire and enjoy temperately. And although our choices and actions usually reflect our desires, it is possible to desire rightly and yet choose or act wrongly (or vice versa). Since we sometimes desire to do what we believe we should not do, choice and desire may differ. If reason prevails, we do what we choose, but if desire prevails, we do what we desire. Indeed, our action could differ from both our reason and our desire. For example, reason may tell us to eat one pint of ice cream, desire may tell us to eat four pints, and we may compromise by eating two pints. Thus, the architectonic of temperance requires a choice target and an action target in addition to the desire and enjoyment targets. Pears contrasts temperance and courage in two ways, both of which involve the goals parameter. Pears says that courageous acts are always performed not only for their own sake, but also for the sake of some external goal such as saving a just city. But “temperance. . . could be practiced entirely for its own sake.”19 That is, acts of temperance need not have external goals. Pears also claims that “In the structure of courage there is a place which must be occupied by a counter-goal, but there is no such place in the structure of temperance.”20 That is, acts of courage involve the avoidance of death, wounds, or pain, but acts of temperance need not have counter-goals. Pears maintains that in all courageous acts, but only in some temperate acts, the agent weighs the likelihood and value of the external goal (plus the intrinsic value of the act, itself) against the likelihood and disvalue of the counter-goal in order to determine whether the act is worth the risk. I shall argue that courage and temperance do not differ in these ways. There are two sorts of temperate acts: acts of temperate indulgence where the agent indulges in an appropriate amount of an appropriate type of tactile pleasure, and acts of omission of intemperate objects where the agent refrains from indulging in an inappropriate amount or an inappropriate type of tactile pleasure. Temperate acts of indulgence obviously aim at the external goal of enjoyment, but temperate acts of omission do not have external goals. However, this does not distinguish courage and temperance, for some courageous acts also lack external goals. For example, if Sarah courageously defends herself from attack, then her act has counter-goals (death, wounds, pain), but no external goals. So courage and temperance do not differ with respect to external goals. Some courageous acts and some temperate acts have external goals. Temperate acts of omission have counter-goals. By not indulging, the temperate person risks the pain of unsatisfied desire. The future is uncertain. If Nancy declines seconds or sex now, she may regret that decision later. If the pain of indulgence is added to the sphere of temperance, as I suggested earlier, then temperate acts of 19 20

Pears, “Aristotle’s Analysis of Courage,” 273. Pears, “Aristotle’s Analysis of Courage,” 279.


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indulgence will also have counter-goals. Any act of indulgence risks the pain of indulgence. So courage and temperance do not differ with respect to counter-goals. Temperate acts, like courageous acts, always have counter-goals. Pears’ attempt to contrast the goal parameters of courage and temperance fails.

Continence and incontinence Aristotle’s discussion of incontinence (akrateia) may be read as a continuation of his treatment of temperance because the focal meaning of incontinence is incontinence with respect to the “bodily enjoyments, with which we say the temperate and the selfindulgent man are concerned” (1148a4–6). Other sorts of incontinence (e.g. incontinence with respect to anger) are called incontinence because they resemble the incontinence corresponding to temperance (1147b24–1148a11). Virtuous people desire and enjoy rightly, while continent, incontinent, and vicious people have wrong desires and pleasures. Virtuous and continent people perform virtuous acts, while vicious and incontinent people perform vicious acts. Finally, vicious people make the wrong choices, while the other three make the right choices (1151a6–10; 1151b34–1152a6). Brutishness can be analogous to vice, continence, or incontinence. Some brutish people do not realize that there is anything wrong with them. Like vicious people, they are mistaken about what actions and passions are right. Other brutish people realize what actions and passions are right, and they manage to act right even though they have wrong desires. Finally, yet other brutish people realize what actions and passions are right, but they cannot manage to act right because their wrong desires prevail (1148b34–1149a4). States of Character

Desires & Pleasures

Choices

Acts

Virtuous

Right

Right

Right

Continent

Wrong

Right

Right

Incontinent

Wrong

Right

Wrong

Vicious

Wrong

Wrong

Wrong

Vicious-Brutish

Very Wrong

Very Wrong

Very Wrong

Continent-Brutish

Very Wrong

Right

Right

Incontinent-Brutish

Very Wrong

Right

Very Wrong

Aristotle’s scheme of virtue, vice, continence, incontinence, and three varieties of brutishness may seem awkward, but it includes distinctions which enhance our contemporary understanding of problems such as alcohol abuse. Contemporary thought and Aristotle agree that drinking alcohol way too much is the brutishness or mental illness which we call alcoholism.21 They agree that alcoholism comes in three varieties: Carlson takes alcoholism to be self-indulgence. See G. Carlson, “Aristotle and Alcoholism: Understanding the Nicomachean Ethics,” Teaching Philosophy 9 (1986): 97–102. However, if alcoholism is a disease then Aristotle would classify it as brutishness, rather than self-indulgence. 21

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vice-brutishness, continence-brutishness, and incontinence-brutishness. Some alcoholics deny that they have a problem; others acknowledge the problem and control it; still others acknowledge the problem but fail to control it. However, the contemporary view and Aristotle part company here. The contemporary view seems to be that all problem drinkers are alcoholics,22 but Aristotle’s account can accommodate other sorts of problem drinkers. Alcoholics drink way too much; but intemperate people drink too much and deny it; incontinent people drink too much and regret it; and continent people drink moderately, resisting the temptation to drink too much. On Aristotle’s view these four types of problem drinkers should be treated differently. Alcoholics should be placed in the sick role, pitied, and offered therapy; the intemperate should be deemed incorrigible, blamed, and not treated; the incontinent should be harangued, shamed, and given willpower-strengthening self-help books; and finally the continent should be supported, congratulated, and urged to keep up the good work. Aristotle’s account of alcohol abuse is richer, more nuanced, than the contemporary understanding. We can learn much from Aristotle about alcohol abuse.

Conclusion I began by describing the way in which Aristotle narrows the sphere of temperance from simply “pleasures” to “tactile pleasures, paradigmatically the pleasures of food, drink, and sex.” I went on to explain the way in which Aristotle distinguishes among the character traits of temperance, intemperance, continence, incontinence, and three varieties of brutishness. I proposed a four-target, twelve-parameter account of temperance, and argued that Aristotle’s account of temperance is compatible with his doctrine of the mean. While describing Aristotle’s account of temperance, I raised several objections to Aristotle’s account and proposed modifications which would avoid these objections. In particular, I argued that Aristotle should not have made the following assertions: (1) The sphere of temperance does not include the pleasures of sight, hearing, and smell. (2) With respect to the natural, common, tactile pleasures, excess is rare and deficiency is nonexistent. (3) Temperance does not govern the pains caused by the presence of food, drink, or sex. (4) Excessive enjoyment is enjoying pleasures more than most people do. (5) A person is intemperate only if he or she goes wrong with respect to all three of the temperance parameters. None of these errors are fatal. With a few modifications, Aristotle’s account can enhance our understanding of temperance and its associated failure modes.

22 Alcoholics Anonymous has a somewhat more nuanced position. See A.A. Services, Alcoholics Anonymous: The Big Book (New York City: Alcoholics Anonymous World Services, 2001) 21–2.

4 Liberality and Benevolence (NE IV.1)

Introduction The Aristotelian virtues concerned with wealth, liberality (eleutheriote¯s), and its sidekick, magnificence (megaloprepeia), might be thought to be the least problematic of Aristotle’s virtues. It seems obvious that, according to Aristotle, liberal people deal correctly with all aspects of wealth. They give and receive gifts correctly, so liberality includes what we might call the virtues of benevolence and gratitude insofar as they concern wealth. Liberal people spend and earn money correctly, so liberality includes the contemporary virtues of proper purchasing and entrepreneurship. Liberal people act rightly with respect to wealth because the core of liberality is the right degree of desire for the right amount of wealth. Liberal people want enough wealth to be comfortably well off, but have no desire to be super-rich. Unlike some other virtues, liberality fits the doctrine of the mean literally because money is inherently quantitative. It is bracketed by meanness (aneleutheriote¯s), which is characterized by desiring too much wealth too much, and by prodigality (aso¯tia), which is characterized by desiring too little wealth too little.1 It is generally agreed that Aristotle provides no principle specifying the right amount of wealth to give or take. Instead, the virtuous person constitutes the standard for right action. Just as one could set one’s clock by Kant’s constitutional, so one should set one’s level of giving, spending, earning, and accepting by the actions of the ideal liberal person, adjusting for differences of situation, of course. Such is the standard interpretation of Aristotle’s account of liberality. I shall show that this standard picture is wrong in absolutely every respect. At first glance Aristotle’s account of liberality seems straightforward, but upon investigation it becomes increasingly interesting.

1 The term “prodigality” has the connotation of wasting or squandering wealth, but that is only one way to be aso¯tia.

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The sphere of liberality Aristotle begins Nicomachean Ethics IV.1 by delineating, in a preliminary way, the sphere of liberality. He says, [A] The liberal man is praised not in respect of military matters, nor of those in respect for which the temperate man is praised, nor of judicial decisions, but with regard to the giving and taking of wealth, and especially in respect of giving. Now by wealth we mean all the things whose value is measured by money. (1119b23–27)

So liberality is a virtue concerned with wealth, that is, with money and monetary goods. Aristotle is clearly concerned to separate the sphere of liberality from the spheres of the other virtues, just as he does for the virtues of courage and temperance. In passage [A] he provisionally distinguishes liberality’s sphere from the spheres of courage, temperance, and justice. The separateness of the courage and liberality spheres is obvious, but the claim that liberality, temperance, and justice have disjoint spheres requires further explanation. After all, intemperate people are sometimes called prodigal, and justice governs more than merely judicial decisions. To insure the separation of the spheres of temperance and liberality, Aristotle distinguishes proper and improper uses of the term “prodigality”: [B] We call those men prodigals who are incontinent and spend money on self-indulgence. Hence also they are thought the poorest characters; for they combine more vices than one. Therefore the application of the word to them is not its proper use; for a “prodigal” means a man who has a single evil quality, that of wasting his substance. (1119b31–1120a1)

Aristotle is sometimes accused of uncritically accepting the ordinary moral views of his day. This accusation is unfair. In fact, Aristotle’s treatment of the virtues ranges from values-clarification, to moral revolution. In passage [B], Aristotle observes that the term “prodigal” is used loosely to apply to people who merely resemble prodigal people. These people of passage [B] have at least two character flaws, “for they combine more vices than one.” Neither of these flaws is prodigality, for Aristotle says the term “prodigal” is not properly applied to these people. Instead, their flaws are incontinence and self-indulgence, as the first sentence of passage [B] says. Presumably, Aristotle means that these people have excessive desires for sensual pleasure (self-indulgence) that overcome their correct choices about spending money (incontinence about wealth), with the result that they overspend in purchasing food, drink, and/or sex. Being self-indulgent, they do not regret the sensual pleasure; being incontinent with respect to wealth, they regret the expense. I shall show below that prodigal people have the wrong attitude and/or desires toward wealth and/or other people. However, the problem with the self-indulgent, incontinent people of passage [B] is that they have the wrong attitude toward sensual pleasure and a weakness when it comes to wealth. Thus, prodigal people tend to act wrongly whenever giving wealth to, or taking wealth from

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others is at stake, whether or not the situation involves sensual pleasure. But selfindulgent, incontinent people act wrongly with respect to sensual pleasure—regretfully when the situation involves wealth—otherwise gladly.2 Later, Aristotle seems to try to separate liberality and justice in a different and more thorough way than he does in passage [A]. In the following passage, Aristotle says that mean people act wrongly for the sake of little gain, but [C] those who make great gains but from wrong sources, and not the right gains, e.g. despots when they sack cities and spoil temples, we do not call mean but rather wicked, impious, and unjust. (1122a3–7)

Aristotle seems to be saying that liberality governs situations where little gain is at stake, while justice governs situations of potential great gains. This would have the counterintuitive consequence that stealing a little is illiberal, but stealing a lot is unjust. I shall seek to attribute a more palatable view to Aristotle. Unlike contemporary common sense, Aristotle breaks justice into three parts: general justice (hole dikaiosune¯ ), particular justice (kata meros dikaiosune¯ ), and a barely described virtue sometimes translated righteous indignation, but perhaps better called poetic justice (nemesis). The definitions of these three sorts of justice, and the differences among them are controversial. In chapter 11, I propose definitions of them, and distinguish them from each other, and from the other virtues. Aristotle says that general justice, “is complete excellence—not absolutely, but in relation to others” (NE 1129b25–7; 1130a32–b2). I take this to mean that general justice is a second-order virtue consisting simply of those aspects of the other virtues pertaining to the relationship between the agent and others. People who eat food belonging to others act intemperately and also counter to general justice. People who retaliate appropriately for insults act according to good temper and also according to general justice. And so on. General justice is a desire and disposition to insure that others end up with the right amount of safety, sensual pleasure, honor, punishment, etc. Particular justice is the desire and disposition to give people their due. The vices associated with particular justice are a desire to gain more than one’s due (pleonexia) and a desire to gain less than one’s due (meonexia, a term I coined). Pleonectic people seek to get away with cheating others; meonectic people have a self-destructive urge to be cheated. The difference between general and particular justice is subtle. The former is concerned with goods of fortune; the latter with fairness. Finally, poetic justice is a desire that the fortunes of people match their deserts. People with the virtue of poetic justice are pleased when disasters happen to evil people and when good people win the lottery. People lacking poetic justice are pained in these situations and pleased when they are reversed. So the tasks are to separate liberality from particular justice and from poetic justice, and to subsume liberality under general justice.

Separating prodigality from self-indulgence is particularly tricky because “most [prodigal people] are self-indulgent; for they spend lightly and waste money on their indulgences, and incline towards pleasures” (1121b7–9). 2

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Since liberality has nothing to do with fortune, and poetic justice has nothing to do with actions of the agent, they obviously have nothing to do with each other. I shall argue below that liberality is essentially a desire and disposition to benefit others. If this definition and my definition of particular justice are both correct, then separating particular justice and liberality is easy. Liberality is about benefiting people monetarily; particular justice is about ensuring that people get their due. These are different projects requiring different packages of dispositions. True, giving people their due sometimes helps them, but this is only an incidental overlap. Since an act is a behavior under a description, they are two separate acts. Suppose that Zack borrows $10.00 from his friend, Xena, and then repays the money a week later. Zack’s payment of $10.00 to Xena is liberal qua helpful, and particularly just qua deserved. On the other hand, if Xena steals $100.00 from Zack in order to buy a xylophone, then she is acting from meanness. But if she steals the money to enjoy the pleasure of an illicit gain, then she is acting from pleonexia. Meanness is a desire for money, unconstrained by the desire to benefit others, while pleonexia is a desire to get away with something, unconstrained by the desire to respect the deserts of others. As for general justice, the problem is not distinguishing it from liberality, but rather combining the two. Contemporary common sense says that liberality is the monetary part of benevolence, and benevolence is a disposition to benefit people overand-above what justice requires. Whereas liberal people desire to benefit others monetarily beyond what they deserve, just people desire to give others the safety, pleasure, money, or honor that they deserve. If Zack pays Xena $25.00, the first $10.00 is a just act of repayment, but not a liberal one, and the remaining $15.00 payment is a liberal act, but not a just one. It seems that contemporary common sense clashes with Aristotle’s claim that liberal acts of benefiting others exemplify general justice. Luckily, Aristotle’s tripartite account of justice can accommodate this contemporary common-sense intuition. Aristotle agrees that liberality is a disposition to benefit people over-and-above what particular justice requires, but this does not imply that liberality is separate from general justice.3 My suggestion about how liberality and justice relate seems, at first glance, to be incompatible with passage [C], so I offer the following alternative reading of passage [C].

3 While trying to distinguish liberality and justice, Foster conflates particular and general justice. She says that the virtue whose associated vice is pleonexia differs from liberality by “having as its object honor, safety, and power as well as material possessions.” Foster distinguishes mean people and pleonectic people as follows. Mean people are too reluctant to give; they hoard their wealth when they could afford to benefit others; they are stingy. By contrast, pleonectic people are too eager to take; they take what does not belong to them; they are thieves. However, Aristotle thinks that meanness includes excessive taking as well as deficient giving. People who are too eager to take are mean. Indeed, Aristotle explicitly says that thieves are mean (1122a7– 13). Thus, Foster’s ways of drawing the liberality v. justice distinction both fail. Moreover, if one is in possession of more than one’s share of some good, injustice is manifested in not returning it to its rightful owner (i.e. not giving). Similarly, liberality can be manifested by taking only part of what belongs to one. See S. Foster, “Virtues and Material Goods: Aristotle on Justice and Liberality,” American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly 71 (1998): 614–15.


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Rather than distinguishing the spheres of liberality and justice, passage [C] may be merely stating a corollary of the distinction. That is, passage [C] may be saying that failing to benefit others in situations when justice does not require doing so can yield small, vicious gains, but it is just a fact about the world that big money is illicitly obtained only by depriving others of what is theirs.

Non-monetary benevolence? Aristotle’s restriction of liberality to the sphere of wealth is sometimes taken to be one of his most egregious errors. After all, people often give and receive help in the form of non-monetary goods such as attention or respect. Indeed, these goods are often extremely important forms of assistance. Notwithstanding the expense of child-raising, the most important help that parents give to their children consists of non-monetary goods, for example. So it might be thought that Aristotle should have included other objects that can constitute forms of assistance within liberality’s sphere. Liberality should be expanded to encompass the entire virtue of benevolence. Aristotle might begin to reply to this objection by reiterating that wealth includes not only money, but also monetary goods. The virtue of liberality covers much more than merely gifts of cash. It also includes gifts of food, clothing, advice, and training, for example, for these things are available for a price. Still, liberality does not cover such things as the benefit of the doubt, so a substantial part of the objection remains. Aristotle might reply to the objection by pointing out that the best states of character concerned with benefiting others in monetary and non-monetary ways are different. Both require the right attitude toward other people, but the correct disposition toward benefiting others monetarily requires the right attitude toward wealth, as well. That is, Aristotle might counter-attack by maintaining that the broad character trait of benevolence combines several virtues that would be better separated. Bundling together the dispositions to benefit others in monetary and various non-monetary ways into a single virtue is misguided. Of course, this reply just relocates the criticism. Even if critics concede that liberality should not govern the benefiting of others in non-monetary ways, they might then go on to criticize Aristotle for neglecting to include nonmonetary benevolence elsewhere within his list of virtues. Aristotle might reply that his list is not presented as a complete list of virtues. Perhaps he merely does not get around to discussing the virtues of non-monetary benevolence. Aristotle does say that by discussing the virtues “it will become plain how many they are” (1115a5), but it is uncharitable to attribute to Aristotle the belief that he has listed all of the virtues. Perhaps he is saying that “we will see that the virtues are numerous,” rather than that “we will see that there are exactly ten virtues.”4 Anyway, this reply mitigates, but does not obviate the criticism. The virtues Aristotle lists are no mere

4

Unfortunately, Aristotle does use posos rather than hoposos, however.

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random sampler of virtues. Even if they do not include all of the virtues, they include the most important ones. And surely non-monetary giving ought to make it into the top ten if wittiness does. Aristotle might reply that he covers non-monetary benevolence elsewhere. In his discussion of friendship he says, [D] It is true of the good man too that he does many acts for the sake of his friends and his country, and if necessary dies for them; for he will throw away both wealth and honors and in general the goods that are objects of competition. (1169a18–21)

So Aristotle clearly thinks that non-monetary goods such as honor should be given to others, at least to one’s friends and country.5 He has not blundered by overlooking such giving. Yet the question of why Aristotle does not list non-monetary benevolence as a virtue still remains. Perhaps Aristotle should admit the oversight. He could deploy the at-least-I’m-better-than-so-and-so strategy to cover his retreat. Some people believe that benevolence is morally optional.6 By contrast, Aristotle does not limit liberality to supererogatory acts. Liberality is a virtue; virtues are to be exercised; and the paradigmatic exercise of liberality is benefiting others. So while Aristotle errs by omitting non-monetary benevolence from his list of virtues, he is way ahead of those who do not consider any sort of benevolence to be a requirement.

Liberal actions In general, Aristotle not only narrows the sphere of his virtues, but also typically identifies the relevant class of virtuous acts. The acts of temperance, for example, are acts of enjoying or declining food, drink, or sex. At first glance, the actions governed by liberality seem clear. Aristotle says, [E] Liberality [is] a mean with regard to giving and taking of wealth. (1120b27–8) Prodigality and meanness are excesses and deficiencies, and in two things, in giving and taking; for we include spending under giving. (1121a10–12)

So spending and gift-giving, bundled together under the general term “giving” (dosis), are in the sphere of liberality. Taking or receiving (lepsis) is also governed by liberality. Taking presumably includes accepting gifts. Now Aristotle designates as illiberal those who earn money from sordid trades (1121b31–1122a13). He also stipulates that the liberal person will not “neglect his own property, since he wishes by means of this to help others” (1120b2–3). That is, liberal people strive to make their farms or factories

5 Liberality has a political dimension. Fellow citizens are civic friends; citizens should aim at the common good. 6 L. Hunt, Character and Culture (Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield, 1997) 71–6; J. Wallace, Virtues and Vices (Ithica: Cornell University Press, 1978) 133–4.


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income-producing. So taking seems to include acquiring money in exchange for goods and services as well as accepting gifts. But the dispositions to give gifts properly, spend properly, receive gifts properly, and earn money properly seem to be very different character traits. The only common element seems to be wealth. Is Aristotle’s virtue of liberality a conglomeration of separate virtues governing these four types of actions? I shall examine each of these action-types. Moving beyond the merely formal level by inquiring into the nature of giving and taking reveals some surprises. Giving Within the class of virtuous acts, Aristotle sometimes identifies paradigm acts. The paradigm sort of courageous act is fighting on the battlefield, for example. As for liberality, liberal people both give and take rightly, but [F] It is more the mark of the liberal man to give to the right people than to take from the right sources and not to take from the wrong. (1120a9–11)

So the paradigm liberal acts consist in giving gifts of money or monetary goods to other individuals, presumably in order to benefit them. The centrality of gift-giving to liberality is evidenced elsewhere, too. For example, Aristotle criticizes Plato’s advocacy of communism for the guardians in the Republic on the grounds that people cannot exercise liberality without property (Politics 1263a30–b14). His worry is not that people will be unable to earn money, or buy consumer goods, or receive gifts, but rather that they will not be able to give gifts. So Aristotle’s liberality is primarily the virtue that we might call economic benevolence. It is natural for us to think of “spending” as the purchasing of consumer goods. But buying a wine cup would not count as spending for Aristotle. Whatever spending is, it reduces one’s assets. But buying a wine cup leaves one’s assets unchanged (if the price is fair) because wine cups are monetary goods: they are part of one’s wealth. According to Aristotle’s principle of reciprocity in justice, when one makes a purchase at a fair price, “The just is intermediate between a sort of gain and a sort of loss . . . it consists in having an equal amount before and after the transaction” (1132b18–20). Thus, purchasing a wine cup transforms, but does not diminish one’s estate.7 Suppose Wayne has a large income and lives very frugally on beans and rice in a tiny, undecorated apartment, never purchasing any more than is absolutely necessary and building up a huge stock portfolio. Yolanda has the same income, but uses it to make her life more pleasant. She buys a nice house and fills it with nice things. It is tempting to call Wayne miserly and Yolanda liberal. However, they actually hoard the same amount of wealth, since wealth includes monetary goods as well as money. Both are

7 The same is true for the purchase of a cup of wine. Drinking the wine reduces one’s estate, of course, but that is neither giving nor taking. It is governed by temperance, not liberality.

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mean. Aristotle does not disparage hoarding while endorsing consumerism: he considers them equally misguided. Spending is a sort of giving, but what sort? Aristotle does not specify what he means by “spending” in his account of liberality, but in the Rhetoric he says, [G] Liberality disposes us to spend money for others’ good; illiberality is the opposite. (Rhetoric 1366b16–17)

Again, while discussing the virtue of magnificence, a virtue concerned exclusively with spending, Aristotle says, [H] Magnificence is an attribute of expenditures of the kind which we call honorable, e.g. those connected with the gods . . . and all those that are proper objects of public-spirited ambition, as when people think they ought to equip a chorus or a trireme, or entertain the city, in a brilliant way. . . . The magnificent man spends not on himself but on public objects . . . a magnificent man will also furnish his house suitably to his wealth (for even a house is a sort of public ornament). (1122b19–1123a7)

The spending Aristotle attributes to the magnificent person is clearly spending for the sake of the city rather than spending for the sake of the spender. “The magnificent man spends not on himself but on public objects.” Even furnishing a house is justified on the grounds of public benefit.8 So magnificent spending turns out to be buying things to further the public good. Presumably, liberal spending is purchasing something to benefit others. It is shopping for a gift for one’s friends or for the needy, rather than shopping for oneself. Perhaps Aristotle subsumes spending under giving not simply because both acts reduce one’s estate by transfer of wealth, but also because liberal spending, like magnificent spending and liberal gift-giving, furthers the good of others. In one sense, liberal spending is another version of giving. Aristotle sometimes seems to suggest that liberal people tend to overpay (1120b4–6; 1122b4–10). However, Aristotle does not believe that overpaying for something (or giving away too much) is a liberal act, a virtuous act. Instead, I shall argue below that Aristotle thinks that liberal people sometimes act wrongly by overpaying and overgiving. One way to waste money is to buy things that one shouldn’t buy, but another way is to spend more than an item is worth. Aristotle should also deny that it is liberal to underpay. He comes close to saying this in the next chapter, for he says that the magnificent person will spend “gladly and lavishly; for nice calculation is a niggardly thing” (1122b8). So liberal people are neither suckers nor bargain hunters. They pay what each item is worth, neither more nor less. Thus, Aristotle’s claim is not that one ought to spend enough, but not too much, on oneself. Rather his claim is that one ought to spend enough, but not too much, on each purchase and on each person. Liberality is not about spending upon oneself, except

8 Furnishing one’s house does not reduce one’s assets except insofar as the new furniture replaces the old furniture, presumably worn out from hosting many civic functions.


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incidentally. Aristotle condemns those who spend too little or too much on others, however much or little they spend on themselves. Taking Although Aristotle takes “taking” to be a liberal action in passage [E], he also says, [I] Nor will he be a ready asker; for it is not characteristic of a man who confers benefits to accept them lightly. But he will take from the right sources, e.g. from his own possessions, not as something noble but as a necessity, that he may have something to give. Nor will he neglect his own property, since he wishes by means of this to help others. (1120a33–b3)

Aristotle says that liberal acts, like other virtuous acts are, “noble and done for the sake of the noble” (1120a23–4). Thus in passage [I], Aristotle’s description of taking as an activity, “not as something noble, but as a necessity” seems to imply that taking is not a liberal act, at all. The bulk of the evidence indicates that taking is a liberal act, however (e.g. 1119b25–6; 1120b28; 1121a11–12; 1107b8–9). Thus, Aristotle should not have said that liberal acts are not noble acts. I take passage [I] to be an exaggeration of Aristotle’s view that [J] It is more the mark of the liberal man to give to the right people than to take from the right sources and not to take from the wrong. (1120a9–11)

Aristotle devotes several arguments to demonstrating this (1120a8–23).9 But why does Aristotle subsume taking into the sphere of liberality, at all? Young suggests that Aristotle includes taking in the sphere of liberality because one must receive in order to be able to give.10 Yet no other virtue governs the act of acquiring external goods that are necessary for its paradigm exercise. For example, to eat temperately one needs food, but temperance does not govern the activities of farming or grocery shopping. Perhaps Aristotle subsumes acts of taking under liberality because liberal people use the same sort of considerations, and generally need the same traits of character, in taking as in giving. Thus, what makes Veronica a good taker qua liberal is not that she is an effective businesswoman. It is not that she is good at making money. Indeed, Aristotle says that “It is not easy for the liberal man to be rich, since he is not apt either at taking or at keeping” (1120b14–15). Rather Veronica is a good taker because she is good at taking from people in ways that will benefit these people, or at least not harm them. Presumably, she does not take from the needy, but instead takes only from those who can afford to give. Veronica takes only appropriate amounts, at appropriate times, and so on. She is a morally good taker, rather than an entrepreneur.

Lear, Happy Lives and the Highest Good, 174–5; C. Young, “Aristotle on Liberality,” Proceedings of the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy 10 (1994): 321–4. 10 Young, “Liberality,” 327. 9

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What does Aristotle mean by taking, anyway? When Aristotle gives an example of appropriate taking in passage [E], he says that the liberal person “will take from the right sources, e.g. from his own possessions.” This makes no sense if taking is understood as adding to one’s possessions, but it makes great sense if taking is assembling stuff so as to give it to others. “Taking” here seems to have the sense of gathering one’s equipment so that one can act with it (e.g. “take up your sword and go forth”). So Aristotle equivocates on “taking.” When Aristotle says that the mean person takes too much, for example, “taking” seems to mean “putting stuff into one’s own stockpile.” But when Aristotle speaks of liberal people taking as well as giving appropriately, “taking” seems to mean “putting stuff into the to-be-given-away pile.” Taking from one’s own possessions is not the only sort of liberal taking. Passage [E] says that the liberal person will not “neglect his own property, since he wishes by means of this to help others.” So the liberal person qua liberal will earn money. Aristotle is no fan of the activity of earning. He says that people who earn their money are less liberal than those that inherit it, partially because the earning process breeds an attachment to money that hinders liberal action (1120b11–14). The Magna Moralia asks, “Is it, then, the business of the liberal man also to get and procure property? Surely not! That sort of thing is not the business of any excellence at all” (Magna Moralia, 1192a15–16). On the other hand, Aristotle does lend some respectability to the earning of wealth by calling it an art and placing it under the umbrella of household management. He says, “The art of acquiring property is a part of the art of managing the household.” But he immediately adds the qualification, “for no man can live well, or indeed live at all, unless he is provided with necessaries” (Politics 1253b24–5). Later Aristotle says, [K] Of the art of acquisition then there is one kind which by nature is part of the management of a household, insofar as the art of household management must either find ready to hand, or itself provide, such things necessary to life, and useful for the community of the family or state, as can be stored. (Politics 1256b26–30)

Here Aristotle endorses only the acquisition of what is necessary for the good life, basic needs plus the equipment for virtuous action. So earning money is a liberal act so long as the money is earmarked for one’s own basic needs and/or to benefit others, and conforms to the right rule of liberality. Skill at building up one’s own possessions is not castigated as wicked, but it does not seem to be part of liberality (or any other virtue). Aristotle is no fan of the activity of accepting gifts, either. His moral exemplar, the megalopsychos, “is the sort of man to confer benefits, but he is ashamed of receiving them” (1124b9–10). Passage [I] suggests that liberal people, too, are reluctant to accept gifts. “It is not characteristic of a man who confers benefits to accept them lightly.” But liberal people will not shun gifts so long as the money is earmarked to benefit others. The liberal person will accept a gift in order “that he may have something to give.” Liberal accepting of a gift is taking stuff from another person and putting it on the tobe-given-away pile. Again, accepting must be done within the constraints of liberality. Gifts must be accepted only from the right people, etc.


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So roughly speaking, accepting a birthday present is not a liberal act; collecting donations for Oxfam is. To take liberally from others is to act as a middleman, delivering a gift from a well-off person to a needy one. Gratitude is, therefore, inappropriate for liberal people qua liberal. Of course, liberal people might express gratitude on behalf of the ultimate recipients of a gift, but this is someone else’s gratitude, so to speak. Presumably, liberal people occasionally accept gifts for themselves, and they should be grateful for them and express their gratitude appropriately. But that does not seem to be part of liberality. Interim summary In general, just as liberal spending means spending for others rather than for oneself, so liberal taking means taking for others rather than for oneself. Aristotle is sometimes criticized for insufficiently emphasizing the moral importance of striving to promote the happiness of others. This criticism is misguided and arises, I suspect, at least partially from a failure to recognize that the Aristotelian virtue of liberality is not a hodgepodge of distantly related character traits, but simply what we in the modern world might call economic benevolence. Aristotle’s virtue of liberality does not govern the actions of shopping, receiving gifts, and earning money, except insofar as these acts go toward benefiting others. Instead, liberality is just about two sides of gift-giving: assembling the gift and giving it.

Liberal passions From the fact that Aristotle says that wealth is the sphere of liberality, one might naturally suppose that liberality involves only one passion: it simply governs the desire for wealth. Commentators generally assume that prodigal, mean, and liberal acts of giving and taking follow from prodigal, mean, and liberal attitudes and desires for wealth, respectively.11 However, in passage [I] Aristotle mentions another desire in conjunction with liberality. He says, “Nor will [the liberal person] neglect his own property, since he wishes by means of this to help others.” Indeed, Aristotle later says that the liberal person “does not value wealth for its own sake but as a means to giving” (1120b15–17). Thus, liberality governs a second passion, the desire to benefit others.12 Hare agrees that Aristotle’s liberality governs two different passions. But he thinks that this is an error on Aristotle’s part. Hare observes that these desires could constitute the cores of two different virtues that he labels good stewardship and generosity. Good stewardship is the disposition to care appropriately for wealth, and of course to act on

Young, “Liberality,” 327–30. Don’t the other virtues also involve benefiting others? No. Although many of the other virtues involve not-depriving others of goods, they do not involve providing others with goods, except incidentally. The exercise of courage sometimes aims to benefit others, but courage is an exception, for it takes its external goals from the other virtues. 11 12

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that caring. Hare-ian good stewards are efficient property managers. They take pleasure in maintaining the well-being of their estates. Generosity, on the other hand, is the desire and disposition to benefit others appropriately. Generous people take pleasure in enhancing and maintaining the well-being of their beneficiaries.13 Hare then maintains that these two virtues have different and occasionally incompatible ends. He says, “The key difference between good stewardship and generosity is that they measure differently the appropriateness of the size of the outflow of resources.” Hare-ian good stewards give money to others if and only if doing so does not compromise the well-being of their estates. The generous use a different criterion. They give money to others if and only if the recipients are deserving.14 Finally, Hare accuses Aristotle of jumbling these two virtues together in the Nicomachean Ethics account of liberality.15 That is, Hare maintains that Aristotle’s account contains elements of both virtues, but does not resolve the tension between them. In particular, Aristotle does not answer the question of what to do in situations where good stewardship and generosity issue conflicting recommendations.16 I agree with Hare that Aristotle is synthesizing two different virtues in his account of liberality, a virtue about desiring wealth and a virtue about benefiting people. I suggest that Aristotle is merging two paradigms: an older, Homeric, gift-exchange paradigm where gifts are given to maintain or raise the giver’s status,17 and a newer paradigm of benevolence where gifts are given to benefit others. Under the former paradigm, people are insufficiently generous because they love wealth too much; under the latter paradigm, people are insufficiently generous because they don’t love their fellow man enough. But I shall defend Aristotle against Hare’s accusations that Aristotle’s account combines them unnecessarily and inconsistently. I shall argue that Aristotelian liberality is not a flawed conglomeration composed of fragments of two different virtues, but rather an effective synthesis of two paradigms, each of which is inadequate alone. A comparison with the virtue of courage may be useful. Aristotle thinks that both fear and confidence are necessary to explain the phenomena associated with the virtue of courage for three reasons. First, one cannot act courageously in hopeless or riskless situations. Courage can only be displayed in situations calling for both fear and

J. Hare, “Eleutherios in Aristotle’s Ethics,” Ancient Philosophy 8 (1988): 19–32. Hare 24. 15 Ross takes Aristotle to be conflating a different pair of virtues, the abilities to resist the temptations to hoard and to overspend. See Ross 206. 16 Hare 27–8. 17 The Greek word eleutheria means both liberality and freedom. Similarly, aneleutheria means both meanness and servility. What is the link between liberality/illiberality and freedom/servility? Foster suggests that the mean person is someone like Dickens’ Scrooge. “The illiberal person resembles one who is enslaved by his possessions.” Liberal people are free because they recognize that their possessions have only instrumental value (Foster 612). I think the link is less metaphorical and evidences the first paradigm. Slaves do not have the luxury to give gifts, of course, but free people characteristically do so in a gift-exchange culture. Mean people are slavish; they act like slaves by not giving gifts. But liberal people act as free people should. 13 14


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confidence, because an act is courageous only if the potential gains are worth the risk of the losses. Second, in these situations, the passions of fear and confidence are felt together in a complex, blended form. The courageous act arises from the appropriate confidence combined with the appropriate fear. Third, cowardice may arise through either excessive fear or insufficient confidence (or both); rashness the opposite. Understanding the vices associated with courage requires an appeal to both fear and confidence.18 For similar reasons, in order to explain the situations, experiences, and vices of liberality, one must evoke both the desire for wealth and the desire for benefiting others. First, liberality requires valuing both what, and to whom one gives. People who give items that they take to be worthless are not exhibiting liberality.19 Nor are people who are indifferent to the worthiness and happiness of the recipients. Moreover, liberality requires balancing the potential achievement of benefiting someone against the potential loss of wealth. By contrast, neither Hare’s generosity nor his good stewardship is a virtue at all. A Hare-ian good steward who can afford it is equally willing to give money to a flatterer or a friend, for Hare’s good stewardship is indifferent to the worthiness of the recipient. A Hare-ian generous person would give money to the friend but not to the flatterer, whether or not he could afford it, for Hare’s generosity is indifferent to the well-being of the estate. Both of these endorse obviously vicious actions which Aristotelian liberality avoids just because liberal actions presuppose a balancing of the value of wealth and the value of benefiting others. An explanation of an action involves both a story about beliefs and perceptions and a story about passions and desires because acts result from choice, and choice involves both reasoning and feeling.20 As Aristotle says, [L] The origin of action–its efficient, not its final cause–is choice, and that of choice is desire and reasoning with a view to an end. . . . Hence choice is either desiderative reason or ratiocinative desire. (1139a31–b5)

The two stories are interdependent, of course. Practical wisdom gains its premises from perception acquired through passion-colored lenses, for example. The belief that something is valuable prompts a desire for that thing. And so on. Now the desire for wealth plus the desire to benefit others are not experienced as separate, but rather they are blended together as a single, complex passion. Without a tug on the heartstrings there would be no motivation to start giving; without a tug on the purse strings there would be no motivation to stop giving. So the “feeling” story requires both desires. Moreover, prompted by both of these desires in combination, practical wisdom weighs the good a donation would do against the loss to one’s estate. Thus, the “reasoning” story also requires both passions, not just one. Third, meanness or prodigality may result from bad attitudes and desires toward wealth, and/or from bad attitudes and desires toward others. Misanthropes and philan18 20

19 See ch.2. Wallace 133–4. My thanks to B. Finnigan for leading me to see this point and its importance.

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thropes with the same attitudes and desires toward wealth will give very differently. So will misers and haters-of-money (a certain sort of ascetic?) with the same attitudes and desires toward other people. Yet all four lack liberality. Understanding the manifold failure modes in the sphere of liberality requires invoking both the desire for wealth and the desire to benefit others. Aristotle provides a convenient illustration of this point. He gives several examples of mean people who exceed in taking because they have a “sordid love of gain” (i.e. an excessive desire for wealth). But Aristotle also describes people who hoard money so “that they may not some day be forced to do something disgraceful” (1121b25–6) as mean people. These people treat wealth merely as a means, indeed as a means to virtuous action. They have the correct attitude, and presumably the correct desires toward wealth. How is it that they act wrongly? They must have the wrong attitude and passions toward other people. Ironically, their obsessive concern with acting rightly squeezes out the concern they should feel toward others, which in turn causes them to act wrongly.

The right rule of liberality Aristotle has the resources to respond to Hare’s demand for an action-guiding principle to deal with situations in which the passions of liberality conflict. He maintains that to each virtue there corresponds a standard (horos) or right rule (orthos logos) used by the virtuous person in determining how to act: [M] In all the states we have mentioned, as in all other matters, there is a mark to which the man who possesses reason looks, and heightens or relaxes his activity accordingly, and there is a standard which determines the mean states which we say are intermediate between excess and defect, being in accordance with right reason. (1138b21–5)

These right rules are not specific enough to say exactly which acts are virtuous in each situation (1109b14–26; repeated 1126a31–b9), but they do afford some guidance. Unfortunately, Aristotle is so negligent or reticent about providing them that some commentators do not think that Aristotle’s rules exist, or even that they could exist. Aristotle is praised by some and blamed by others for not providing these rules. However, Aristotle clearly sketches such a rule for temperance (1119a16–20) and for justice (1134a1–7). The right rule for courage is trivial: take risks of physical harm that are worth taking. The right rule for liberality is neither explicitly stated nor obvious, but it may be extrapolated from several statements that Aristotle does make. He says that prodigal people “soon exhaust their substance with giving” (1121a17–18). Moreover, [N] [They] make rich those who should be poor and will give nothing to people of respectable character and much to flatterers or those who provide them with some other pleasure. (1121b5–7)

By contrast, liberal people presumably should give to “people of respectable character,” but not to disreputable people or flatterers, or spend on the acquisition of costly


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(presumably intemperate) pleasures. Aristotle also says that some mean people are cheeseparers (people who shave very thinly the rind of their cheese instead of cutting it off). So presumably, liberal people should give substantial amounts, rather than merely niggling amounts to others. Other mean people “ply sordid trades” such as pimp, usurer, gamester, and thief, and “put up with a bad name for the sake of gain” (1121b17ff). Now the problem with pimping is that it degrades the buyers and the workers. Usurers make coercive offers to impoverished people. The gamester “makes gain from his friends to whom he ought to be giving” (1122a10–11). That is, gamesters take advantage of relationships to exploit people. And of course thieves steal from people. Liberal people should avoid all of these practices. They should not exploit customers, employees, the needy, or friends (in the broad, Aristotelian sense of friendship). They should not steal from anyone. From these remarks I infer the following rule specifying to whom and how much to give, and from whom and how much to take: [Right Rule of Liberality] Give substantial amounts, but only to people of respectable character. Do not impoverish yourself or spend money on inappropriate pleasures. Take from people who are willing to give, and take only what they can spare. Do not exploit, degrade, or steal from others.

Unsupplemented, this rule is far from providing sufficient guidance. What is a substantial amount? Who are the people of respectable character? Which pleasures are inappropriate? What counts as exploitation and degradation? On the other hand, this rule is far from useless. It does provide a framework for thinking about how to act liberally. It provides some guidance for reconciling the desire for wealth and the desire to benefit others when they seem to conflict. For example, giving to flatterers and bankrupting oneself are both ruled out. Thus, Aristotle (at least partially) meets Hare’s demand for specification of right action.

Liberality and the parameter doctrine Like all of Aristotle’s virtues, liberality is a disposition for getting the relevant parameters of action and passion right. Aristotle lists several parameters for liberal action: [O] The liberal man will give for the sake of the noble, and rightly; for he will give to the right people, the right amounts, and at the right time, with all the other qualifications that accompany right giving. (1120a24–6) The liberal man will both give and spend the right amounts and on the right objects, alike in small things and in great, and that with pleasure; he will also take the right amounts and from the right sources. (1120b28–31)

So the parameters of giving include people (to whom one gives), amount (the worth of what one gives), and time or occasion (when one gives). The parameters of taking include amount (the worth of what one takes) and source or people (from whom one

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takes).21 By adding the phrase, “all the other qualifications that accompany right giving,” Aristotle opens the door to other parameters. It is not much of an extrapolation to make the treatment of giving and taking symmetrical by adding an occasion parameter (when one takes) to taking. After all, it is important to take as well as to give at the right times. Are there other things that liberal people qua liberal get right? Are there other ways of failing to be liberal besides giving and/or taking the wrong amount from the wrong people, and/or on the wrong occasions? In his general remarks about parameters of virtues, Aristotle mentions what might be called the parameters of object and manner (1106b21–3; 1109a28). The virtuous person deals with the right objects “in the right way” or “as he ought” (hos dei). It might be thought that the object of liberality is simply wealth, and that the object parameter is not a separate, independent parameter. Now the object(s) of temperance might be lumped together under the term “sensual pleasure,” or spread out as food, drink, and sex, or listed in an even more fine-grained way as chocolate souffle´, chicken soup, chardonnay, cabernet, etc. Similarly, the object(s) of liberality might be labeled “wealth” or divided in various ways such as money, tools, toys, etc., or subdivided into even finer categories. One can go wrong by giving or taking the wrong object worth the right amount to the right person at the right time in the right way. Giving power tools to a toddler or diet books to a date would be illiberal, for example. Thus, the object parameter is not trivial. It is independent of the other parameters. The manner parameter is controversial. It does not refer to whether the virtuous act is performed condescendingly, or gracefully, or sincerely, etc. It does not refer to style, for styles do not differ from each other by degree. They do not form a single parameter. Taylor notes that “as one should” is listed last in Aristotle’s general remarks about parameters, and suggests that it sums up the list rather than being a parameter in its own right.22 However, it is not listed last in all of Aristotle’s other parameter lists (e.g. 1115b17–18). In his account of good temper (his most detailed treatment of parameters), Aristotle says, [P] The man who is angry at the right things and with the right people, and, further, as he ought, when he ought, and as long as he ought, is praised. . . . The good-tempered man tends . . . to be angry in the manner, at the things, and for the length of time, that reason dictates . . . Those who are not angry at the things they should be are thought to be fools, and so are those who are not angry in the right way, at the right time, or with the right persons . . . The excess can be manifested in all the points (for one can be angry with the wrong persons, at the wrong things, more than is right, too quickly, or too long). (1125b31–1126a11)

The last sentence of passage [P] claims to list the same five parameters as the first sentence, and the other sentences list some of these five. When these are compared, the

21

I shall discuss the goal parameter (that for the sake of which liberal acts are done) below. C. C. W. Taylor, “Commentary,” Nicomachean Ethics: Books II–IV, by Aristotle, trans. C. C. W. Taylor (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006) 105. 22


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person who is angry “as he ought” corresponds to the person who is not angry “more than is right.” The manner parameter turns out to be the amount parameter. Thus, there is no justification for adding a separate manner parameter to Aristotle’s account of liberality. At first glance, the people, amount, and occasion parameters might seem interdependent. They are actually independent, however, because a certain amount of wealth may be insufficient or superfluous to accomplish some particular goal. Giving a few pennies per month to the homeless is almost pointless, for example. Helping impoverished people requires larger donations. Stewart donates to the right people (deserving, needy people) on the right occasions (whenever he has extra money), but he does not give enough money per person. That is, he gives each person a tiny, useless amount and ends up with lots of undistributed extra money. Stewart’s illiberality is that he goes wrong with respect to the amount parameter. Tulip’s total donations are appropriate to her circumstances and she gives to the needy, but she gives each person much more than he or she can use whenever she gives because she gives too rarely. Tulip gets the people and amount parameters right; her illiberality is that she goes wrong with respect to the occasion parameter. Finally, Ursula donates the right total amount on the right occasions, but spreads her contributions over too few people. She makes a few people very wealthy while allowing other, equally deserving people to starve. Ursula goes wrong with respect to the people parameter. Thus, the people, amount, and occasion parameters are independent. Aristotle applies these parameters to passions as well as actions. The virtuous person feels the right degree of passion, on the right occasions, toward the right people, about the right objects. Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean says that the right amount of each parameter of each passion is a mean between excess and deficiency. Since liberality governs two different passions, one can go wrong with respect to either or both of them, and with respect to any parameter(s). Some prodigal people have an excessive desire to give, or a desire to give excessively, or both. These prodigals want to benefit all of the right people plus more (1121b3–7), and/or they want to give more than people need, and/or they are desperately anxious to benefit others when the others are not desperately needy, and/or they want to give on inappropriate occasions as well as appropriate ones. Other prodigals have an insufficient desire for wealth, or a desire for insufficient wealth, or both. Similarly, some mean people have the right sort of desire for wealth, yet go wrong because they have insufficient desire to benefit others, while other mean people have the right desire to help others, yet go wrong because of their excessive desire to keep what money they have. After all, Aristotle says, “meanness we always impute to those who care more than they ought for wealth” (1119b28–30). Or they may desire a too large amount of wealth. Or they may go to excess along one or more of the other parameters.

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Liberality and the doctrine of the mean Some of what Aristotle says about the vices of liberality is more-or-less straightforward. He says, for example, that it is possible to have a vice in different ways: [Q] There seem to be many kinds of meanness. For it consists in two things, deficiency in giving and excess in taking, and is not found complete in all cases but is sometimes divided: some men go to excess in taking, others fall short in giving. (1121b17–21)

The miser and the pimp are both mean, for example, though the miser falls short in giving and the pimp exceeds in taking. Presumably, there are many kinds of prodigality, too. Moreover, a single person can combine both vices by going to excess with respect to giving and being deficient with respect taking or vice versa. Just as Aristotle mentions the possibility of rash cowards (1115b31–2), so he says that it is possible, indeed common, to be both mean and prodigal. “Most prodigal people . . . also take from the wrong sources, and are in this respect mean” (1121a30–2). Aristotle rather casually alludes to what might be called his relativity doctrine, the doctrine that what counts as a virtuous action, passion, or desire depends upon the situation. A passion that is medial in one situation may be extreme in another (1106a29–b4). For example, courage does not just demand that one always stand and fight. Sometimes this is what one should do, but when the gain is minimal and one is facing overwhelming odds, then standing fast is stupid and rash. Aristotle applies this doctrine to his account of liberality thus: [R] The term “liberality” is used relatively to a man’s substance; for liberality resides not in the multitude of the gifts but in the state of the giver, and this is relative to the giver’s substance. There is therefore nothing to prevent the man who gives less from being the more liberal man, if he has less to give. (1120b7–11)

This doctrine will be crucial to understanding the relationship between liberality and magnificence.23 Deficiency or excess? The doctrine of the mean says that to each virtue there corresponds a vice of excess and a vice of deficiency. Now Aristotle does not say which of liberality’s two companion vices is the excessive disposition and which the deficiency. Indeed, what Aristotle does say obfuscates the matter: [S] Prodigality exceeds in giving and not taking, and falls short in taking, while meanness falls short in giving, and exceeds in taking, except in small things. (1121a14–15) 23 The interpretation of Aristotle’s relativity doctrine is contested. See L. Brown, “What is ‘the mean relative to us’ in Aristotle’s Ethics?” Phronesis 42 (1997): 77n2, 81n12; H. Curzer, “Aristotle’s Mean Relative to Us,” American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly, 80 (2006): 507–19; S. Leighton, “Relativizing Moral Excellence in Aristotle,” Apeiron 25 (1992): 49–66; S. Leighton, “The Mean Relative to Us,” Apeiron 28 (1995): 67–78.


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Probably Aristotle inserts the qualification “except in small things” in order to bring passage [S] into conformity with passage [C]. The puzzle that I want to focus upon is that, in passage [S], each vice exceeds with respect to one type of act and is deficient with respect to the other. Irwin takes prodigality to be the vice of excess, and meanness to be the vice of deficiency.24 This view makes sense if one focuses upon the actions of liberality. Liberality is more about giving than taking (1119b23–6; 1120a8–23), and with respect to giving, prodigal people exceed while mean people are deficient. Moreover, vulgarity involves overspending and is labeled the vice of excess for magnificence, while niggardliness involves under-spending and is magnificence’s vice of deficiency. On the other hand, Young focuses upon the values that lie behind the actions of liberality. He maintains that mean people give too little and/or take too much because they overvalue wealth. Conversely, prodigal people give too much and/ or take too little because they undervalue wealth. If the attitude toward wealth is taken to be central to liberality, meanness turns out to be the vice of excess and prodigality is the vice of deficiency.25 Both answers are plausible, but the question is misguided. Although in passage [S] Aristotle describes mean people as deficient in giving and excessive in taking, he later turns a deficiency into an excess by describing the mean cheeseparer as having an “excess of unwillingness to give anything” (1121b27–8), instead of a deficient desire to give. This maneuver makes meanness the clear vice of excess (for both mean actions and desires); prodigality the vice of deficiency. Alternatively, Aristotle could say that prodigality is giving and/or refusing wealth too much; meanness is the opposite. This would make prodigality the clear vice of excess; meanness the vice of deficiency. In general, whether an act or passion is termed “excessive” or “deficient” depends upon how the parameters are described, a purely verbal matter. It seems that Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean merely asserts that each virtue is bracketed by a pair of vices. Which vice ends up labeled “vice of excess” and which vice is labeled “vice of deficiency” is arbitrary.26 One vice or two? Aristotle often observes that the vices bracketing a virtue are asymmetrical. In the case of liberality, meanness is more common and worse than prodigality. Now usually when Aristotle says that one vice is better than the other, he means that it is less harmful to the agent and/or to others, but here Aristotle says that the prodigal person is better than the mean person for a different, and problematic reason:

24 T. Irwin, “Notes,” Nicomachean Ethics 2nd ed., by Aristotle, trans. T. Irwin (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1999) 217–18. 25 Young, “Liberality,” 329–30. I shall argue below that mean and prodigal people respectively do not overvalue and undervalue wealth. 26 The passions of courage display a pattern similar to liberality. Cowardice is excessive fear and/or deficient confidence; rashness is the opposite. But sometimes Aristotle describes the insufficiently fearful person as exceeding in fearlessness (1115b24–5).

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[T] [The prodigal person] is easily cured both by age and by poverty, and thus he may move towards the middle state. For he has the characteristics of the liberal man, since he both gives and refrains from taking, though he does neither of these in the right manner or well. Therefore, if he were brought to do so by habituation or in some other way, he would be liberal . . . This is why he is thought to have not a bad character; it is not the mark of a wicked or ignoble man to go to excess in giving and not taking, but only of a foolish one. The man who is prodigal in this way is thought much better than the mean man both for the aforesaid reasons and because he benefits many while the other benefits no one, not even himself. (1121a20–30; see also 1121b10–12)

The problem posed by passage [T] is that it suggests that prodigality is not a vice at all. The prodigal person is not said to be bad, wicked, or ignoble, but only foolish. Moreover, Aristotle is quite explicit elsewhere that vicious people are incorrigible (1114a19–21; 1150b29–36), but here he says that the prodigal person is better than the mean person because the prodigal person is “easily cured.” Indeed, it seems that the cure will happen automatically as the prodigal person ages or runs out of money, and the cure can be expedited by habituation. Passage [T] is a mistake. If Aristotle were to stand by passage [T], then his account of liberality would be one vice short, and thus would fail to conform to the doctrine of the mean. Moreover, Aristotle would be ignoring a relevant though rare type of person. Aristotle should go on to distinguish two sorts of people: the true prodigal people who are incurably wicked, but mercifully uncommon, and the people described in passage [T], who seem superficially similar to true prodigals, but who are actually merely foolish and therefore curable in the ways Aristotle mentions.27 Generous to a fault? The amount parameter requires further analysis. Clearly, people whose overall donation level is too low for their financial situation are mean, indeed paradigmatically mean. But does it make sense to say that some people give too much, overall? Is it possible to be excessively generous? Aristotle’s architectonic dictates the following answer. By definition, virtues are character traits that are generally in one’s overall best interest to have. True, in rare situations courage leads people to perform acts that are not in their overall best interest. Soldiers sacrifice themselves for the sake of the cause, parents for their children, etc. However, courage is a virtue because one is generally better off with the character trait of courage than with cowardice, rashness, incontinence with respect to risk, or any alternative trait governing the sphere of physical harm. Similarly, liberality may not always pay, but it is more likely to pay than are the alternatives. That is, a liberal person is more likely to end up happy than a non-liberal person, other things being equal. Thus, Aristotle can say that a disposition to give so much that one’s overall best interest is compromised cannot be a liberal disposition because it is a disposition to give too

27

For an account of what makes a vicious person incurable, see ch.17.


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much. A disposition to sacrifice one’s happiness is a vice. Of course, Aristotle does not subscribe to common-sense accounts of happiness as sensual pleasure or power or any of the goods of fortune. But he does think that a modicum of money is necessary for virtuous activity and so for happiness. One needs enough money to buy armor so that one can perform courageous acts, enough money to purchase enough food so that one can eat temperately, etc. So Aristotle is committed to the view that one can give away too much of one’s wealth. People who regularly deprive themselves of the necessities in order to benefit others are excessively generous. Since there is such a thing as giving away too much, the amount parameter of liberality fits the doctrine of the mean. This account clashes with a common, contemporary belief about benevolence, however. Most people believe that those who dedicate themselves to poverty in order to help others are saintly rather than vicious.28 Some hold this view because they think that wealth is completely unnecessary for happiness. Others think that virtues are not to be defined as traits conducive to one’s own happiness. Aristotle acknowledges that people who go to extremes in benefiting others are not thought to be vicious, although he does not go so far as to admire such people. Aristotle says that the prodigal person “is thought to have not a bad character . . . but only a foolish one” in passage [T]. I shall argue in the next chapter that Aristotle’s account of magnificence captures the intuition underlying the view that people who go to extremes in helping others are saintly rather than vicious, without violating Aristotle’s own doctrine of the mean. I shall interpret Aristotle as maintaining that people who donate more, act better than those who donate less, but only up to a point. Non-quantitative character flaws? Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean says that for each parameter of virtuous action, the right amount is a mean between excess and deficiency. If a person goes to one extreme or another with respect to one or more parameters, then the person is vicious. Most of the parameters of Aristotle’s account of liberality unproblematically fit this part of his doctrine of the mean. One can give to (or take from) too many people or too few, on too many occasions or too few, etc. However, some errors do not seem to be quantitative: they seem to be neither excesses nor deficiencies. One sort of problem is solvable by mere redescription. A person can tend to give to the right number of people, but the wrong people, for example. Luckily, this sort of vice can be described as giving too much to the wrong people, and too little to the right ones, so it is not a counterexample to the claim that liberal action is a mean.29 Do some mean people value wealth inappropriately, but not excessively? The liberal person “does not value wealth for its own sake but as a means to giving” (1120b15–17). After all, the life of money-making is not the happy life because “wealth . . . is merely 28

Hunt 71–6. I address parallel objections raised by Hursthouse to Aristotle’s accounts of courage and temperance in the preceding chapters. See Hursthouse, “A False Doctrine of the Mean,” 57–72. 29

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useful and for the sake of something else” (1096a6–7). So liberal people value wealth as an instrumental good. By contrast, some people value wealth as an intrinsic good. They want to acquire and retain wealth for its own sake. These people seem to be lacking in liberality, yet not excessive or deficient with respect to any parameter. They pose a threat to the doctrine of the mean that cannot be resolved by mere redescription. Young suggests that their difference of attitude leads to a difference in degree of desire. People who take wealth to be an intrinsic good end up overvaluing wealth and desiring it excessively.30 Unfortunately, although most people who misvalue wealth probably do overvalue and excessively desire wealth (e.g. misers), other mean people (e.g. Hare’s good steward) value wealth as an intrinsic good, but desire it moderately or even mildly. Wealth might be only a minor part of a large collection of goods that Quentin considers intrinsically valuable, so Quentin values wealth for its own sake, but not much. Worse yet, people who value wealth instrumentally may value wealth even more than others who value it intrinsically. Rachael, the liberal, is desperately anxious to help many others who are in desperate circumstances, so she desperately desires great wealth. Meanwhile Quentin is only moderately desirous of a bit more money for himself.31 Similarly, some people who misvalue wealth undervalue and insufficiently desire helping others. But misvaluing wealth is not inevitably linked with an insufficient desire to help others, either. Suppose Quentin values wealth intrinsically, but the right amount, and also rightly values benefiting other people. If he also acts rightly, Quentin looks like a counterexample to the doctrine of the mean, for he seems to be a vicious person who does not go to excess or deficiency with respect to any parameter of action or passion. Aristotle might plausibly deny that there are any such people. Surely Quentin’s pursuit of wealth as an end in itself will lead him to go wrong with respect to something. Alternatively, Aristotle might deny that such people are vicious! If Quentin reliably acts and feels medially with respect to all of the parameters, where is the vice? Admittedly, Quentin has a mistaken conception of the happy life, but as I argue in chapter 14, that prevents him from having proper virtue, but not natural virtue.

Liberality and the motive doctrine Aristotle’s account of liberality does not quite fit his motive doctrine, but all it needs is a bit of tweaking. Aristotle says, “The liberal man, like other virtuous men, will give for the sake of the noble, and rightly” (1120a24–5). Liberal people give not only to the right people, at the right time, etc. but also because such giving is noble, that is, because Young, “Liberality,” 329. No parallel problem afflicts prodigality because all prodigal people consider wealth to be merely an instrumental good. Aristotle says that prodigal people may be cured merely by redirecting their giving and taking (1121a20–5), for they already have the right attitude toward wealth. Since both liberal and prodigal people value wealth in the same way, Young must be mistaken to suggest that prodigal people undervalue wealth because they do not see the importance of wealth in leading a good life. See Young, “Liberality,” 329. 30 31


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it is the right thing to do. Naturally, liberal people experience noble pleasure from knowing that they are performing liberal acts. Acts are noble for reasons, and performed by virtuous people at least partially for these reasons. Obviously, liberal actions aim at accomplishing something. Liberal people perform liberal acts to benefit others. Corresponding to this goal, liberal acts provide a warm glow of satisfaction when they forward the happiness of the recipients. This is liberality’s proper pleasure. Other virtuous acts risk some characteristic loss, even as they strive to accomplish something. They always involve fear as well as confidence. Courageous acts, for example, are always performed in situations where fear of physical harm is appropriate. Do liberal acts risk any characteristic loss? Does liberality have a proper pain? It must be admitted that Aristotle does not mention any characteristic loss or proper pain of liberality. Indeed, Aristotle says that, [U] [The liberal person gives] with pleasure or without pain; for that which is virtuous is pleasant or free from pain—least of all will it be painful32 . . . Nor is he liberal who gives with pain; for he would prefer the wealth to the noble act, and this is not characteristic of a liberal man. (1120a26–32)

Nevertheless, I suggest that Aristotle could have, and should have, brought liberality into line with the other virtues by allowing liberal acts to risk loss and have a proper pain. Several losses might be proper to liberality. Liberal givers tend to leave too little for themselves (1120b4–6), so they risk the pain of running short of money for their own needs and appropriate wants.33 Liberal givers also risk ingratitude. Ingratitude is not so devastating as poverty, but it can still hurt. Third, people that have made their own money find it especially dear (1120b11–14), so if it is wasted by the person to whom they give it, they may find the waste to be especially painful.34 Aristotle correctly observes that courageous acts can be overall painful if they are unsuccessful (1117b9–16). Similarly, after acknowledging that liberal acts have risks, he should go on to maintain that liberal acts may yield more pain than pleasure when they fail to accomplish their end, even for virtuous people. Thus, a liberal person performing an unsuccessful liberal act may find the act to be, on balance, painful, just as a courageous person may find a failed courageous act to be painful.35 For example, if Petrov skips a meal in order to give money to an ungrateful bum who squanders his gift on drunken binges, then Petrov might be pained by his liberal act.

Indeed, it seems that Aristotle is not entitled to the “without pain” alternative. In the process of narrowing the sphere of courage, Aristotle does say that “poverty and disease we perhaps ought not to fear . . . ” (1115a17). But actually Aristotle thinks that the loss of health is bad and should be feared; after all he says that we should fear injuries. Since wealth, like health, is an external good, Aristotle should maintain that the loss of wealth is bad and ought to be feared. After all, a modicum of wealth is necessary for the good life. 34 The idea that such waste can be painful was suggested to me by R. Hursthouse. 35 Extrapolating from Aristotle’s treatment of courage, Aquinas attributes to Aristotle the view that liberal people sometimes feel some sadness upon performing liberal acts. See Aquinas 216. 32 33

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Overall, liberality has almost the same motivational structure as the other Aristotelian virtues, and the difference could be erased with a simple modification.

Liberality and idealization Some interpreters of Aristotle take him to be engaged in the project of sketching the ideal character. Aristotle does make remarks that suggest this. He says for example, [V] The sense of disgrace is not even characteristic of a good man, since it is consequent on bad actions . . . and the good man will never voluntarily do bad actions. (1128b22–32; see also 1100b19–34; 1166a27–9; EE 1228a5–7)

However, Aristotle asserts at numerous points that virtue comes in degrees. For example he says in passage [R] that some liberal people are “more liberal” than others. Again, he explicitly says, [W] People may be more just or brave, and it is possible also to act justly or temperately more or less. (1173a20–2; see also 1117b9–11; 1123b26–30; 1168a33–5; 1172a10–14)

Of course, if some liberal people are less liberal than others, then they are virtuous, yet imperfect people. They are not ideal people.36 A virtuous person can deviate from the ideal with respect to any of the parameters without ceasing to be virtuous. Virtue is a threshold concept for Aristotle. Indeed, if virtuous people were perfectly virtuous, there would be no room in Aristotle’s theory for heroically virtuous people. Aristotle says something even more surprising. He indicates that virtuous people sometimes act wrongly while remaining virtuous. For example, Aristotle observes that illiberal acts are painful to the liberal person: [X] If he happens to spend in a manner contrary to what is right and noble, he will be pained but moderately and as he ought . . . Further, the liberal man is easy to deal with in money matters; for he can be got the better of, since he sets no store by money, and is more annoyed if he has not spent something that he ought than pained if he has spent something that he ought not. (1121a1–7)

Could Aristotle be speaking hypothetically here? Could he be saying that if, per impossible, a liberal person were to act wrongly, then the liberal person would be pained? No, for Aristotle also says, [Y] It is highly characteristic of a liberal man to go to excess in giving, so that he leaves too little for himself; for it is the nature of a liberal man not to look to himself. (1120b4–6; see also 1125b35–1126a3; 1136b19–21; 1122b4–6; 1127b7–8)

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Could passage [Y] mean that liberal people tend to perform liberal acts bordering on prodigality? No. The liberal person in passage [Y] goes “to excess in giving.” He or she does not “go almost to excess,” or “go in the direction of excess.”37 Indeed, the liberal person’s very liberality drives him or her to excess! Strangely, a person’s virtue may itself cause the person to act wrongly. Of course, if a certain aspect of a person’s character frequently drives him or her to vice, then that aspect can hardly be called a virtue.38 So Aristotle must be talking about rare occasions. The tension between passage [V], on the one hand, and passages [X] and [Y], on the other does not require us to jettison any passages. Ethics is a practical science, not a theoretical one. Statements about ethics, like statements in other practical sciences, hold only “for the most part” (1094b12–27; 1098a25–34). So when Aristotle says in passage [V] that virtuous people act rightly, he can be claiming no more than that virtuous people usually act rightly. In particular, they can go wrong with respect to the occasion parameter, but without going so far wrong as to fall outside of the range of virtue. Liberal people can “spend in a manner contrary to what is right and noble” so long as their illiberal acts are sufficiently rare.39 The liberal person can occasionally “not spend something that he ought” or spend “something that he ought not.” Overall, Aristotle rejects the idea that all virtuous people are ideally virtuous. In the NE Aristotle is sketching a good person, not a perfect person.

Conclusion I have argued that liberality is a single virtue. It is not a conglomeration of four, merely incidentally related character traits governing gift-giving, spending money, accepting gifts, and earning money. The reason is that in the account of liberality, spending money is restricted to spending on others, accepting gifts is restricted to accepting on behalf of others, and earning is restricted to making money for the sake of others. Liberality is simply Aristotle’s virtue of gift-giving, of economic benevolence. Nor is liberality a botched blend of two incompatible virtues, as Hare claims—one governing wealth, and the other concerned with benefiting others. One reason is that the desire for wealth and the desire to help others intertwine in a properly motivated person. Another reason is that the crucial task of practical wisdom in each situation is to reach the right balance between two incommensurable goods: maintaining one’s wealth so that one can keep helping people in the future, and benefiting other people in the present situation. These represent, respectively, the feeling side and the reasoning side of choice.

37 Taylor suggests that the liberal person gives “more than normal” or “more than expected.” But throughout the rest of Aristotle’s account of liberality, and indeed the rest of the NE, Aristotle uses “excess” to mean “more than medial.” See, Taylor 207. 38 Aristotle does deny that virtue can cause wrongdoing (1129a11–17). 39 S. Drefcinski, “Aristotle’s Fallible Phronimos,” Ancient Philosophy 16 (1996): 151–3.

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The sphere of liberality is roughly the intersection of situations involving wealth and benefiting other people. It consists of situations in which benefiting others economically is an issue. Aristotle’s account of liberality seems incomplete but not ultimately problematic. Aristotle does not clearly explain the relationship between liberality and justice. He neglects to mention some parameters of giving and taking and some failure modes of liberality. Aristotle should also have listed a characteristic loss and corresponding proper pain for liberality. These oversights are easily mended. With a bit of tweaking, liberality can be made to fit Aristotle’s architectonic. A more serious threat is that some people value wealth intrinsically without valuing it excessively. They seem to be counterexamples to the doctrine of the mean, but ultimately they are not counterexamples. Such people lack the understanding of happiness that would qualify them as properly virtuous, but they do have the natural virtue of liberality. Aristotle’s account of liberality also reveals some additional aspects of Aristotle’s architectonic. First, although Aristotle is far from forthcoming about the right rules for the virtues, he does, at least sometimes, give enough information to assemble such rules. In particular, the right rule for liberality is approximately this. Give what you can spare to respectable people, and take donations and payments without impoverishing, degrading, exploiting, or thieving from anyone. Second, although Aristotle says that each virtue is bracketed by vices, he thinks it is arbitrary which vice we label “excess” and which we label “deficiency.” Third, Aristotle considers virtue to be a matter of degree above a threshold, rather than an all-or-nothing ideal. Indeed, some character traits are good enough to qualify as a virtue, yet contain the sort of flaw that causes the agent to act wrongly. Fourth, expressions of virtue are relative to the situation. A donation that would be liberal for one person may be mean for another and prodigal for a third. Aristotle deserves credit for capturing several modern intuitions about liberality and for correcting others. First, Aristotle does include a virtue of benevolence in his list of virtues, although the fact that it is limited to economic goods leaves a serious hole in his theory. Second, Aristotle does not take spending money on oneself to be morally better or worse than hoarding the money; the morally relevant question is how much one gives and spends to benefit others. Third, Aristotle sees that the failure modes in the sphere of wealth include not only excessive desire for wealth and desire for excessive wealth, but also valuing and desiring wealth intrinsically rather than instrumentally.

5 Magnificence and Heroic Virtue (NE IV.2)

Introduction What is the sphere of Aristotelian magnificence (megaloprepeia)? In particular, how is it distinguished from liberality? Magnificence is usually thought to be large-scale liberality; its sphere is great wealth, while liberality’s sphere is moderate wealth. Like other virtues, magnificence is thought to fit the doctrine of the mean. Its vices are vulgarity (banausos) which is desiring great wealth too little and thus spending too much, and niggardliness (microprepeia) which is desiring great wealth too much and thus spending too little. But this answer conflicts with several of Aristotle’s particular remarks and several general Aristotelian doctrines. I argue that liberality and magnificence are not separate virtues differing merely by scale. Instead, magnificence is heroic liberality. It is the version of liberality possessed by Aristotle’s heroically virtuous person. In addition to solving the various interpretative problems that the usual interpretation cannot solve, taking magnificence to be heroic liberality captures an important moral intuition, the intuition that, within limits, the more generous a person is, the better.

Magnificence and the scale of expenditure Aristotle’s account of magnificence begins with the assertion that, like liberality, “magnificence is a virtue concerned with wealth” (1122a19). This claim threatens the doctrine of disjoint spheres that Aristotle works so hard to maintain elsewhere. So Aristotle goes on to distinguish the spheres of these virtues. [A] Magnificence . . . does not like liberality extend to all the actions that are concerned with wealth, but only to those that involve expenditure; and in these it surpasses liberality in scale. (1122a20–3; see also 1107b17–19 and 1125b1–4)

Naturally enough, most commentators take him to believe that magnificence is the character trait of spending great wealth well, while liberality is the character trait of

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spending (and giving, earning, and accepting) ordinary amounts of wealth well. Following Young, I shall call this the scale thesis.1 People who moderately manage moderate money do not necessarily spend smoothly among the rich. Irwin suggests, for example, that unlike liberal spending, magnificent spending needs the dispositions to (a) spend in good taste, (b) spend for the public good, (c) reject bad advice, (d) cooperate with others, and (e) be patient.2 However, distinguishing magnificence from liberality by scale in this way creates several interpretive problems when combined with the following asymmetry claim: [B] The magnificent man is liberal, but the liberal man is not necessarily magnificent. (1122a28–9)

(1) Irwin observes that passage [B] seems to conflict with the following passage: [C] We may also refute the dialectical argument whereby it might be contended that the virtues exist in separation from each other; the same man, it might be said, is not best equipped by nature for all the virtues, so that he will have already acquired one when he has not yet acquired another. This is possible in respect of the natural virtues, but not in respect of those in respect of which a man is called without qualification good; for with the presence of the one quality, practical wisdom, will be given all the virtues. (1144b32–1145a2)

Here Aristotle asserts that a person who has one proper virtue has them all. A person needs every virtue in order to have any virtue. Irwin calls this the Reciprocity of Virtue Thesis. If liberality and magnificence are distinct virtues, one governing the sphere of moderate wealth, the other governing the sphere of great wealth, then it follows from passage [C] that a person with liberality must have magnificence. But that is just what passage [B] denies.3 (2) Irwin also raises the following problem. If the Reciprocity of Virtue Thesis is true, then in order to live a virtuous life Ignatius needs every virtue. In particular, Ignatius needs magnificence. Now if magnificence is the virtue governing the spending of great wealth, then no one except the rich can develop or exercise magnificence. So no one except the rich can lead the happy life. This is counterintuitive, to say the least. Great wealth may make happiness easier to obtain, but it is certainly not a necessary condition of happiness. Moreover, the claim that only the rich can be happy is incompatible with Aristotle’s claims that happiness requires only moderate amounts of the external goods. [D] We must not think that the man who is to be happy will need many things or great things . . . for even with moderate advantages one can act virtuously . . . and it is enough that we should have so much as that; for the life of the man who is active in accordance with virtue will be happy. (1179a1–9)

Young also advances other objections to the scale thesis. See Young, “Liberality,” 314–17. T. Irwin, “Disunity in the Aristotelian Virtues,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy, supplement (1988) 63. 3 Irwin rejects the asymmetry of passage [B] (Irwin, “Disunity,” 72). I reject the claim that magnificence is a distinct virtue. 1 2

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Finally, Aristotle thinks that happiness is generally shared (1099b17–20), but great wealth is obviously not generally shared.4 (3) Young observes that if magnificence and liberality were dispositions dedicated to different levels of spending, then there would be no reason to accept the asymmetry of passage [B].5 Some people have the character traits necessary for proper big spending, but not the character traits necessary for proper moderate spending. Others have the reverse. Of course, the nouveau riche commit spending blunders, but so do bankrupt, formerly rich people. The disposition for dealing well with great wealth is not simply the disposition for dealing well with moderate wealth plus more. So the attempt to distinguish magnificence and liberality by scale clashes with passage [B]. (4) In the following passages Aristotle applies his relativity doctrine to liberality, posing another objection to the scale thesis: [E] The term “liberality” is used relatively to a man’s substance; for liberality resides not in the multitude of the gifts but in the state of the giver, and this is relative to the giver’s substance. There is therefore nothing to prevent the man who gives less from being the more liberal man, if he has less to give. Those are thought to be more liberal who have not made their wealth but inherited it. (1120b7–12) The liberal man will both give and spend the right amounts and on the right objects, alike in small things and in great. (1120b28–30)6

Here Aristotle stipulates that what counts as a liberal act depends partially upon the wealth of the person. An amount of money that would count as a liberal gift from the Rockefellers would not count as a liberal gift from me, and vice versa. Thus, liberality governs spending at all levels of wealth, not merely medium levels. If the sphere of magnificence is great wealth, then liberality includes magnificence, reversing passage [B]. (5) If magnificence and liberality differed merely by scale of expenditure (plus a restriction to the activity of spending), then the vices bracketing magnificence would simply be dispositions to spend too much or too little in situations calling for large-scale expenditure. But this is not the way in which Aristotle characterizes vulgarity and niggardliness. Instead, Aristotle says, [F] The man who goes to excess and is vulgar exceeds . . . by spending beyond what is right. For on small objects of expenditure he spends much and displays a tasteless showiness . . . Where he ought to spend much he spends little and where little, much. The niggardly man on the other hand will fall short in everything, and after spending the greatest sums will spoil the beauty of the result for a trifle. (1123a19–29)

Irwin, “Disunity,” 73. Young accepts the asymmetry of passage [B] and rejects the scale thesis of passage [A]. See Young, “Liberality,” 316–17. 6 Aristotle also maintains (though perhaps less clearly) that what counts as a magnificent act depends upon the wealth of the person (1122a24–6; 1122b23–6). 4 5

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Although Aristotle emphasizes that vulgar people tend to overspend, the fact that they sometimes spend little when they should spend much shows that their flaw is not essentially overspending. Rather they err by tasteless spending. Similarly, the flaw of niggardly people is not essentially underspending, for they spend “the greatest sums.” Instead, they go wrong by “spoiling the beauty of the result.” Vulgar people fail to achieve a fitting result because they are show-offs; niggardly people fail because they cut the wrong corners. (6) When Aristotle compares liberal and magnificent acts, he says that, [G] At an equal expense [the magnificent person] will produce a more magnificent result [than the liberal person]. (1122b13–14)

So liberal and magnificent people in the same situations sometimes spend the same amount. Moreover, liberal and magnificent acts may differ even when the expenditure is the same. This passage directly contradicts the thesis that liberality and magnificence govern different levels of spending. Moreover, passage [G] suggests that they differ in some other way, some way that can be manifested in different results “at an equal expense.” (7) I suggest that to spend well, the rich and the non-rich need the same habits of action and passion. In particular, the dispositions listed by Irwin are necessary for dealing properly with any amount of wealth. This is, perhaps, obscured by the fact that, being in different situations, the non-rich and the rich need different bits of information to spend well. But information and character traits are separate items. People in Texas and Timbuktu need different bits of information in order to spend well, but that does not prevent them from needing the same virtues. Aristotle postulates different virtues for different spheres of life, not for different situations in life.7 The fact that spending well at any level requires the same dispositions may also be obscured by the fact that some people spend only big money well, while others spend well except when spending big money. However, we need not postulate two virtues to explain this. Although temperance governs all sorts of drinking, some people can handle social, but not solo drinking; others the reverse. Neither group of drinkers is temperate. Similarly, neither group of spenders is liberal. Anyway, if the character traits needed for spending well at all levels are the same, then magnificence and liberality cannot differ merely by scale of expenditure. All in all, the scale thesis is incompatible with (1) the Reciprocity of Virtue Thesis in passage [C], (2) the availability of happiness to the non-rich in passage [D], (3) the asymmetry of liberality and magnificence in passage [B], (4) the relativity doctrine in passage [E], (5) the doctrine of the mean in passage [F], (6) the claim that liberal and magnificent spending of the same amount may differ in passage [G], and (7) my claim that spending well at all levels requires the same character traits. Despite passage [A], the scale thesis has got to go. But how then are liberality and magnificence to be distinguished?

7 See Brown 77–93; Curzer, “Aristotle’s Mean Relative to Us,” 507–19; Leighton, “Relativizing Moral Excellence in Aristotle,” 49–66; Leighton, “The Mean Relative to Us,” 67–78.


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Magnificent acts and heroic virtue Aristotle explicitly addresses the scale of magnificent action in several statements: [H] The man who in small or middling things spends according to the merits of the case is not called magnificent. . . . but only the man who does so in great things. For the magnificent man is liberal, but the liberal man is not necessarily magnificent. (1122a26–9) A poor man cannot be magnificent, since he has not the means with which to spend large sums fittingly. (1122b26–8)

Here Aristotle asserts that liberal people who properly spend only moderate amounts are not magnificent. To be magnificent a person must sometimes spend large amounts well. But how could liberal people not spend “according to the merits of the case . . . in great things,” especially in light of Aristotle’s claim in passage [E] that liberal people spend rightly “alike in small things and in great?” Is Aristotle saying that these people would properly spend large amounts if only they had large amounts to spend?8 No. States of character are dispositions. People who can be counted on to act and feel courageously in risky situations are courageous, even if no risky situations arise. Similarly, poor people who would properly spend large amounts if only they had the money are magnificent people. When Aristotle says that poor people cannot be magnificent, he does not mean that they can possess, but cannot exercise magnificence. Instead, he is applying his general thesis that acquiring and retaining virtues takes practice. Poor people cannot develop and maintain the character trait of magnificence because they lack the opportunity to perform magnificent acts.9 Passage [H] says that some liberal people lack magnificence. In situations calling for large spending, they do not reliably spend properly. But passage [E] says that spending properly in a situation calling for large spending is a liberal act. Together, passages [E] and [H] imply that some liberal people do not act liberally in situations calling for large spending. Their acts are niggardly or vulgar.10 Like the liberal people who “spend in a manner contrary to what is right and noble” (1121a1–2), the people described in passage [H] who do not spend “according to the merits of the case” are liberal people acting wrongly. Why do they act wrongly? The liberal people of passage [H] do not seem to err because of ignorance or moral dilemmas. Nor are they sporadically stingy liberals, for they do not suffer irregular character lapses. Instead, they reliably act wrongly in situations calling for large-scale spending. Nor are they liberal-to-a-fault; indeed they are not as liberal as they could be. Nor are the liberal people of passage [H] driven to act illiberally by the lack of courage, temperance, or some other virtue. I shall argue that situations that call for spending big money are nerve-wracking situations where

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C. D. C. Reeve, Practices of Reason (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992) 170n42. If “the case” means “the situation” rather than merely “the project,” then it includes the wealth of the agent (passage [C] again). So a poor person who declines to undertake an expensive project is spending “according to the merits of the case.” 10 They need not be niggardly or vulgar people. They might be incontinent, for example. 9

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spending liberally is beyond what we can reasonably expect of people. That is, the liberal people of passage [H] act excusably illiberally in these situations. They act illiberally because they are merely liberal rather than heroically liberal.11 Aristotle lists some examples of large-scale, magnificent spending. His examples include religious spending (votive offerings, buildings, and sacrifices), civic spending (equipping a chorus, equipping a trireme, and entertaining the city “in a brilliant way”), and private/public spending (weddings, things that interest the whole city, and hosting of foreign dignitaries plus giving them suitable gifts) (1122b20–3; 1122b35–1123a4). All of these projects are presumably terrifically expensive,12 but they differ from ordinary acts of liberal spending in two other ways, too. First, they are aimed at the public good rather than at the good of particular individuals. Second, each of them is a single spending project rather than a cluster of projects. “The man who can say ‘many a gift I gave the wanderer’” (1122a27) is merely liberal, even though he may spend as much on his many gifts to individuals as the magnificent person spends on a single, civic scheme. Spending big money on one project is scary, even if one has enough to spend. Suppose that both Jehosophat and Kali are very well off. Jehosophat donates 10 percent of his income to a variety of different charities; Kali donates 10 percent of her income to a single project. For example, suppose she founds a library for her community. Because she is more associated with, and more invested in her project than Jehosophat is in each of his projects, Kali may play a much larger role in her project, spending more time, thought, effort, etc. She also runs risks that Jehosophat does not. For example, if there are cost overruns or management difficulties, Kali may find herself devoting much more money or time or energy than originally budgeted in order to keep the project from collapsing. If the original idea or execution is misguided (the contractor pollutes the neighborhood causing cancer in little kids, for example), Kali may be blamed or even punished. Overall, the substantial risks involved in such projects explain why Kali might find it quite difficult to write that one big check. In many cases the risks are high enough that a refusal to spend big money is arguably excusable, even if unjustifiable. So I suggest that liberal people who do not spend big money “according to the merits of the case” are sometimes doing what they “ought not under pressure which overstrains human nature” (1110a25). They are acting illiberally, yet excusably. In addition to the examples of large-scale, magnificent spending, Aristotle actually gives an example of a small-scale, magnificent expenditure. [I] Since each expenditure may be great of its kind, and what is most magnificent absolutely is great expenditure on a great object, but what is magnificent here is what is great in these See Curzer, “How Good People Do Bad Things,” 233–56. Pakaluk takes some of these expenses to be beyond the financial abilities of the non-rich, but not expressive of magnificence, while others such as wedding feasts and household furnishing to be once-in-alifetime expenses that the non-rich can handle. Rather than making this distinction, I take Aristotle to be talking about wedding feasts and household furnishing that make a contribution to the city comparable to equipping a trireme or a chorus. See M. Pakaluk, “An Alleged Contradiction in the Nicomachean Ethics,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 22 (2002): 206–13. 11 12


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circumstances, and greatness in the work differs from greatness in the expense (for the most beautiful ball or bottle is magnificent as a gift to a child, but the price of it is small and mean). (1123a10–15)

Is Aristotle saying that if Larry, the merely liberal, and Marvin, the magnificent, each buy a ball for a child, then Marvin will spend more money than Larry to get a higher quality ball?13 Not necessarily. For Aristotle also says, “At an equal expense [the magnificent person] will produce a more magnificent result [than the liberal person]” in passage [G]. Thus in passage [I], Aristotle asserts that even if Larry and Marvin spend the same amount of money, then Marvin’s results will be “more magnificent.” So Aristotle draws two distinctions between liberal and magnificent people. First, in situations that call for great expenditures, magnificent people measure up, while merely liberal people fall down. In such situations Larry typically folds under the pressure and fails to act liberally. Marvin, however, manages to perform liberal actions in such situations. This is not evidence that Marvin has an additional virtue that Larry lacks; instead it indicates that Marvin’s liberality is somehow better than Larry’s liberality. Marvin’s liberality is firmer and therefore broader. Marvin can act liberally under more pressure, and therefore in more situations, than Larry. Second, in situations calling for small or medium-size expenditures, both act liberally. Both Larry and Marvin are liberal people, after all. But Marvin’s acts are magnificent, as well as liberal. Magnificent people achieve a better result than liberal people. Sometimes they do so by outspending liberal people; at other times magnificent people make better purchases for the same cost. Again, this is not evidence that magnificence is a separate virtue. A disposition to choose better liberal options in ordinary as well as extraordinary situations is a better version of liberality. Does Aristotle mention the very-virtuous person? In his list of character types in VII.1 Aristotle mentions not only the virtuous person, but also the heroically virtuous person. Such a person is “godlike,” and gods have an “excess of virtue.” A god’s “state is higher than virtue” (1145a17ff ). Heroic virtue is Aristotle’s virtue ethics analog to supererogation. Presumably, the virtues of heroically virtuous people somehow go beyond ordinary virtue without becoming vices. They are better than the character traits required for the virtuous life. Of course, it is possible for one virtuous person to be more virtuous than another without either of them being heroically virtuous. And Aristotle gives no criterion for distinguishing ordinary and heroic virtue. Nevertheless, my claim is that Aristotelian magnificence is heroic liberality.14

13

See Hare 23. “In the suffrage of the Father Abbot de Mier, a Benedictine, we learn that heroic virtue ought to excel ordinary virtue in the same proportion that magnificence excels liberality.” See Benedict XIV, Heroic Virtue: A Portion of the Treatise of Benedict XIV on the Beatification and Canonization of the Servants of God, vol. I (Thomas Richardson and Son, 1850) 23. 14

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Of course, Aristotle lists magnificence as a separate virtue, and says nothing about heroic liberality, so I find myself in the uncomfortable position of maintaining that Aristotle misunderstood his own account. However, the heroic liberality interpretation of magnificence unknots the seven puzzles about magnificence mentioned above. Benefits of taking magnificence to be heroic liberality include the following. (1) Aristotle’s unity of virtue thesis is not threatened by the claim that some liberal people are not magnificent. (2) Aristotle can maintain that the happy life is the virtuous life without the repugnant consequence that only the rich can be happy. Magnificence may require great wealth and happiness may require virtue, but the happy life does not require great wealth since magnificence is not a virtue. (3) All magnificent people are automatically liberal, but only some liberal people are magnificent. The asymmetry of this claim is no longer puzzling. (4) Liberality governs all levels of spending, bringing magnificence into conformity with the relativity doctrine. (7) In other words, both the rich and the non-rich need the same character traits to spend well. (6) The fact that liberal and magnificent acts do not necessarily differ in expense is not a problem. Ordinary and heroically liberal acts will turn out to differ aesthetically, as I shall describe below. (5) Finally, the “vices” of magnificence are not dispositions for excessive and deficient spending on expensive projects, respectively. Instead, they turn out to be different versions of aesthetic failures. And this is just the way in which Aristotle describes them in passage [F].15

Magnificence and fittingness I have argued that liberality and magnificence are not different virtues differing merely by scale. Instead, magnificence is heroic liberality. This means that magnificent people act liberally in extreme situations, situations in which acting illiberally is excusable. It also means that magnificent people act better than liberal people in ordinary situations. In what way are the acts of magnificent people better? Perhaps the most natural notion of degrees of virtue is the more medial the better. Many situations present a range of virtuous actions and passions. Of these virtuous alternatives, some are more medial than others. The closer an act or feeling is to the exact mean, the perfect midpoint of every parameter, the better the act or feeling is according to this notion of degrees of virtue. If Norbert reliably performs acts and feels feelings 15 Other commentators have addressed the problems posed by Irwin. I believe that none of them solve all of the problems raised at the beginning of this chapter. My solution is closest to the proposals of Kraut, Gardner, and Drefcinski. In different ways, these three maintain, as I do, that magnificence and liberality are different character traits which share the same sphere, and that magnificence is not required for proper virtue. See S. Drefcinski, “A Different Solution to an Alleged Contradiction in the Nicomachean Ethics,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 30 (2006): 201–10; S. Gardiner, “Aristotle’s Basic and Non-Basic Virtues,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 20 (2001): 261–95; E. Halper, “The Unity of the Virtues in Aristotle,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 17 (1999): 115–43; R. Kraut, “Comments on ‘Disunity in the Aristotelian Virtues’ by T. H. Irwin,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy, suppl. (1988): 79–86; Pakaluk “Alleged Contradiction,” 201–19.


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that are more medial than the acts and feelings of Olive in the same situations, then it seems reasonable to say that Norbert is more virtuous than Olive. Norbert is more virtuous because he is reliably more medial than Olive. Moreover, as I argue elsewhere, virtuous people sometimes err.16 Presumably some virtuous people err less than others. If Norbert reliably chooses virtuous acts and feels virtuous passions more often than Olive in the same situations, then again it seems reasonable to say that Norbert is more virtuous than Olive. Norbert is more virtuous because he is more reliably medial than Olive. Since occasion is one of the parameters of virtue, this account of degrees of virtue says that Norbert’s virtue is better than Olive’s virtue if Norbert is more reliably medial and/or reliably more medial than Olive. On this account, a magnificent (i.e. heroically liberal) act would be a liberal act that is very close to the perfect midpoint of every parameter. A magnificent person would be a liberal person whose acts are reliably extremely moderate. For example, suppose that, given Norbert’s income and expenses, it would be liberal of him to donate between $10,000 and $20,000 this year to charity. More would be prodigal; less would be mean. On the extremely moderate account, a $15,000 donation would be magnificent. This account of degrees of liberality and heroic liberality may be straightforwardly depicted using the two-cube, three-parameters model mentioned in the previous chapter. Norbert is more medial and therefore more liberal than Olive if Norbert’s character lies closer to the origin.17 In term of Aristotle’s target metaphor (1094a23–4; 1138b21–3), brutish people miss the target; vicious people hit the outer rings; virtuous people hit the bull’s eye; and heroically virtuous people hit the exact center of the bull’s eye. The extremely moderate account sketched above is a straightforward account of degrees of virtue and heroic virtue; naturally Aristotle does not mention it. Instead, Aristotle’s definition of magnificence actually suggests another notion of degrees of liberality, and therefore a different way of fleshing out the distinction between liberality and magnificence. He says, [J] As the name itself suggests, [magnificence] is a fitting expenditure involving largeness of scale . . . The magnificent man is like an artist; for he can see what is fitting and spend large sums tastefully. For as we said at the beginning, a state is determined by its activities and by its objects. Now the expenses of the magnificent man are large and fitting. Such, therefore, are also his results; for thus there will be a great expenditure and one that is fitting to its result . . . And he will consider how the result can be made most beautiful and most becoming rather than for how much it can be produced and how it can be produced most cheaply . . . The most valuable possession is that which is worth most, e.g. gold, but the most valuable result is that which is great and beautiful . . . and the excellence of a result involves magnitude. (1122a19–b18) See Curzer, “Aristotle’s Mean Relative to Us,” 233–56. Of course, this is just a partial ordering since Petra may be more medial than Quincy with respect to some parameters, but less medial with respect to other parameters. For example, Petra may be more reliably medial than Quincy, although Quincy makes better choices about whom to bestow gifts upon and how much to give. 16 17

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On the basis of the first sentence in passage [ J] and Aristotle’s remark that the magnificent person’s expenditure is “fitting to its result,” one might think that the fitting (to prepon) refers merely to the minimal criteria for good spending. Magnificent people aim at worthwhile results and pay neither more nor less than what the results are worth and neither more or less than what they can afford. The magnificent person does not aim astray, overpay, or underpay. In other words, to say that the magnificent person’s expenditure is fitting is merely to say that magnificent acts are liberal acts. This should come as no surprise. After all, both liberal and magnificent expenditure can be either large or small scale, and all magnificent people are liberal. But when he says that the magnificent person’s result is fitting in passage [ J], Aristotle is giving an aesthetic dimension to magnificence. Marvin, “like an artist,” spends “tastefully,” and strives for “most becoming” results. So a magnificent act is a liberal act with a becoming result.18 When Larry equips a trireme or hosts a wedding, he does it well. The equipment and entertainment are good quality items purchased at reasonable prices. The sailors and guests are satisfied. And so on. But when Marvin equips a trireme or hosts a wedding, he not only does it well, he does it with flair. The trireme equipment works not only efficiently, but extraordinarily well. Everything exudes a fine feeling of top-quality materials and craftsmanship. The wedding food, drink, and music are not only nutritious, tasty, and tasteful, but also aesthetically interesting. The wedding is a bit like dinner and a show, perhaps. The sailors and guests are more than satisfied; they are wowed. So the fundamental relationship between magnificence and liberality is this: Magnificence is a disposition to spend liberally and produce beautiful results. Aristotle’s conception of beauty includes largeness. Size matters to Aristotle.19 He says in IV.3, “beauty implies a good-sized body, and little people may be neat and wellproportioned but cannot be beautiful” (1123b6–8). So I suggest that when Aristotle says that magnificence “surpasses liberality in scale” in passage [A], he is not drawing the defining distinction between these two character traits. Instead, he is highlighting the defining distinction’s most obvious component.20 Magnificent results are larger in scale (and therefore typically more costly) than merely liberal results, because magnificent results are beautiful. In situations calling for large-scale expenditure as well as in

18 I use the term “noble” to translate the Greek word “kalon.” Kalon also has an aesthetic sense, and Ross translates it “beautiful” in passage [J], perhaps because the context suggests that Aristotle is concerned with beauty here. The aesthetic dimension of kalon lends a bit more support to my claim that Aristotle is giving an aesthetic spin to magnificence. 19 I must reject Aristotle’s claim that largeness is a necessary (or even a typical) condition of beauty. Rejecting Aristotle’s claim has a bonus attraction. On Aristotle’s view, poor people cannot become magnificent because, (a) developing magnificence requires habitual beautiful expenditures, and (b) beautiful expenditures are generally large. Denying (b) allows me to reject Aristotle’s claim that poor people cannot become magnificent. 20 This is close to, but not quite the same as Young’s speculation that Aristotle advances the scale thesis in passage [A] because, “it is in large expenditures that magnificence finds its typical and distinctive manifestation.” See Young, “Liberality,” 317n10.


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ordinary situations, magnificent people typically spend more than merely liberal people in order to produce beautiful results, because largeness is part of beauty. Yet Aristotle does not think that the more one spends, the better. Magnificent people dare not spend too much, for then they would be prodigal rather than magnificent. Magnificent people border on prodigality, but remain within the liberal range. They are moderately extreme. Moreover, largeness is not the only component of beauty. Sometimes vulgar people and niggardly people spend large amounts, and get large, ugly results. Largeness is a necessary but insufficient condition in making a result more beautiful. So Aristotle’s account of degrees of liberality is this. Suppose Ralston and Scarlett are both liberal people. If Ralston’s expenditures are liberal even in situations calling for large-scale spending, while Scarlett fails to spend liberally in such situations, then (other things equal), Ralston is more liberal than Scarlett. That is, Ralston is more liberal because his acts are more reliably medial. Moreover, in ordinary situations, if the results of Ralston’s expenditures are more beautiful than the results of Scarlett’s expenditures, then (other things equal), Ralston is more liberal than Scarlett. That is, Ralston is more liberal because his acts are reliably more beautiful than Scarlett’s acts. If Ralston reliably acts liberally in extreme situations and beautifully in ordinary situations, then he is heroically liberal (i.e. magnificent). Unlike the extremely moderate account, Aristotle’s moderately extreme account of liberality captures the contemporary view that the more generous a person is the better he or she is. But Aristotle adds the caveat that that one can go too far in helping others. For Aristotle, a person who is almost prodigal is better than a perfectly medial person, although a person who crosses the line into prodigality is vicious. Thus, Aristotle rejects the view that people who impoverish themselves in order to help others are admirable. According to Aristotle, such people have a self-destructive character trait, rather than a virtue.21

Extrapolation I have interpreted magnificence to be heroic liberality rather than large-scale liberality. Magnificence and liberality are not two virtues jousting for jurisdiction over the same sphere, or splitting a sphere that should not be split. Instead, they are simply good and better versions of the same disposition for dealing with that sphere. Aristotle’s doctrine of disjoint spheres is safe. Generalizing from magnificence, I paint the following picture of Aristotelian heroic virtue. The heroically virtuous person goes beyond what is morally required, beyond 21 At least one strand of Christianity takes the opposite view. See Benedict 123–6. A caveat to the caveat is necessary. Sometimes situations impose tragic choices on people. Aristotle is not condemning Thor for impoverishing himself in order to pay the medical bills of his daughter. That is a one-time act in a tragic dilemma, rather than a disposition. Rather Aristotle’s point is that people who again and again chose a crimped, stunted life in order to be generally helpful to a wide range of folks are probably prodigal.

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the acts of the virtuous. One can go beyond duty by performing ordinary virtuous acts in demanding circumstances, or by performing exceptionally virtuous acts in ordinary circumstances. People who regularly do either of these are rare; people who regularly do both are very rare. These are the heroically virtuous. In nerve-wracking situations acting wrongly is excusable; merely doing the right thing is heroic. With respect to death, wounds, and pain, it is heroic to stand and fight when standing fast is reasonable, but running is excusable. With respect to wealth, it is heroic to spend rightly on pricey, public projects that are risky, but not too risky. To be heroic in unstressful situations one must go beyond mere virtuous action by producing a beautiful result. One component of beauty is greatness. So heroic acts in ordinary situations are beautiful, and in particular, they are large scale. Of course, they are not so extreme as to exceed the range of virtue. Vice is a boundary constraint on greatness. The heroically virtuous person reliably performs acts that border on excess in the direction of the less bad vice. On the battlefield, for example, this might mean attacking when standing one’s ground is all that is required and attacking is not rash. Similarly, since meanness is worse than prodigality, heroic spending in ordinary situations approaches, but never becomes, overspending. Aristotle rejects the view that the best person is perfectly medial about everything. The heroically virtuous person’s acts are moderately extreme, rather than extremely moderate.

6 Megalopsychia and Appropriate Ambition (NE IV.3–4)

Introduction Once again it is becoming fashionable to ask “What character traits are virtues?” Naturally, it behooves us to try to recapture the insights of our predecessors as well as forging ahead on our own. In this chapter I shall examine one such insight. From Homer onwards the Greeks have admired a character trait which Aristotle calls megalopsychia (literally “greatness of soul”).1 Megalopsychoi (people possessing megalopsychia) are somehow “larger than life.” They are big, powerful people, aware of their own excellence, moving through life with grandeur, and seemingly destined for greatness. Aristotle’s treatment of megalopsychia in NE IV.3 is particularly interesting for two reasons. First, megalopsychia seems somehow to be a central virtue in Aristotle’s ethics (1124a1–2). Yet megalopsychia is often disparaged by commentators. The modern prejudice against megalopsychia may stem from taking honor to be at the core of megalopsychia. I shall present an account of NE IV.3 which takes greatness, self-knowledge, and selfsufficiency to be the components of megalopsychia, instead. My account portrays the megalopsychos (person possessing megalopsychia) more favorably, and thus makes Aristotle’s suggestion that megalopsychia is a central virtue more intelligible. Second, Aristotle’s treatment of megalopsychia constitutes a particularly interesting juncture in the history of ideas: the point at which the vestigial, Homeric value of greatness and grandeur seems to clash with the newer value of moderation and the mean. Aristotle tries to reconcile these two apparently incompatible values by formally defining megalopsychia as a combination of greatness and self-knowledge. The megalopsychos, Aristotle says, is a mean between two extremes. He or she knows and claims just what he or she deserves, unlike the humble person (micropsychos) who claims too little, and the vain person (chaunos) who claims too much.

1

Other translations of megalopsychia include high-mindedness, pride, self-respect, dignity, and magnanimity. Of course, the Greek concept of megalopsychia, like their concepts of other virtues, fluctuated significantly over time. See R. A. Gauthier, Magnanimite (Paris: Bibliotheque Thomiste 28, 1951).

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I shall argue that Aristotle’s move fails. Megalopsychia is not a mean between humility and vanity. Moreover, Aristotle’s move spawns several serious problems concerning the relationship between megalopsychia and the other virtues. Despite these problems Aristotle almost succeeds. I shall propose certain modifications in Aristotle’s treatment of megalopsychia which will clarify and rectify the relationship between megalopsychia and the other virtues. I shall also show that the greatness of the megalopsychos is actually compatible with Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean.

Megalopsychia, honor, and the other goods of fortune It is difficult to see, at first glance, how Aristotle’s statements about megalopsychia and megalopsychoi fit together. Exactly what virtue is Aristotle talking about, and who are megalopsychoi ? It helps to note that almost all of the statements about megalopsychia and megalopsychoi in NE IV.3 fall into two classes. They relate megalopsychia to the goods of fortune, especially honor, and to greatness or grandeur. Aristotle’s architectonic of virtue demands that every virtue have a subject matter (peri ho), a sphere of its own. Honor is the subject matter of megalopsychia: [A] Honors and dishonors are the objects with respect to which the megalopsychos is as he should be. (1123b21–22; see also 1124a4–5; 1124a12–13; 1125a34–5; 1107b21–2)

Megalopsychoi claim just the right amount of honor, from the right people, at the right time, etc. But I shall show that this right relationship to honor is a result of more fundamental traits of the megalopsychoi. To describe megalopsychoi as people with the right relationship to honor is misleading insofar as it suggests that a right relationship to honor is at the core of megalopsychia. As Rowe says, this right relationship “is surely only a consequence of his megalopsychia, not megalopsychia itself.”2 An examination of the actual role played by honor in Aristotle’s account reveals that goods of fortune such as honor are mainly used by Aristotle as vehicles to describe other aspects of megalopsychia.3

2

C. J. Rowe, The Eudemian and Nicomachean Ethics: A Study in the Development of Aristotle’s Thought, Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society, 3 (1971) 50. 3 The following commentators take megalopsychia to be primarily concerned with honor. T. Aquinas, Summa Theologica, trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province (New York: Benziger Brothers 1947), II-II, Q. 129, A. 1, 1728; Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, trans. T. Irwin (Indianapolis: Hackett 1985) 326; N. Cooper, “Aristotle’s Crowning Virtue,” Apeiron 22 (1989): 195–9; C. Cordner, Aristotelian Virtue and Its Limitations,” Philosophy 69 (1994): 291–316; T. Engberg-Pedersen, Aristotle’s Theory of Moral Insight (Oxford: Clarendon Press 1983) 75–81; H. H. Joachim, Aristotle, The Nicomachean Ethics (Oxford: Clarendon Press 1951) 124–5; A. Sarch, “What’s Wrong With Megalopsychia?” Philosophy 83 (2008): 231–53. The following interpreters claim that honor is central to the EE account of megalopsychia, but virtue is central to the NE account. E. A. Schmidt, “Ehre und Tugend: Zur Megalopsychie der aristotelischen Ethik,” Archiv fur Geschichte der Philosophie 49 (1967): 163; D. A. Rees, “‘Magnanimity’ in the Eudemian and Nicomachean Ethics,” eds. P. Moraux and D. Harlfinger, Untersuchungen zur Eudemischen Ethik (Berlin: 1971) 243; Rowe 50.

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At the outset of his discussion, Aristotle formally defines megalopsychia in terms of the goods of fortune (wealth, power, honor, etc.): [B] Now the man is thought to be a megalopsychos who thinks himself worthy of great things, being worthy of them. (1123b1–2)

This definition connects megalopsychia to the goods of fortune in two ways. (a) First, megalopsychoi deserve goods of fortune of the highest quality and/or quantity. Aristotle uses this thesis about desert as a premise in the following argument: [C] The megalopsychos, since he deserves most, must be good in the highest degree; for the better man always deserves more, and the best man most. Therefore, the true megalopsychos must be good. . . . Honor is the prize of virtue, and it is to the good that it is rendered. (1123b26–1124a1)

Here Aristotle uses the fact that megalopsychoi are worthy of great honor, together with the principle that honor should be distributed according to virtue, to infer that megalopsychoi are very good. The honorableness of megalopsychoi is not the point of the passage. Rather the fact that megalopsychoi are worthy of honor is brought in merely as evidence that megalopsychoi have great virtue. I shall argue below that the greatness of megalopsychoi consists in the fact that they have great virtue. So the first relationship between megalopsychoi and the goods of fortune together with Aristotle’s principle of distributive justice implies that (a) megalopsychoi are great. The second part of the formal definition of megalopsychia is a matter of self-knowledge. (b) Megalopsychoi have an appropriate opinion of what goods they deserve. Megalopsychoi know that they deserve great things, in particular, great honor. [D] It is chiefly with honors and dishonors, then, that the megalopsychos is concerned, and at honors that are great and conferred by good men he will be moderately pleased, thinking that he is coming by his own. (1124a4–7)

Thus, to say that megalopsychoi know themselves to be worthy of great things is to add to the definition that (b) megalopsychoi have a particular sort of self-knowledge, knowledge about their own level of virtue. Again, the honorableness of megalopsychoi is not the point of the passage. The goods of fortune here are just a vehicle for making a point about self-knowledge. So megalopsychia is formally defined essentially as greatness of virtue, plus a certain sort of self-knowledge.4 A relationship to honor is not central to the formal definition of megalopsychia. Some interpreters believe that one relationship between megalopsychia and the goods of fortune is that great wealth, power, and other goods of fortune are necessary

4

Stover and Polanski describe megalopsychia as high, appropriate self-esteem. See Stover and Polanski, “Moral Virtue and Megalopsychia,” Ancient Philosophy 23 (2003): 358. That is not quite right, for the greatness of the megalopsychos is not just anything that would justify high self-esteem, but specifically greatness of virtue.

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conditions of megalopsychia.5 Of course some goods of fortune are necessary for the practice of any virtue, but these interpreters believe that megalopsychoi needs lots of wealth and power, etc. They advance two arguments for this claim. First, the greatness of megalopsychoi involves spectacular deeds which, in turn, require great wealth and power. Second, Aristotle says that a person who has both virtue and the goods of fortune is thought to be more worthy of honor than a person who has virtue alone. [E] The external goods also are thought to contribute towards megalopsychia. For men who are well-born are thought worthy of honor, and so are those who enjoy power or wealth . . . but in truth the good man alone is to be honored; he, however, who has both advantages is thought the more worthy of honor. (1124a20–6)

As for the first argument, the premise that spectacular deeds require great wealth and power is obviously false. Of course, great wealth and power are helpful, but a historical survey of poor, powerless, doers of spectacular deeds shows that great wealth and power are hardly required. Aristotle could not have been unaware of this. For example, the Spartans who fought the Persians at Thermopylae were not wealthy, powerful people. As for the second argument, passage [E] may be merely a report of a vulgar opinion,6 but even if it is Aristotle’s own view it implies only that megalopsychia is enhanced by great wealth and power. It does not imply that megalopsychia requires great wealth and power.7 Indeed, the context of passage [E] shows that megalopsychia does not require great wealth and power. The passage follows a comparison between people of great virtue and people of great wealth, power, etc. Aristotle’s point is that while the latter are sometimes thought to possess megalopsychia, in fact it is the former, whether or not they have the goods of fortune in abundance, who are the megalopsychoi. Elsewhere, Aristotle remarks that megalopsychia enables people to bear with nobility many great misfortunes (such as the misfortunes of Priam) that crush and maim blessedness (1100b22ff ). This remark indicates that people who have lost wealth and power can still possess megalopsychia. Finally, Aristotle says, [F] [The megalopsychos] will possess beautiful and profitless things rather than profitable and useful ones; for this is more proper to a character that suffices to itself. (1125a11–12)

W. F. R. Hardie, “‘Magnanimity’ in Aristotle’s Ethics,” Phronesis 23 (1978): 69, 73–4; N. Sherman, “Common Sense and Uncommon Virtue,” Midwest Studies in Philosophy 13 (1988): 103. 6 Gauther-Jolif, Schmidt, and Stewart suggest this. Hardie disagrees, but offers as evidence only the observation that Aristotle does not explicitly reject the opinion. See R. A. Gauthier and J. Y. Jolif, Aristote, L’Ethique a Nicomaque (Paris: Louvain 1970); Hardie, “Magnanimity” 69; Schmidt 161; J. A. Stewart, Notes on the Nicomachean Ethics of Aristotle (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1892). 7 Aristotle’s view is not that wealth and power contribute to the goodness of a good person whether or not they are used. Rather if Aristotle is expressing his own view, then his point must be that wealth and power contribute by being used. As Taylor observes, people are legitimately honored only for what they do. See Taylor 223. Contra R. Crisp, “Aristotle on Greatness of Soul.” In the Blackwell Guide to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, ed. R. Kraut (Blackwell, 2006) 165–6. 5


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Here, Aristotle explicitly says that (c) megalopsychoi are self-sufficient. They require only a few of the goods of fortune.8 Some critics, probably prompted by Aristotle’s numerous statements that megalopsychia is concerned with honor, suggest that megalopsychoi excessively desire honor. They are obsessed by honor.9 Aristotle explicitly addresses the extent to which megalopsychoi value honor and the other goods of fortune. Lest the statements that megalopsychia is concerned with honor give us the wrong idea, Aristotle hastens to inform us that (d) megalopsychoi attach very little importance to honor and the other goods of fortune: [G] [The megalopsychos] will bear himself with moderation towards wealth and power and all good or evil fortune, whatever may befall him, and will be neither over-joyed by good fortune nor over-pained by evil. For not even about honor does he care very much. (1124a13–17)

Clearly, whatever “the megalopsychos is concerned with honor” means, it does not mean that megalopsychoi are obsessed by honor. Indeed, the accusation that megalopsychoi care overmuch for honor is explicitly rejected in passage [G]. Presumably, megalopsychoi are not obsessed with the pursuit of honor and the other goods of fortune because they realize that these goods are not important enough to be obsessed about.10 Megalopsychoi know that they do not really need much in the way of goods of fortune to be happy. A few goods of fortune plus what the megalopsychoi have within themselves, the internal goods, are sufficient. In other words, (d) megalopsychoi know that they are self-sufficient. What do statements such as, “it is chiefly with honors and dishonors, then, that the megalopsychos is concerned” mean if they do not mean that megalopsychoi overvalue honor? The point of these statements is not that megalopsychoi are very concerned about honor, but merely that honor is, in some way, the sphere of megalopsychia as noted above. In what way? The character traits that constitute megalopsychia are exercised in connection with honor.

Megalopsychia, greatness, and grandeur Many of the statements in NE IV.3 relate megalopsychia to greatness and grandeur. Aristotle says, for example,

8 At 1097b14–20 self-sufficiency seems to be a characteristic of goods and there is considerable controversy over what Aristotle means by it. But at 1125a11–12 it is clear that Aristotle is merely using selfsufficiency in a non-technical sense. A person is self-sufficient if he or she requires only a few of the goods of fortune. See also 1177a27–1177b1. 9 H. V. Jaffa, Thomism and Aristotelianism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1952) 123–7. 10 Megalopsychoi are not completely indifferent to the goods of fortune, of course. For example, as passages [D] and [G] suggest, megalopsychoi value honor, presumably at least as feedback about their characters. This explains why they care about being honored for important things by good people, but not for trivial things by non-virtuous people (1095b26–9; 1124a4–11).

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[H] He who is worthy of little and thinks himself worthy of little is temperate, but not megalopsychia, for megalopsychia implies greatness, as beauty implies a good-sized body, and little people may be neat and well-proportioned but cannot be beautiful. (1123b5–8)

Such statements are puzzling (and not just because our conception of beauty no longer includes “a good-sized body”). In what way are megalopsychoi great? Could greatness be a consequence rather than a component of megalopsychia? Megalopsychia cannot be merely the belief that one is great, plus the tendency to undertake great deeds, because vain people, from whom megalopsychoi are explicitly distinguished, also have this belief (1123b8–9) and this tendency (1125a27–9). Similarly, megalopsychia cannot be merely the knowledge of one’s own abilities because the temperate person of small worth, from whom megalopsychoi are explicitly distinguished, also have this knowledge (1123b5–6). Aristotle combines these two accounts. Megalopsychia is the knowledge that one is great. But greatness is built into this definition (and the tendency to perform great deeds is built into greatness). Thus, greatness is a component, not a consequence, of megalopsychia. Some interpreters have suggested that the greatness of megalopsychos consists in the fact that they perform spectacular actions. This turns out to be a left-handed compliment, for the implication is that megalopsychoi are people (1) with bloated egos11 (2) who treat their inferiors snobbishly12 and (3) neglect the more mundane acts of kindness (1124b23–6)13 (4) because of a preoccupation with obtaining honor through intermittent spectacular action.14 Megalopsychoi are vain, priggish, cold show-offs. (5) Though possessing pizzazz, megalopsychoi lack virtue.15 Let us examine this interpretation of the greatness of the megalopsychia and the associated bundle of criticisms. (4) I have already argued that megalopsychoi are not obsessed with honor. (1) Since “great” is a relative term, not everyone can deserve great things. If some deserve great things, then others must deserve less. Since (b) megalopsychoi know that they deserve great things, it follows that (e) megalopsychoi know that they are better than other people. Megalopsychoi do not overestimate the extent of their superiority. It is vain people who do that (1123b8–9). But megalopsychoi do not underestimate the extent of their superiority, either. Megalopsychoi are well aware of the gap between themselves and their inferiors. (5) Their awareness of this gap, however, does not lead megalopsychoi to mistreat their inferiors for megalopsychoi have great virtue. Aristotle explicitly and forcefully rejects the assertion that megalopsychoi are lacking in virtue (1123b26–1124a4; 1124a25–9). Indeed, Aristotle calls this assertion “absurd.” “If we

11

Joachim 125. Cooper 202; Hardie, “Magnanimity,” 65; A. MacIntyre, A Short History of Ethics (New York: Macmillian Publishing Co., 1966) 78–9. 13 Engberg-Pedersen 78; Hardie, “Magnanimity” 65; Ross 208; Sherman 107. 14 15 Jaffa 123–7. Engberg-Pedersen 78; Sherman 106–7. 12


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consider him point by point we shall see the utter absurdity of a megalopsychos who is not good” (1123b33–4). (2) In particular, megalopsychoi would not be haughty toward their inferiors. [I] It is a mark of the megalopsychos to [be] . . . unassuming towards those of the middle class; for . . . a lofty bearing . . . among humble people is as vulgar as a display of strength against the weak. (1124b17–23)

(3) Nor would megalopsychoi neglect actions toward their inferiors required by virtue. The megalopsychos “is the sort of man to confer benefits” (1124b9) and “to give help readily” (1124b18; see also Rhet. 1366b15).16 Overall, (f) the attitude of megalopsychoi toward their inferiors seems to be one of sympathy and noblesse oblige rather than rudeness or even indifference.17 I suggest that the greatness of the megalopsychoi is greatness of virtue. It is greatness of virtue which makes megalopsychoi worthy of great things. As Aristotle says in passage [C], “The megalopsychos, since he deserves most, must be good in the highest degree.” What does it mean to be “good in the highest degree?” Do megalopsychoi merely have more virtues than other people? No. “Greatness in every virtue would seem to be characteristic of a megalopsychos . . . ” (1123b29–30). At least part of what makes megalopsychoi great is that their virtues are greater than the virtues of other people. Megalopsychoi, therefore, have a larger magnitude of virtue, a higher degree of virtue than merely virtuous people. The idea that virtues differ in degree suggests Aristotle’s scheme of six ethical states in NE VII.1. Vice, incontinence, and brutishness are there contrasted with virtue, continence, and “superhuman virtue, something heroic and divine” such as the virtue of Hector (1145a18–20). I agree with Hardie that it is reasonable to equate the megalopsychos with the person of superhuman, heroic virtue, since both have a higher

16 The megalopsychos does not confer benefits so as to put “the recipient in the giver’s debt and thus in position of inferiority” (Sarch 244). Surely a virtuous person would disdain manipulative maneuvers of this sort. When a megalopsychos repays a benefactor and, “confers greater benefits in return; for thus the original benefactor besides being paid will incur a debt to him,” Aristotle does not say that the original benefactor will fall from superiority to inferiority. Rather Aristotle stresses that “the original benefactor . . . will be the gainer by the transaction” (1124b11–12). Contra Crisp 171. 17 I rebut these and other criticisms of megalopsychoi in greater detail and propose some explanations for the common prejudice against megalopsychia in H. Curzer, “Aristotle’s Much Maligned Megalopsychos,” Australasian Journal of Philosophy 69 (1991): 131–51. Commentators seem eager to criticize megalopsychia. For example, despite Aristotle’s definition of the megalopsychos as a person who correctly gages his or her own deserts, and his distinction of megalopsychoi from vain people, Howland accuses megalopsychoi of being excessively proud and lacking in self-knowledge. See J. Howland, “Aristotle’s Great-Souled Man,” Review of Politics 64 (2002): 53–5. Another example is Griswold who disparages the megalopsychos for being unforgiving. But megalopsychoi are not unforgiving. The megalopsychos is not “mindful of wrongs; for it is not the part of a proud man to have a long memory, especially for wrongs, but rather to overlook them” (1125a3–5; see also 1126a1–3). Aristotle does not mean that megalopsychoi err by ignoring or excusing the inexcusable, for that would be inirascible. Instead, Aristotle’s claim is that megalopsychoi tend to forgive when it is morally optional to do so. See Griswold, Forgiveness (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007) 2–10.

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degree of virtue than the merely virtuous person.18 But whether or not megalopsychoi and heroically virtuous people are the same, let us call the virtues of megalopsychoi heroic virtues. How does a heroic virtue differ from an ordinary virtue? The Iliad and Odyssey suggest that a heroic virtue is great in three ways. (g) First, heroic virtue leads to ordinary virtuous actions performed under extremely trying conditions,19 or to extremely virtuous actions performed under ordinary conditions. I shall call such actions splendid.20 (h) Second, heroic virtue leads to virtuous actions which have great impact. I shall call such actions spectacular. (i) Third, heroic virtue leads to virtuous actions which are performed stylishly, with pizzazz. I shall call such actions grand. Splendid and/or spectacular and/or grand actions are great deeds.21 The virtues of megalopsychoi are heroic in these three ways: (g) Aristotle does not show that all of the virtues of megalopsychoi lead to splendid actions, but he considers a pair of typical virtues, courage and liberality. He claims that the courage of megalopsychoi leads to splendid actions. Megalopsychoi do not merely face ordinary dangers, and take a few mild or moderate risks. Instead, the megalopsychos “will face great dangers, and when he is in danger he is unsparing of his life. . . . ” (1124b8–9). Similarly, megalopsychoi do not just return favors. Instead, the megalopsychos “is apt to confer greater benefits in return; for thus the original benefactor besides being paid will incur a debt to him, and will be the gainer by the transaction” (1124b11–12). (h) The actions of megalopsychoi have more impact than the actions of other people because, [J] It is characteristic of the megalopsychos . . . to be sluggish and to hold back except where great honor or a great result is at stake, and to be a man of few deeds, but of great and notable ones. (1124b23–6)

Megalopsychoi, like Homeric heroes, undertake large projects rather than small ones, and concern themselves with important things rather than trivial things. Megalopsychoi tend to perform spectacular actions and undertake heroic quests: they do not merely do things or look for things. (i) Aristotle does not say much about style in his account of megalopsychia, but what he does say is highly suggestive. [K] [The megalopsychos] will possess beautiful and profitless things rather than profitable and useful ones; for this is more proper to a character that suffices to itself. Further, a slow step is thought 18 Hardie, “Magnanimity,” 71–2. See also E. Bae, “An Ornament of the Virtues,” Ancient Philosophy 23 (2003): 347–8; W. Jaeger, Paideia, trans. G. Highet (Oxford: Oxford University Press 1939) 11–12. 19 Extremely trying conditions are conditions that would prevent almost everyone from performing ordinary virtuous actions. 20 Both types of splendid actions are not always found in the context of every virtue. For example, we all have some idea of what counts as an ordinary temperate action under extremely trying conditions, but what would count as an extremely temperate action under ordinary conditions? 21 What shall we say about people who possess only one or two of these three dispositions? Aristotle says nothing, so anything we say will be speculative. I suspect that there are very few such people, for these three dispositions tend to occur together, but I shall not defend this view here.


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proper to the megalopsychos, a deep voice, and a level utterance; for the man who takes few things seriously is not likely to be hurried, nor the man who thinks nothing great to be excited, while a shrill voice and a rapid gait are the results of hurry and excitement. (1125a12–16)

From the statements that megalopsychoi possess useless, beautiful things, walk slowly, and have deep, calm voices, it does not quite follow that they act in a grand style. But these details show that megalopsychoi have a sense of style and that two of the major obstacles to grandeur—preoccupation with efficiency and a tendency to flurry—are absent. Thus, the greatness of megalopsychoi consists only partially in the fact that megalopsychoi perform spectacular actions. It is especially important to keep in mind that megalopsychoi are virtuous, and that their actions are splendid as well as spectacular and grand. Interim summary Megalopsychoi are great because they possess a high degree of virtue. That is, their virtues are heroic virtues. Megalopsychoi are great because they are disposed to exercise virtues (g) in splendid actions, (h) with spectacular impact, and (i) in a grand manner. Thus, megalopsychia consists partially in the greatness of the other virtues. In this sense, megalopsychia is a second order virtue. Since desert is based upon merit, the greatness of megalopsychoi implies that (a) they deserve great goods of fortune, especially honor. Yet (c) megalopsychoi do not need or want much of these goods, for megalopsychoi are self-sufficient. The third component of megalopsychia besides greatness and self-sufficiency is a certain sort of self-knowledge. First, (d) megalopsychoi recognize that they are self-sufficient. Megalopsychoi do not overvalue the goods of fortune, but instead they recognize that the internal goods (with which they are well supplied) are basically sufficient for happiness. Second, (b) megalopsychoi are aware of their own worth, their own greatness. Together, the greatness and the self-knowledge of megalopsychoi imply that (e) megalopsychoi know that they are superior to others. But megalopsychoi are not rude or uncharitable toward their inferiors. Instead, (f ) megalopsychoi adopt an attitude of noblesse oblige toward their inferiors.

Megalopsychia and the doctrine of the mean Aristotle’s definition of megalopsychia is internally inconsistent. It also conflicts with his doctrine of the mean and with his treatment of other virtues. First, I shall exhibit these problems. Then I shall speculate briefly about their origins. Finally, I shall propose interpretations, extrapolations, and modifications of Aristotle’s text which would solve these problems. For Aristotle, of course, moral virtue is a mean of actions and passions. But although he tries to portray megalopsychia as a mean, he is unsuccessful. Aristotle begins in the following way.

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[L] He who thinks himself worthy of great things, being unworthy of them, is vain; though not every one who thinks himself worthy of more than he really is worthy of is vain. The man who thinks himself worthy of less than he is really worthy of is unduly humble whether his deserts be great or moderate, or his deserts be small but his claims yet smaller. . . . The megalopsychos is an extreme in respect of the greatness of his claims, but a mean in respect of the rightness of them; for he claims what is in accordance with his merits, while the others go to excess or fall short. (1123b8–15)

Megalopsychia is a mean between vanity and humility. The megalopsychos’ opinion of his or her own merits is not too high and not too low, but it is just right. Megalopsychia consists in claiming just the right amount of whatever goods are distributed. So far this sounds good. think they deserve more than they actually deserve

think they deserve just what they actually deserve

think they deserve less than they actually deserve

vain people

megalopsychoi

humble people

But Aristotle has already mentioned in passage [H] that, “he who is worthy of little and thinks himself worthy of little is temperate, but not a megalopsychos.” This merely temperate person claims just the right amount, but lacks megalopsychia, so megalopsychia cannot consist merely in claiming just the right amount. Thus, in passage [H] Aristotle says, “for megalopsychia implies greatness as beauty implies a good-sized body.” To be a megalopsychos it is not enough to get one’s claims right; one’s claims must also be great. As we have already seen, megalopsychia combines self-knowledge and greatness. This combination creates a problem concerning the compatibility of megalopsychia and the doctrine of the mean. Only one of these two parts lies between two vices. Megalopsychia lies in the middle of the self-knowledge continuum, but at the extreme end of the greatness continuum.22 As Aristotle says in passage [L], “The megalopsychos is an extreme in respect of the greatness of his claims, but a mean in respect of the rightness of them.” But the doctrine of the mean requires that the whole virtue, not just half of it, be medial. The virtuous person must be medial with respect to all of the virtue’s parameters. Another way to put this is that the vices associated with a virtue must be extremes bracketing the virtue. But passage [L] provides a vice that is not an extreme, a vice that is neither vanity nor humility. Aristotle says that, “not everyone who thinks himself worthy of more than he really is worthy of is vain.” This is initially puzzling. Hardie asks, “Why is a man not necessarily vain if he thinks his own merits greater than they are?”23 The answer is that the vain person mistakenly “thinks himself worthy of great things,” (emphasis mine), so losers who think themselves merely worthy of good things

22

Note that what is extreme here is not just the great claims of megalopsychoi, but also the great virtues of megalopsychoi upon which these claims are based. 23 Hardie, “Magnanimity,” 65.


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are over-estimating their deserts, yet they are not vain. These losers with delusions of adequacy have a vice that is not an extreme, whether or not they are called vain. (Interestingly, Aristotle explicitly says in passage [L] that people of all levels of worth can be humble, so vanity and humility are asymmetrical.) The following chart displays the character types mentioned so far. think they deserve more than they actually deserve worthy of great things worthy of good things

vain people

worthy of small things

losers in denial

think they deserve just what they actually deserve

think they deserve less than they actually deserve

megalopsychoi

humble people

humble people

temperate people

humble people

Another problem concerns the compatibility of greatness itself (whether or not greatness is a component of megalopsychia) with the doctrine of the mean. Extremes are vices, yet greatness is an extreme. Consider courage, for example. In certain situations people who rush forward are rash, people who run away are cowardly, and people who stand fast are courageous. What do people of great courage do? If they rush forward, then they are rash. If they just stand fast, then where is the greatness? A third problem is this. Aristotle lists megalopsychia as a moral virtue. Moral virtues are medial dispositions of action and passion. For megalopsychia to be compatible with the doctrine of the mean, megalopsychia must include dispositions to perform characteristic actions and feel characteristic passions medially in certain situations. Now the selfknowledge component of megalopsychia is purely intellectual; it involves no actions or passions. The greatness and self-sufficiency components of megalopsychia do involve actions and passions, but they are actions and passions characteristic of other virtues. Megalopsychoi perform great deeds and have appropriate desires in situations involving physical risk, sensual pleasure, wealth, etc. Thus, neither greatness, nor self-knowledge, nor self-sufficiency, nor their combination is a separate moral virtue. This has various ramifications. Without characteristic passions there can be no continence or incontinence with respect to megalopsychia. Megalopsychia is, therefore, incompatible with Aristotle’s taxonomy of character traits. Without characteristic actions, megalopsychia cannot fit Aristotle’s motive doctrine. There will be no right rule for megalopsychia. And so on. Overall, megalopsychia does not fit into Aristotle’s architectonic. Insofar as megalopsychia is a mean, it is not concerned with passions and actions. Insofar as megalopsychia is concerned with passions and actions, they are not characteristic of megalopsychia, and megalopsychia is an extreme rather than a mean.

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Megalopsychia as a combination A fourth problem is that megalopsychia is defined as a conglomeration of unrelated components. Why does Aristotle combine self-knowledge and greatness in a single virtue? Of course, to be truly great one needs self-knowledge, but one also needs selfknowledge to be truly courageous, truly temperate, etc. I must know my own strength and alcohol tolerance in order to know when to stand fast in battle and how much to drink at parties. This is part of practical wisdom, and Aristotle says, “It is not possible to be good in the strict sense without practical wisdom, nor practically wise without moral excellence” (1144b30–2). Yet the interdependence of virtue and practical wisdom does not lead Aristotle to build self-knowledge or any other aspects of practical wisdom into the definitions of the other virtues. Instead, Aristotle defines each virtue independent of practical wisdom, and postpones his treatment of practical wisdom until NE VI. He describes the other virtues without alluding to the practical wisdom component: why not megalpsychia? So the observation that practical wisdom is part of the proper version of all virtues does not explain why self-knowledge is part of the description of megalopsychia. Again, why does Aristotle consider self-knowledge and greatness to be components of a single virtue? They are not constantly conjoined, after all. Humble people can have greatness without self-knowledge, and temperate people can have self-knowledge without greatness. By itself, this is not decisive. Courage governs both life-threatening and injury-threatening situations despite the fact that some people can handle one, but not the other. Again, some people are temperate with respect to food, but not drink; others the reverse. However, because the disposition to handle life-threatening situations well is analogous to the ability to handle injury-threatening situations well, it makes sense to bundle these abilities together into one virtue. Similarly for alcohol-related and foodrelated situations. However, self-knowledge has no such similarity to greatness. The ability to evaluate one’s own merits is very different from the ability to excel in action. No law forbids Aristotle from defining a virtue as the combination of two, often separated, unrelated abilities, but it is an odd thing to do. Imagine Aristotle combining the dispositions to handle life-threatening and alcohol-related situations well into a single virtue. The problem worsens as the chapter progresses. Although the formal definition of megalopsychia (passage [B]) does not include self-sufficiency, Aristotle adds self-sufficiency to self-knowledge and greatness in the body of the chapter. This inconsistency may be fixed by amending the formal definition, but adding self-sufficiency exacerbates the conglomeration problem. Self-sufficiency is not similar to greatness or to self-knowledge. Thus, the implicit definition of megalopsychia as greatness plus self-knowledge plus selfsufficiency seems even odder than the formal definition of megalopsychia as greatness plus self-knowledge. Every virtue has actional, rational, and passional components, but these are supposed to be integrated rather than unrelated like greatness, self-knowledge, and self-sufficiency. Aspasius calls attention to a fifth problem. People are worthy of things in proportion to their virtue. If megalopsychia is a virtue, then humble people are somewhat lacking in


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virtue because they lack megalopsychia. Thus, they seem to be worthy of less than megalopsychoi. According to passage [L], however, not only megalopsychoi, but also some humble people are worthy of great things.24 Aspasius’ problem is a by-product of the compound definition of megalopsychia. Humble people lack megalopsychia because they lack knowledge of their own worth. But it is greatness, not greatness plus self-sufficiency plus self-knowledge that makes a person worthy of great things. Thus great, humble people are worthy of great things without possessing megalopsychia. Saintly people who mistakenly credit God instead of themselves whenever performing great acts might be examples of such people.25

Megalopsychia and the other virtues Aristotle makes two problematic remarks about the general relationship between megalopsychia and other virtues. One of these is the following, much-discussed passage: [M] [1] Megalopsychia seems to be a sort of adornment of the virtues; [2] for it makes them greater, and [3] it is not found without them.” (1124a1–3)

Let us take this passage phrase by phrase. The first phrase is not only cryptic, it is also triply hedged. Aristotle does not say that “megalopsychia is a adornment of the virtues,” but rather Aristotle says that “megalopsychia looks as if (eoike) it is like (hoion) a kind of adornment (kosmos tis) of the virtues.” Thus it is perilous to read too much out of this phrase lest we read too much into it. But whatever Aristotle is trying to say here, he is implying at least that megalopsychia is a different kind of character trait than the other virtues. The third phrase of passage [M], “it is not found without them,” means that megalopsychia presupposes the other virtues. But does megalopsychia presuppose the other virtues collectively or individually? The collective interpretation is that a person cannot be a megalopsychos without also being courageous, and temperate, and liberal, and so on. Hardie supports this collective interpretation by invoking “Aristotle’s doctrine in NE VI (EE V) that the ethical virtues are all inseparable from each other and from practical wisdom.”26 Hardie is referring to the fact that in NE VI.13 Aristotle distinguishes between natural virtues and proper virtues, and then advances the Reciprocity of Virtue Thesis, the thesis that a person with any proper virtue has all of the proper virtues. Hardie’s suggestion assumes that Aristotle is speaking of the proper 24 Aspasius, In Ethica Nicomachea, Commentaria in Aristotelem Graeca, ed. G. Haylbut (Berlin, 1889), vol. 19, part I, p. 110, lines 10–11. 25 An alternative solution is to deny that any humble people are really worthy of great things. When Aristotle returns to the humble person at the end of NE IV.3 he says that humble people are worthy of good things. Aristotle does not mention there the possibility that some humble people might be worthy of great things (1125a19–23). This solution has a drawback. It implies that Aristotle goofs when he asserts at 1123b9–10 that, like megalopsychoi, some humble people are worthy of great things. 26 Hardie, “Magnanimity,” 63.

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virtue of megalopsychia in NE IV.3. But if so, then megalopsychia is not found without courage, in the same sense that courage is not found without temperance. Yet passage [M] implies that megalopsychia is distinctive in part because it is inseparable from the other virtues. If Aristotle is talking about proper virtues in NE IV.3, then passage [M] seems to conflict with Aristotle’s Reciprocity of Virtue Thesis. But if Aristotle is talking about natural virtues, then his claim is quite puzzling. Passage [M] would be saying that the natural virtue of megalopsychia is not found without all of the other natural virtues. Why should the possession of all of the other natural virtues be necessary for being a megalopsychos? Bae argues that in passage [M] Aristotle could be claiming that megalopsychia is an adornment of any one (or more) of the virtues, rather than as an adornment of all of the virtues taken collectively. There are different sorts of megalopsychia; one for each virtue.27 A person can have heroic courage plus ordinary temperance, for example. Bae’s suggested interpretation would bring Aristotle into harmony with common sense, for great people are typically not great, self-sufficient, and self-knowledgeable in every respect. The problem with Bae’s suggestion is that, as Pakaluk shows, Aristotle’s portrait of the megalopsychos includes indications of great versions of almost all of the virtues.28 This strongly suggests that megalopsychoi possess heroic versions of all of the virtues rather than just this or that virtue. So the third phrase of passage [M] poses a problem when understood collectively, and a different problem when understood individually. The second phrase of passage [M], “it makes them greater,” has two meanings. First, it repeats the message that megalopsychia is not just one virtue among others, but rather megalopsychia involves a high degree of the other virtues. Part of megalopsychia is the disposition to perform splendid, spectacular, and grand courageous acts, temperate acts, liberal acts, etc. Losing your megalopsychia is not like losing your courage. If you lose your megalopsychia, you will not be just as you are now except with one less virtue. Instead, some or all of your other virtues will be diminished. The second phrase of passage [M] also has a causal component. Megalopsychia is not just the fact that the other virtues are great; it also enhances the other virtues. Aristotle is making the now familiar point that high, justified self-confidence helps people to act even better than they would otherwise. Thus, the second phrase clarifies the first and third phrases. Megalopsychia is a different kind of character trait than the other virtues because it consists in, and enhances excellent versions of the other virtues. Thus it presupposes the other virtues.29

27

Bae 343–7. M. Pakaluk, “The Meaning of Aristotelian Magnanimity,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 26 (2004): 265–8. 29 Sarch argues that unless honor is taken to be central to Aristotle’s account of megalopsychia, various passages in NE IV.3 cannot be adequately explained (Sarch 239–43). This interpretation of passage [M] constitutes part of my response to Sarch’s challenge. See also my footnotes 10 and 16. 28


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The problem is that Aristotle lists megalopsychia as just another virtue rather than as a high degree of virtue. Megalopsychia appears in the midst of his catalogue of virtues without any indication of its special relationship to the other virtues. Another problem arises out of Aristotle’s Reciprocity of Virtue Thesis. If the proper version of megalopsychia is always present along with the proper versions of the other virtues, then every properly virtuous person is a megalopsychos. But megalopsychia makes the other virtues greater. Thus every properly virtuous person has a high degree of virtue. This will not do. “Great” and “high” are relative terms. Just as not everyone can deserve great things, so not every properly virtuous person can have great virtue. There must be people of ordinary virtue for the concept of great virtue to make sense. Certainly Aristotle cannot maintain both that the proper version of megalopsychia is always present along with the other proper virtues, and also that megalopsychoi are people with heroic virtue mentioned at the beginning of NE VII.1, for the person with heroic virtue is explicitly distinguished from the merely virtuous person. Irwin raises a different problem of compatibility between the Reciprocity of Virtue Thesis and Aristotle’s account of megalopsychia. The Reciprocity of Virtue Thesis implies that people with proper temperance must have proper megalopsychia, but passage [H] explicitly denies that all temperate people are megalopsychoi.30 Irwin’s problem could be diffused by taking Aristotle to be talking of natural rather than proper megalopsychia in NE IV.3, but I shall offer an alternative solution below. Aristotle’s second remark about the relationship between megalopsychia and the other virtues is the following statement: [N] As we said liberality was related to magnificence, differing from it by dealing with small sums, so there is a state similarly related to megalopsychia being concerned with small honors while [megalopsychia] is concerned with great. For it is possible to desire small honors as one ought, and more than one ought and less, and the man who exceeds in his desires is called ambitious, the man who falls short unambitious, while the intermediate person has no name. (1107b24–30; see also 1125b1–5)

I shall call the nameless virtue between the vices of ambition (philotimos, literally honorloving) and unambition (aphilotimos) “appropriate ambition.” Passage [N] suggests that the virtue of appropriate ambition consists in desiring small honors to the right extent and generally dealing properly with small honors, while megalopsychia consists in desiring large honors to the right extent and generally dealing properly with large honors.Unsurprisingly, most commentators follow Aristotle in distinguishing appropriate ambition and megalopsychia in this way. What is the distinction between great and small honor? Hardie suggests that great honor is honor from good people while small honor is honor from ordinary people.31 Aristotle does say,

30 31

Irwin, “Disunity in the Aristotelian Virtues,” 61–77. For a parallel problem, see ch.5. Hardie, “Magnanimity,” 76, n. 1.

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[O] At honors that are great and conferred by good men [the megalopsychos] will be moderately pleased. . . . but honor from casual people and on trifling grounds he will utterly despise. (1124a5–11; see also EE 1232b17–19)

However, in passage [O] Aristotle is clearly separating “honors that are great” from honors “conferred by good men” as he does even more explicitly in passage [Q] below. The analogy to small and large sums in passage [N] suggests that the distinction between great and small honor is simply the distinction between high and low degrees of honor, between a testimonial dinner and a casual compliment, for example. Now I shall argue that in passage [N] Aristotle completely misrepresents the relationship between appropriate ambition and megalopsychia. First, an argument from analogy. Temperance covers all levels of food consumption, from Milo the massive wrestler to Midge the petite office worker, because what counts as a temperate desire for food depends upon the weight and activities of the agent. Similarly, courage covers all levels of physical risk because what counts as a courageous action depends upon the threats and opportunities within the situation. I argue in chapter 5 that what counts as a liberal act depends upon the wealth and needs of the agent, so liberality covers all levels of wealth. Especially telling is the fact that the other virtues dealing with honor (good temper which concerns responses to dishonor, and truthfulness which concerns presentations of the bases for honor) govern all levels of honor. Aristotle does not divide good temper into a virtue for dealing with small insults and another for dealing with large insults, or divide truthfulness into a virtue for presenting mundane facts about oneself and another for presenting extraordinary facts. Virtues can govern whole ranges of situations because Aristotle’s relativity doctrine says that the appropriate actions, passions, desires, and perceptions depend upon various facts of the various situations. In particular, since the relativity doctrine stipulates that what counts as an appropriate desire for honor depends upon the accomplishments of the agent, appropriate ambition is able to cover all levels of honor. And indeed when Aristotle discusses appropriate ambition in NE IV.4 he says, “Honor may be desired more than is right, or less, or from the right sources and in the right way” (1125b7–8). Aristotle does not speak of “small honor” here. Second, just as the character traits necessary for dealing well with small and large amounts of pleasure, small and large amounts of risk, and small and large amounts of wealth are the same, so the character traits necessary for dealing well with small and large honors are the same.32 A person should be disposed to desire honor moderately, distinguish between deserved and undeserved honor, accept honor gracefully, etc. Of course, people need different sets of knowledge and skills to make acceptance speeches at testimonial dinners and to accept casual compliments, but this is not because one is a greater honor than the other. People need different knowledge and skills to deal appropriately with different sorts of honors, even when the honors do not differ by

32

See ch.5.


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degree. Since the underlying character traits necessary for dealing well with all sorts of honor are the same, one virtue, namely appropriate ambition, governs both small and large amounts of honor. The main reason for rejecting Aristotle’s description of the relationship between megalopsychia and appropriate ambition in passage [N] is that greatness plus self-knowledge plus self-sufficiency is nothing like a disposition to desire large honors rightly, and generally to deal properly with large honors. As I argue above, a relationship to honor is not part of the definition of megalopsychia. Similarly, the vices associated with megalopsychia, vanity and humility, and the vices associated with appropriate ambition, ambitiousness and unambition, do not differ by degree. The former are intellectual errors about what one deserves, while the latter are excesses and deficiencies of desire. So Aristotle’s description of the two pairs of vices in NE VI.3–4 is incompatible with his description of their relationship in passage [N]. The difference between megalopsychia and appropriate ambition does not seem to be the degree of honor with which they are concerned. Rather it seems that appropriately ambitious people desire and pursue future honor of all degrees rightly, whatever they currently deserve and think they deserve, while megalopsychoi currently deserve and think they deserve great honor, whatever they desire for the future.33 Appropriate ambition drives people to go forth and earn honor by performing good deeds, while megalopsychia drives people to claim honor that their good deeds have already earned.

Speculation about the source of these problems As usual, Aristotle wants his account of megalopsychia to incorporate what is right about the considered judgments (endoxa) of the many and the wise, and reject what is wrong about these beliefs. Moreover, he wants his account of megalopsychia to fit his architectonic of the virtues. My rather speculative suggestion is that Aristotle begins with the following two clusters of endoxa. Homer portrays megalopsychoi as (1) knowing their place and desert, (2) doing great deeds, and (3) having great desires for goods of fortune, especially honor. On the other hand, Aristotle’s contemporaries picture megalopsychoi as (1) knowing their place and desert, (4) acting moderately, and (5) having only moderate desires for all goods of fortune including honor. The conflict between (2) and (4) is over greatness, of course. Since honor is bestowed by others, people who greatly desire honor cannot be self-sufficient (1095b22–6). Thus, the conflict between (3) and (5) is over self-sufficiency.34 There is no conflict over self-knowledge.

33

Of course, megalopsychoi desire honor rightly too, but only because they have all of the other virtues, including appropriate ambition. 34 This way of characterizing Aristotle’s procedure owes much to Cooper (Cooper 193–9) although my view is somewhat different from his. See also Annas, The Morality of Happiness, 115–20. For an opposing view, see D. Horner, “What it Takes to be Great: Aristotle and Aquinas on Magnanimity,” Faith and Philosophy 15 (1998): 419–20.

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While making a point about definition in Posterior Analytics, Aristotle lists some examples of Homeric and roughly contemporary megalopsychoi:35 [P] If we were to seek what megalopsychia is we should inquire, in the case of some megalopsychoi we know, what one thing they all have as such. E.g. if Alcibiades is a megalopsychos, and Achilles and Ajax, what one thing do they all have? Intolerance of insults; for one made war, one waxed wroth, and the other killed himself. Again in the case of others, e.g. Lysander and Socrates. Well, if here it is being indifferent to good and bad fortune, I take these two things and inquire what both indifference to fortune and not brooking dishonor have that is the same. And if there is nothing, then there will be two sorts of megalopsychia. (Post. Anal. 97b15–25)

This passage supports part of my speculative suggestion. Aristotle worries that Homeric and contemporary megalopsychoi might have incompatible versions of megalopsychia because of the conflict between (3) and (5). Since being deprived of deserved goods of fortune is an insult, the statement that Alcibiades, Achilles, and Ajax are intolerant of insults suggests that they (3) have great desires for goods of fortune. The statement that “Lysander and Socrates [are] indifferent to good and bad fortune” implies that they (5) have moderate desires (at most) for the goods of fortune. Aristotle tries to resolve the conflict between (3) and (5) by distinguishing two sorts of honor in the EE: [Q] To be concerned above all with honor, and yet to disdain the multitude and reputation, are inconsistent. So we must first distinguish. For honor, great or small, is of two kinds; for it may be given by a crowd of ordinary men or by those worthy of consideration; and, again, there is a difference according to the ground on which honor is given. (EE 1232b14–20)

The Homeric megalopsychos greatly desires great honors from good men while the contemporary megalopsychos disdains small honors from the masses. These are perfectly compatible. Indeed, in the EE, Aristotle maintains that all megalopsychoi do both. In the NE, however, Aristotle abandons the attempt to preserve both (3) and (5). He simply rejects (3) and accepts (5) wholeheartedly, as I argued earlier. So Alcibiades, Achilles, and Ajax are not megalopsychoi according to the NE. The megalopsychos in the NE does not care for any sort of honor much, even great honor from good people, although he or she will accept such honor with moderate pleasure. This allows Aristotle to incorporate the claim that megalopsychoi are self-sufficient into his account, which he could not do in the EE.36 35

I take Alcibiades to be an anachronistic, Homeric megalopsychos. Cooper finds the tension between (2) and (4) explicit in the EE but “underneath the surface” in the NE. He suggests that “the fact that the EE offers a solution of the tension is further evidence that EE is the later work” (Cooper 196). Since I think there is no tension between (2) and (4) in the NE, I suggest that the fact that the EE offers a solution of the tension is evidence that EE is the earlier work. Consider the following scenarios. (A) Aristotle formulated the distinction between the two sorts of honors in order to solve a problem in the EE. Then in the NE he decided to drop (2), thereby eliminating the problem. He retained the distinction, however, because it seemed intrinsically important. (B) Aristotle formulated the distinction in the NE to solve no problem. Then in the EE he discovered a problem for which the distinction happened to be a solution. Obviously (A) is a more plausible scenario than (B). 36


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The conflict between (2) and (4) is less explicit, but more intractable. The greatness of the megaopsychoi listed in passage [P] is shown in extreme actions. Alcibiades, Achilles, and Ajax are extremely, rather than moderately intolerant of insults; Lysander and Socrates are extremely, rather than moderately indifferent to fortune. In general, what makes people seem great is typically a tendency to perform extreme acts: taking a terrible risk to save someone, giving away all of one’s money to the needy, etc. Thus, Aristotle cannot give up (2). As he says, “Megalopsychia seems even from its name to be concerned with great things” (1123a34). On the other hand, Aristotle cannot give up (4) either, for the doctrine of the mean is the core of his architectonic of the virtues.37 Thus, Aristotle must somehow reconcile the vestigial, Homeric value of greatness and grandeur with the newer, contemporary value of moderation and the mean. How can Aristotle fit greatness into his virtue-is-a-mean architectonic? How can greatness be a mean? Aristotle tries to solve the problem by appealing to the belief that (1) megalopsychoi have a certain sort of self-knowledge. Megalopsychoi know that they are great and deserve great things. Aristotle combines greatness with this self-knowledge so that after he admits in passage [M] that “the megalopsychos is an extreme in respect of the greatness of his claims,” Aristotle can add that the megalopsychos is “a mean in respect of the rightness of them.” The first part of the sentence preserves (2) while the last part of the sentence preserves (4). That is, Aristotle combines greatness with self-knowledge and calls the combination megalopsychia, so that he will be able simultaneously to describe megalopsychia as (4) a mean between vanity and humility and also as (2) greatness of virtue. In this way Aristotle incorporates the older value system into the newer one, taming the older one in the process. Thus, Aristotle achieves a partial synthesis of the Homeric and contemporary conceptions of megalopsychia. But he does not just conjoin the two conceptions. Instead he goes beyond them. Aristotle uses the endoxa as raw material for a new conception of megalopsychia.

Suggested resolution of most of these problems The tension between the values of greatness and the mean cannot be resolved by welding together greatness, self-knowledge, and self-sufficiency. These three characteristics have nothing in particular to do with each other, and their fusion creates many of the problems mentioned above. Is there some other way for Aristotle to resolve the tension between greatness and the mean? I suggest that Aristotle begin by delinking greatness from self-knowledge and selfsufficiency. He should redefine megalopsychia as greatness alone. That is, he should define megalopsychia as the disposition to perform splendid, spectacular, and grand actions.

37

I do not mean to imply that the doctrine of moderation and the doctrine of the mean are the same. See Urmson, “Aristotle’s Doctrine of the Mean,” 160–3. But I do think that the latter is an outgrowth and generalization of the former.

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Aristotle’s second step should be to abandon the idea that megalopsychia is a virtue. Megalopsychoi are not people with a virtue called a megalopsychia, but rather megalopsychoi are people who have a high degree of the “other” virtues. As Hardie cautiously says, “So there is a suggestion [in NE IV.3] that to say of someone that he has [megalopsychia] is to say that his practice of the virtues generally is on a grand scale and in a grand manner.”38 Third, Aristotle should allow that a person may have some heroic virtues without having all of them. A person may be heroically courageous, but merely “ordinarily” temperate, for example. My suggested resolution would bring Aristotle’s account of megalopsychia into harmony with his account of magnificence. As I argue in chapter 5, magnificence is not a virtue in its own right, but rather it is heroic liberality, the disposition to perform splendid, spectacular, and grand liberal actions.39 Would my suggested resolution leave Aristotle without a treatment of honor, selfknowledge, and self-sufficiency? No. Honor is, in different ways, the focus of the virtues of good temper, friendliness, truthfulness, and wit. Self-knowledge is a significant component of practical wisdom. And self-sufficiency is discussed within Aristotle’s account of happiness. My suggested resolution would eliminate most of the previously mentioned problems. Megalopsychia would no longer be a problematic moral virtue or a conglomeration of unrelated character traits, for it would no longer be a moral virtue or a combination at all. As a high degree of a virtue, megalopsychia could not be found without that virtue. If megalopsychia is not a virtue, then the Reciprocity of Virtue Thesis would not require everyone with any proper virtue to be a megalopsychos. However, the task of reconciling greatness with the doctrine of the mean seems to remain. I shall argue that Aristotle need not make further modifications. His doctrine of the mean is already compatible with greatness of virtue as I have defined it.

Greatness and the doctrine of the mean Presumably, there is no incompatibility between the doctrine of the mean and spectacular or grand actions. The problem is to reconcile splendid actions with the doctrine of the mean.40 Remember that I defined splendid actions as (x) ordinary virtuous actions performed under extremely trying conditions or (y) extremely virtuous actions performed under ordinary conditions.

Hardie, “Magnanimity,” 64. These three moves would remove any pretence that the relationship between megalopsychia and appropriate ambition is parallel to the relationship between liberality and magnificence. Although magnificence is heroic liberality, megalopsychia is not heroic appropriate ambition at all. 40 I shall restrict myself to consideration of actions. A similar account could be given for passions. 38 39


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Splendid actions of type (x) are not incompatible with the doctrine of the mean. They are just ordinary virtuous actions, after all. Are there any splendid actions of type (x)? Aristotle says, [R] On some actions praise indeed is not bestowed, but pardon is, when one does what he ought not under pressure which overstrains human nature and which no one could withstand. (1110a23–6. See also 1115b7–8)

In other words, there are situations in which vicious actions are so difficult to resist that a person who performs such actions should be pardoned. Surely such situations constitute “extremely trying conditions.” Do the phrases “overstrains human nature” and “no one could withstand” indicate that resisting the vicious actions in these situations is impossible? If Aristotle actually meant to say that these situations involve unwithstandable pressures, then he would not have classified the action of succumbing to such pressures as doing what one ought not to do. Nor would he have classified the action of succumbing to such pressure as involuntary, not mixed. Finally, he would not go on to say that “some acts, perhaps, we cannot be forced to do . . . ” (1110a26). So Aristotle’s claim here must be that there are some pressures so strong that only extraordinary, heroic people can withstand them, and that no one should be blamed for succumbing to them.41 Thus, Aristotle acknowledges that there are splendid actions of type (x). The remaining problem is to reconcile splendid actions of type (y) with the doctrine of the mean. When Aristotle says that “it is possible to fail in many ways . . . while to succeed is possible only in one way . . . ” (1106b29–33), it might be thought that he is claiming that in any situation there is only one virtuous option. All of the other options are vicious, though perhaps some are almost virtuous. Under ordinary conditions people of ordinary virtue hit the mean. They act (and feel) in the right way. So what do people of great virtue do? If they do “more” than the mean then they are acting in an extreme way, a vicious way. If they do not do “more” than the mean, then their virtue seems ordinary rather than great. Losin argues that Aristotle does not really believe that in any situation there is only one virtuous option.42 I shall just add to Losin’s textual arguments the remark that this is such an absurd thesis that it would be uncharitable to attribute it to Aristotle unless we have no alternative. It is obvious that in most situations there are several virtuous actions available. For example, it is not the case that, for a given person in a given situation, two scoops of ice cream is temperate, while two scoops plus one teaspoon is intemperate. It is equally obvious that in many situations some actions are better, more virtuous, than others. Thus, in many situations, a range of virtuous actions are available. Aristotle has already acknowledged the existence of pressure that overstrains human nature. There is no reason to think that such pressure always pushes us toward vice.

41

I am assuming that instead of performing the tempting vicious action the person performs a virtuous action, rather than some other vicious action. See Jaffa 104ff. for an interesting alternative interpretation. 42 Losin 331–2.

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Surely in some situations such pressure pushes us away from the best virtuous action without inhibiting us from performing other virtuous actions. That is, there are some situations where performing the best virtuous action would “overstrain human nature,” but performing lesser virtuous actions would not. In these situations the best virtuous action would be an extremely virtuous action performed under ordinary conditions. So Aristotle has no reason to deny the existence of splendid actions of type (y). Let us work through an example. Suppose daring Dirk and his sidekicks Dick, Derrick, and Dominick set out to rescue the damsel Daphne. Whenever they encounter danger, Dick charges forward and Derrick runs away. Dominick stands his ground and fights as long as they are facing lions and tigers and bears, but runs away whenever they encounter a dragon. Dirk never runs away and often takes a step forward so as to take the brunt of the attack upon himself. What shall we say about this rescue team? Dick is rash and Derrick is cowardly. Dominick is courageous. He gives way only “under pressure which overstrains human nature.” Dirk has heroic courage. Not running from the dragon is a splendid act of type (x), and stepping forward is a splendid act of type (y). Therefore, if heroic virtue is defined as a disposition (g) to perform splendid actions (h) on a large scale (i) in a grand manner, and if splendid actions are defined as (x) ordinary virtuous actions performed under extremely trying conditions or (y) extremely virtuous actions performed under ordinary conditions, then splendid actions and heroic virtue exist and they are compatible with Aristotle’s doctrine that virtue is a mean. In general, heroically virtue people do not go to excess, but rather their actions remain at the high end of the intermediate range. They perform actions which require an extraordinary degree of virtue, but they do not go beyond virtue and into vice.

Summary Aristotle defines megalopsychia as greatness plus self-knowledge, later adding selfsufficiency. This is odd because these items have nothing in particular to do with each other and because none of them is a moral virtue. Moreover, this definition spawns several other problems. I have suggested that this definition is an unsuccessful attempt to reconcile the values of Homeric greatness and the contemporary mean. I have proposed an alternative method of reconciliation by redefining megalopsychia as greatness alone, and by interpreting the doctrine of the mean in such a way as to allow for splendid actions.

7 Good Temper and Forgiveness (NE IV.5)

Introduction More than any other passion, anger is popularly pictured as a directionless, irrational thing. Angry people see red and lose control. They become furious and strike out at whatever is nearby. Or if they don’t, their angry mood spreads out like water behind a dam and colors everything. Anger is something that happens to people, like a brick on a toe; it is not something that people choose or shape. The best one can do with one’s anger is to control it by keeping it contained (steam emerging from ears) or by channeling it into harmless expressions (e.g. punching bags, counting to ten).1 Aristotle is aware that anger sometimes takes the form of an uncontrolled, indiscriminate rage or a diffuse mood. But he takes these to be degenerate forms of anger. Anger can, and should be much more molded, rational, and constructive. Virtuous people can do much more with their anger than merely vent it or pent it: they can stimulate and sculpt their anger into an appropriate response to insults and injustices, or they can arrange to avoid anger when it would be inappropriate. Anger should be utilized, not merely managed. Aristotle’s account of the virtue of good temper (praote¯s) describes good and bad versions and expressions of anger (orge¯ ). His account portrays anger as parallel to the more respectable passions governed by his other virtues. In some ways, Aristotle’s account of good temper is very straightforward. It exhibits all of the usual components of Aristotle’s architectonic. It also contains clues to two other components. The first describes the complex interdependence among the various aspects of virtue. Aristotle suggests that bad dispositions of perception, passion, reason, and action are mutually destructive. One bad disposition leads to others. Conversely, good dispositions are mutually supporting.

1 Sabini and Silver nicely contrast this popular hydraulic account of anger with the Aristotelian account. See J. Sabini and M. Silver, Moralities of Everyday Life (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982) 163–82.

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The second new component of Aristotle’s architectonic concerns the right rule (orthos logos) of a virtue. Aristotle is sometimes criticized for not providing the right rules for most of his virtues, but he does provide the right rule for justice. Now, general justice is a second-order virtue consisting of the interpersonal portions of the first-order virtues. I shall argue that the right rule of good temper consists of the right rule of general justice applied to honor or respect, the good governed by good temper. In general, the right rule for general justice provides (approximately) the right rule for all of the virtues. No Aristotelian virtue is more controversial than good temper, for it competes with the widely admired character trait of unconditional forgiveness. Both cannot be virtues, for they endorse dramatically different dispositions of action and passion for dealing with the same situations. Good temper demands moderate anger and acts of retaliation, while unconditional forgiveness urges us to eschew anger and acts of retaliation entirely. If good temper is the virtue governing insults, injustices, anger, and acts of retaliation, then unconditional forgiveness is either a myth or a vice. On the other hand, if unconditional forgiveness turns out to be a virtue, then it will not merely displace one member of Aristotle’s suite of virtues. Unconditional forgiveness will constitute a counterexample to Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean, the core of Aristotle’s architectonic.

Sphere of good temper Aristotle does not go through an elaborate winnowing process to specify the sphere of good temper. He merely says, [A] Good temper is a mean with respect to anger . . . [T]he deficiency is without a name. The excess might be called a sort of irascibility. For the passion is anger, while its causes are many and diverse. (1125b26–31)

So good temper governs situations in which anger is appropriate. Naturally, two vices are associated with good temper. The vice of excess is irascibility (orge¯sia); the vice of deficiency might be called inirascibility (aorge¯sia). In situations where anger is appropriate, irascible and inirascible people not only feel anger wrongly, but also choose and carry out certain acts wrongly.2 Aristotle also describes incontinence with respect to anger, and contrasts it to incontinence with respect to appetite (1149a24ff ). People who are continent and incontinent with respect to good temper feel anger wrongly, but choose appropriate actions. Continent people force themselves to carry out the chosen actions; incontinent people fail to do so, and end up acting wrongly. Good temper straightforwardly fits Aristotle’s taxonomy of character types.

2

Irascible people may feel anger in situations where it is not appropriate, too.

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NE IV.5 does not clearly indicate what situations call for anger, or which types of action would be appropriate in these situations. However, in Rhetoric II.2 Aristotle defines anger and specifies its associated situations and actions. [B] Anger may be defined as a desire accompanied by pain, for a conspicuous retaliation for a conspicuous slight at the hands of men who have no call to slight oneself or one’s friends . . . Now slighting is the actively entertained opinion of something as obviously of no importance. (Rhet. 1378a30–b12; see also 1117a5–7)3

Here Aristotle stipulates that retaliation (timo¯ria) is the action that typically flows from anger, and that anger arises from an unjustified, “conspicuous slight” ( phainesthai oligo¯ria) to “oneself or one’s friends.” To slight Zachariah is to treat him as if he is “of no importance,” to belittle him, to show him a lack of respect, to dishonor him. Together, passages [A] and [B] indicate that good temper governs the sphere of slights, anger, and retaliation. I shall say a few things about each of these three aspects of good temper. Too narrow? Is the sphere of good temper too restrictive? Anger is defined as a response to slights in passage [B], but people often become angry when robbed, cheated, assaulted, and generally when they believe themselves to have been treated unjustly. Indeed, Aristotle, himself, remarks that “It is apparent injustice that occasions anger” (1135b28–9). Moreover, anger and acts of retaliation seem no less appropriate responses to injustices than to insults. Does Aristotle allow good temper to dictate the appropriate response to injustice?4 One line of reasoning says that good temper does not cover injustices. If Yentle bullies Wisteria by threatening to beat her up unless she surrenders her lunch, then perhaps it makes sense to say that Wisteria is slighted as well as robbed. Yentle is belittling her, treating her disrespectfully. But suppose Yentle robs a random house that belongs to Xander who she has never met and about whom she knows nothing. It seems that she is wronging, but not slighting Xander, since she knows nothing about him. She cannot possibly have an “actively entertained opinion of [him] as obviously of no importance.” So it seems that impersonal injustice does not involve disrespect for the victim. On this view, unjust acts presupposing and proclaiming a lack of respect are slights, but other unjust acts are not slights, and thus are not governed by good temper. Aristotle disagrees with this line of reasoning. He describes the varieties of denigration in the following way, [C] There are three kinds of slighting—contempt, spite, and insolence. Contempt is one kind of slighting: you feel contempt for what you consider unimportant. Spite is another kind; it is a I shall translate timo¯ria as “retaliation” rather than “revenge.” We are not angered by unjust treatment that allocates to us more of some good than we deserve. It is getting less than we deserve that angers us. That is what I shall mean by injustice here. 3 4

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thwarting another man’s wishes, not to get something yourself but to prevent his getting it. . . . Insolence is also a form of slighting, since it consists in doing and saying things that cause shame to the victim, not in order that anything may happen to yourself, or because anything has happened to yourself, but simply for the pleasure involved. (Rhet. 1378b14–25)

Now Yentle does wish to gain Xander’s property for herself, and has no wish to shame Xander, so Yentle’s act is neither spite nor insolence. But it is contempt. Aristotle says that we should be angry at [D] those who treat us less well than they treat everybody else; it is another mark of contempt that they should think we do not deserve what everyone else deserves. (Rhet. 1379b32–3)

Contempt is prejudice; bias without basis. Groundless unequal treatment of people is an expression of contempt. Now unequal treatment of equals is the very definition of injustice. So passage [D] implies that every injustice is an expression of contempt, a slight, whether the wrongdoer had the victim personally in mind or not. Thus, Aristotle’s view is that injustices—even impersonal injustices—are contemptuous slights and are therefore governed by good temper.5 Whatever else an injustice is, it is also a refusal to give someone an appropriate share of honor or respect. And not just incidentally. Unjust acts are slights qua injustice. Yentle’s contempt for Xander is expressed by the fact that she does not respect his property or privacy. Indeed, what angers us about injustice is the dishonor or disrespect in addition to (or rather than?) the loss of other goods.6 Too broad? Does good temper violate Aristotle’s doctrine of disjoint spheres by overlapping the spheres of other, first-order virtues? Obviously, there is no overlap between good temper, on the one hand, and courage, temperance, liberality, or magnificence, on the other hand. The possible overlaps are with the other virtues concerned with honor. Good temper occupies a pivotal place within Aristotle’s constellation of virtues. Appropriate ambition and megalopsychia govern the way in which people strive for and claim expressions or symbols of honor or respect; good temper governs the way in which people deal with expressions or symbols of dishonor and disrespect.7 These might seem different, but often—and not coincidentally—the situations in which one must exert oneself to claim respect are the situations in which one has been treated with disrespect. So good temper and megalopsychia do overlap. Of course, what is desired is the same, namely honor. The actions that they govern might seem different.

5 Contra D. Konstan, The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2006) 45–8. 6 Similarly, a Kantian might say that acts of injustice always involve a denial of respect for the victims. 7 D. Frank, “Anger as a Vice: A Maimonidean Critique of Aristotle’s Ethics,” History of Philosophy Quarterly 7 (1990): 279n10.


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Megalopsychia’s associated action is claiming honors; good temper’s associated action is retaliation. However, I shall argue below that retaliation is a way of claiming honor or respect. People with the virtue of friendliness accept, oppose, praise, and criticize other people just as they deserve. People who are churlish rather than friendly credit others with fewer honors or less respect than they deserve. That is, churlish people slight others. Good temper governs situations in which people must respond to churlish slights. Good temper and truthfulness are similarly related. Truthfulness governs the way in which people present themselves to each other with respect to matters involving honor. Truthful people describe their abilities and achievements correctly. Boastful people take more credit that they deserve. Sometimes boastful people end up taking credit that others deserve. This is a slight. Good temper governs situations in which people must respond to such slights. Finally, good temper and wit are similarly related. Wit governs barbs or humorous put-downs. Witty people tell appropriate jokes, the sort of barbs that people should feel comfortable expressing, and allowing others to express. Buffoons engage in inappropriate put-downs. Good temper governs situations in which people must react to such put-downs of themselves and of their friends, for put-downs are slights. In general, good-tempered people react rightly to churlish, boastful, and buffoonish people as well as toward cowardly, intemperate, and mean people who slight by unjust treatment. Friendliness, truthfulness, and wit concern what a person tells others, while good temper concerns how one reacts to the words and deeds of others. So far there is no overlap. But wit governs, not only the way in which people tell jokes, but also the way in which they react to jokes. “There is such a thing as saying and again listening to— what one should and as one should” (1128a1). Since humorous put-downs are slights, oversensitive people who can’t take a joke are automatically irascible; undersensitive people are inirascible; and witty people are good tempered. So the spheres of good temper and wit intersect, violating Aristotle’s doctrine of disjoint spheres. Overall, Aristotle devotes one virtue to physical safety (courage, 6 Bekker pages), one virtue to sensual pleasure (temperance, 4 pages), two virtues to wealth (liberality and magnificence, 7 pages), and six virtues to honor or respect (megalopsychia, appropriate ambition, friendliness, truthfulness, wit, and good temper, 10 pages). In different ways, each of the remaining four virtues (general justice, particular justice, nemesis, and shame) deal with all of the goods of fortune. The number of virtues and Bekker pages assigned to each good is no more than a very rough measure of Aristotle’s interest, but these numbers do suggest that Aristotle devotes more time and effort to honor than to any other good except friendship.

Motivation To each virtue Aristotle associates three types of goals. Achieving each sort of goal produces a different sort of pleasure (he¯done¯ ); failing to achieve each sort of goal

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produces a different sort of pain (lupe¯ ). The characteristic good of good temper is obviously retaliation. It is good because it rectifies the wrong that has been done, restoring honor to the victim and justice to the situation. Admittedly, there is a strand of contemporary thought that rejects the claim that retaliation is a good thing, a strand that urges victims to turn the other cheek. I sketch an Aristotelian rebuttal to this view below. Here I merely voice a suspicion that this doctrine is given more lip service than credence. People don’t really think that wrongdoers ought to be allowed to get away with wrongdoing: they merely think that this is what they should think. We may delegate our retaliation for major wrongs to the state rather than retaliating ourselves, but we don’t forgo it by declining to testify against those who wrong us. For those who have a taste for it, successful retaliation yields sweet satisfaction of desire (1117a5–7; Rhetoric 1378b4–10), and failure is bitter frustration of desire.8 These are, respectively, the proper pleasure and pain of good temper. To attempt acts of retaliation is to risk not only the disappointment of failure, but various other evils, too. These other evils are the characteristic harms of good temper. They produce relief when they are avoided; suffering when they come to pass. Finally, like all other virtues, acts of good temper are performed partially for their own sake. Good tempered people seek appropriate retaliation, at least partially because it is the right thing to do. They feel what I shall call noble pleasure (roughly pride) when they attempt appropriate acts of retaliation, and the pain of shame (Rhet. 1383b15) when they do something inappropriate. Pears calls these three goals the external goal, the counter-goal, and the internal goal, respectively.9 When he speaks of anger in the Rhetoric, Aristotle mentions two additional sorts of pleasures and pains. [E] [Anger] must always be attended by a certain pleasure – that which arises from the expectation of retaliation. For it is pleasant to think that you will attain what you aim at, and nobody aims at what he thinks he cannot attain. (Rhet. 1378b1–2)

None of the three goal-associated pleasures is the same as the pleasure mentioned in passage [E]. It “arises from the expectation of retaliation,” rather than from the act of retaliation itself. Pleasures and pains of anticipation are associated with the other virtues as well. In the sphere of courage, for example, both the hope of achieving the goal, and the actual achieving of the goal are pleasant; both the fear of physical harm, and the harm itself is painful. In general, Aristotle’s doctrine of goals, pains, and pleasures must include the pleasures and pains of anticipation. Passage [B] defines anger as a painful desire accompanied by the (pleasant) expectation of retaliation. The pain of anger is part of the passion, itself, which is a reaction to the situation. This pain is not linked to a goal directly or through anticipation. Good

In English, the term “retaliation” can refer to an activity or to the result of that activity: the punch or the black eye. I shall use the phrase “act of retaliation” to distinguish the former from the latter. 9 Pears, “Aristotle’s Analysis of Courage,” 273–4; Pears, “Courage as a Mean,” 174. 8


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Anticipation: Pleasure or Pain

Success: Pleasure

Failure: Pain

Because it is Virtuous (Internal Goal)

Hope

Noble Pleasure

Shame

To Achieve Good (External Goal)

Hope

Proper Pleasure Satisfaction

Frustration

To Avoid Harm (Counter-Goal)

Fear

Relief

Proper Pain Disappointment

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temper is not the only virtue that governs painful situations. Aristotle also says, “Fear may be defined as a pain or disturbance due to imagining some destructive or painful evil in the future” (Rhet. 1382a21–2). Anger is the exclusive purview of good temper, as passage [A] shows, but fear is not limited to courage. Other virtues also sometimes govern situations involving fear, and therefore pain. Aristotle says, [F] Now we fear all evils, e.g. disgrace, poverty, disease, friendlessness, death, but the brave man is not thought to be concerned with all. . . . Nor is a man a coward if he fears insult to his wife and children or envy or anything of the kind; nor brave if he is confident when he is about to be flogged. (1115a10–24)

The learner’s virtue of shame concerns the fear of disgrace; liberality can concern situations involving the fear of poverty; the quasi-virtue of friendship can concern situations involving the fear of friendlessness; and justice can concern situations involving the fear of punishment. Fear is forward looking. It is caused by what might happen, the characteristic harm coming to pass. But anger is backward looking. It is caused by what has already happened, so it is not related to a goal at all. Thus, the pain that is a part of anger is not already on the chart above.

Reciprocal relations among aspects of virtue Does Aristotle really limit anger only to conspicuous slights and conspicuous acts of retaliation in passage [B]? After all, people often get angry when they are slighted in inconspicuous ways, when they alone know that they have been slighted. And they often seek inconspicuous acts of retaliation, too. Cooper argues persuasively that phainesthai oligo¯ria should be translated “apparent slights” rather than “conspicuous slights.”10 So modified, passage [B] brings out a pair of related points about the relationship between anger and appearance. First, Aristotle’s claim in passage [B] is not that we get angry when others perceive that we have been slighted, but rather that we get angry when we perceive that we have

10 J. Cooper, “Rhetoric Dialectic, and the Passions,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 2 (1993): 194n32. See also W. Harris, “Saving the Phainomena: A Note on Aristotle’s Definition of Anger,” Classical Quarterly 47 (1997): 363–6. But Aristotle does say that, “we do not get angry with anyone who cannot be aware of our anger” (Rhet. 1380b25).

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been slighted. Anger is generated by how things appear to the angry person. It is not generated by the perceptions of uninvolved observers. Nor is it generated by the bare facts. Neither the fact that Velma has been slighted, nor the fact that everyone else perceives that she has been slighted will make her angry until she, herself, comes to perceive that she has been slighted. Similarly, Velma’s act of retaliation is not pleasant unless she, herself, perceives it to be successful. Whether it actually succeeds or is thought by others to succeed is irrelevant. The difference between what we perceive as slights and what really are slights makes certain sorts of irascibility and inirascibility possible. If there were no fact of the matter about what really constitutes insult and injustice, then it would not be possible to under-call or over-call it, although it would be possible to under-react or over-react. Perceptions ! Passions Second, anger is a function of how things appear to the angry person. Velma’s anger that she has been slighted arises out of her perception of some situation. Of course, Velma need not be on the scene of the slight, herself. The testimony of others may convince Velma that she has been slighted. Her awareness of the slight may be second hand, but it won’t be a priori. In general, it is perceptions that prompt passions.11 Passions are a response to what we perceive. Reasoning ! Perceptions When Aristotle talks of perception in ethics, he is not talking merely of sense data; he is talking about how things seem to us, our first impressions of situations. This is the sense in which Holmes can say to Watson, “You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.”12 Thus understood, perception or appearance involves a fair amount of reasoning or judgment. For example, insults are deviations from norms or legitimate expectations. They are perceived against a background understanding of what is appropriate. Velma perceives herself to be insulted only insofar as she judges that there is a gap between the respect that she received and the respect that is her due. What Velma sees as a slight depends upon her assumptions about how she should have been treated. In general, perceptions are based upon reasoning. Reasoning ! Passions Indeed, one sometimes must do quite a bit of thinking to recognize what is and is not an insult. It is often difficult to distinguish slights from mistakes, for example. Napoleon’s maxim, “Never ascribe to malice, that which can be explained by incompetence,” is hard to follow. So anger is not just a knee-jerk reaction to certain perceptual stimuli, and it is not always just a reaction to first impressions of situations, Cooper takes Aristotle to be indicating that passions such as anger can arise “despite what one knows or believes to be the case” (Cooper 189). However, Cooper gives scant grounds for attributing this view to Aristotle and no grounds for thinking that it is true. See Topics 151a15–16 and 156a32–3. 12 A. Conan Doyle, A Study In Scarlet. In The Complete Sherlock Holmes (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1905). 11


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either. Anger often grows slowly while the victim digests the event and comes to understand that he or she has been slighted. Ironically, Aristotle mentions the involvement of reason while observing that anger sometimes distorts or even short-circuits the reasoning process: [G] Anger seems to listen to reason to some extent, but to mishear it, as do hasty servants who run out before they have heard the whole of what one says, and then muddle the order . . . so anger by reason of the warmth and hastiness of its nature, though it hears, does not hear an order, and springs to take revenge. For reason or imagination informs us that we have been insulted or slighted, and anger, reasoning as it were that anything like this must be fought against, boils up straightway. (1149a25–34)

So although anger is often mistaken about reasoning, anger nevertheless grows out of both the reasoning that is part of perception, and the reasoning that supplements perception. Aristotle emphasizes the role of perception and reason in generating passion by saying that without them passion is absent. He describes inirascibility as follows. [H] Inirascibility . . . is blamed. [a] For those who are not angry at the things they should be are thought to be fools, and so are those who are not angry in the right way, at the right time, or with the right persons; for such a man is thought not to feel things nor to be pained by them, and [b] since he does not get angry, he is thought unlikely to defend himself; and to endure being insulted and to put up with insults to one’s friends is slavish. (1126a3–8)

In the first part of passage [H], Aristotle says that inirascible people are “thought not to feel things nor to be pained by them” because they “are thought to be fools.” That is, inirascible people tend to feel no anger (or too little anger), at least partially because they tend to misperceive and/or misevaluate salient features of situations. They remain calm because they do not realize that they have been wronged (or they trivialize wrongs). Can people fail to realize that they have been wronged? Victims are sometimes literally unaware that they have been cheated or maligned or abused. More commonly, they notice that they have been shortchanged, or bad-mouthed, or even beaten black and blue, but they misperceive or misclassify these things as “just a mistake,” or “just an opinion,” or “just the way things are,” or “just what I deserved.” And then, of course, they do not become angry. Thus, lack of perception of wrongdoing is one of the main causes of lack of anger. Passions ! Perceptions That perceptions and judgments produce and shape passions should surprise no one. Perhaps more surprising is the converse causal relationship: the fact that passions also shape perceptions and judgments.13 Aristotle says, [I] The emotions are all those feelings that so change men as to affect their judgments, and that are also attended by pain or pleasure. (Rhet. 1378a19–21; see also Rhet. 1377b30–1378a4 and 1114b1–3) 13 This is perhaps less surprising to those familiar with the Continental philosophical tradition. The influence of passions upon judgment is noted by Nietzsche and Kierkegaard and Heidegger.

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Perception does not take place in a purely rational, objective, and detached way. Instead, perception is colored by a rich range of passions and their relatives, moods. Passions foreground some factors within a situation, meanwhile backgrounding others. In particular, anger helps victims to recognize, hold onto, and attach importance to the fact that they have been, or are being wronged. Without anger, people tend not to focus sufficiently on injustices, and so tend not to notice them, or not to take them seriously. They sometimes do not consider them wrongs or even harms, as I described above. In general, passions are salience- and value-projectors. They overlay situations with highlight and shadow. Passions ! Reasons Passions influence not only what we perceive, but also how we reason about what we perceive. They also shape our judgments about what to do about these situations. After they push us down certain pathways of thought in grasping and evaluating situations, they mold our reasoning about what options for actions are available, the pros and cons of each option, and how these options rank against each other. Anger, like other passions, sets one thinking what should be done (Rhet. 1383a6–7). Anger helps victims focus not just on what has already happened (the slights), but also on what should happen (the acts of retaliation). Since anger involves a desire for retaliation, anger puts retaliation onto the table as an option (or set of options) to be considered when victims are thinking about what to do. Anger adds emphasis or weight to options that are already under consideration, too. It turns “retaliation?” into “RETALIATION!” In general, passions structure the way people think about future actions as well as past and present situations. Passions ! Actions Passions lead naturally to actions in a second way. In addition to prompting victims’ reasoning about actions as described above, passions supply the driving force for victims’ actions directly. Anger prods victims to avenge injustices. Aristotle brings out the role of passion in generating action in the second part of passage [H] by saying that without passion, action is absent. A person “is thought unlikely to defend himself.”14 This is a bit obscure, but I take Aristotle to mean that by negatively reinforcing slights, retaliation could defend victims against future insult and injustice by other potential wrongdoers. But because inirascible people lack anger, they do not tend to undertake appropriate acts of retaliation. In general, passions tend to motivate actions. Aristotle’s claim is not that one unnoticed transgression leads inexolerably to myriad occasions of insufficient anger and acts of retaliation, of course. Instead, his claim is that habits of obliviousness tend to generate habits of excessive calm which, in turn, tend to generate habits of under-reaction.

14

Anger is in some ways quite similar to courage (1116b23–1117a9).


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Actions ! Passions That passions tend to produce actions should surprise no one. More surprising is that, conversely, actions tend to produce passions. Aristotle says that we become virtuous or vicious by doing virtuous or vicious things (1103b6–9). Part of the moral development or degeneration process is that we come to feel virtuous or vicious passions by performing virtuous or vicious acts. It is easy to see how this goes with respect to virtues. Virtuous acts tend to pay off. That is part of why they are virtuous, after all. This success positively reinforces the passions that led to such acts so that they tend to reoccur in similar situations. The mechanisms that lead from vicious acts to vicious passions are more numerous, but less straightforward. In the sphere of good temper, the habitual absence of retaliation leads to the habitual absence of anger in various ways. For example, anger undischarged by revenge is highly unpleasant. So people who do not retaliate find ways, consciously or unconsciously, of diminishing their anger. Moreover, victims who do not defend themselves or their friends out of fear or inertia or inability often learn to avoid anger lest they confront their own cowardice, or laziness, or ineptness, etc. Calmness can be an ego defense mechanism. And such people tend to cluster together with like-minded people who praise rather than criticize their forbearance. This encourages more forbearance. Actions ! Perceptions Actions ! Reasons Actions tend to sharpen perceptions and judgments as well as passions. People who participate in a practice become more sensitive to the nuances of that practice. In particular, people who regularly retaliate when retaliation is called for, get better and better at noticing when retaliation is called for, at judging what sort of retaliation is appropriate, at determining how to retaliate successfully, etc. Conversely, forgoing retaliation blinds victims to the fact that they are being wronged in various ways. For example, victims who do not retaliate for wrongdoing tend to lose self-respect. This, in turn, leads them to think that the wrongs they have suffered and similar future wrongs are deserved. Instead of reasoning clearly, they rationalize their inaction, often by saying that no wrong has been committed.

Perceptions

Reasoning

Passions

Actions

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Overall, the aspects of virtue are synergistic. Each good aspect improves the other three aspects. Conversely, Aristotle remarks in his description of inirascibility in passage [H] that flawed perceptions and judgments lead to flawed passions which lead, in turn, to flawed actions. I have generalized this remark to the claim that each flawed aspect of character undermines the other three aspects. Of course, this degeneration is not instantaneous or inevitable. After all, an incontinent person acts and feels wrongly, but perceives and reasons rightly. And incontinence can be a stable, curable disposition.

Perception and precision A challenge has been raised to a piece of this doctrine. Some commentators have taken Aristotle’s view to be that perception suffices to lead virtuous agents directly to action and passion. Reason shrivels into an appendage of perception or concerns itself with other matters. It does not, on this interpretation, supply general principles which are then applied to particular situations.15 One of the lynchpin texts for this interpretation is passage [J] below. After describing the parameters and vices associated with good temper in general terms, Aristotle excuses himself from providing a more precise distinction between right and wrong actions and passions. [J] It is not easy to define how, with whom, at what, and how long one should be angry, and at what point right action ceases and wrong begins. For the man who strays a little from the path either towards the more or towards the less is not blamed. . . . How far, therefore, and how a man must stray before he becomes blameworthy, it is not easy to determine by reason; for the decision depends upon the particular facts and on perception. But so much at least is plain, that the middle state is praiseworthy . . . while the excesses and defects are blameworthy. (1126a32–b7; see also the near-duplicate passage 1109b14–24 and 1142a23–30)

Passage [J] is taken to be an important bit of evidence for attributing to Aristotle the thesis that perception (aisthe¯sis) determines what actions and passions are best. Reason applying a right rule inevitably fails to capture all of the salient moral features of particular situations, so we must use perception, instead. According to this thesis, good people just know somehow through perception what to do once they find themselves in situations. Aristotle is sometimes praised and sometimes blamed for maintaining that perception of particulars, rather than reason-generated general principles, determines what should be felt and done in which circumstances. I suggest that Aristotle deserves neither the praise nor the blame, for he does not advance this thesis. When Aristotle says, “the decision depends upon the particular facts and on perception,” his point is not that we should always use perception rather than reason to distinguish right from wrong. After all, Aristotle makes clear in many places 15 J. McDowell, “Deliberation and Moral Development in Aristotle’s Ethics,” Aristotle, Kant, and the Stoics, ed. S. Engstrom and J. Whiting (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996) 21–2; I. Vasiliou, “The Role of Good Upbringing in Aristotle’s Ethics,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 56.4 (1996): 783–91.


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that he takes reason to play a crucial role in virtuous action. Indeed, Aristotle says just a page earlier that [K] the good tempered man tends . . . to be angry in the manner, at the things, and for the length of time, that reason dictates. (1125b33–1126a1)

Aristotle’s point in passage [ J] (and in his discussion of the practical syllogism) is that we need both perception to provide the “particular facts” and reason to provide the “right rule.” He is not arguing against those who think that reason is important, but rather against those who think that perception is not. That is, passage [J] is Aristotle’s objection to a priori ethics, the sort of ethics that Kant is sometimes thought to advocate. Aristotle does not merely mention in passage [J] that perception plays a role: he specifies, to some extent, what that role is. A general principle plus a few facts are usually sufficient: perception’s role is small. It “is plain that the middle state is praiseworthy . . . while the excesses and defects are blameworthy” (emphasis mine). But because marginally virtuous and marginally vicious acts and character traits shade into each other, the details are crucial when judging borderline cases. It is perception that provides us with the details. We particularly need perception to determine “how far and how a man must stray before he becomes blameworthy.” If, in a fit of road rage, Tiffany shoots a stranger who yells an insult at her, we can pronounce her act irascible without further ado. In this case perception plays a negligible role. But if Umberto replies to a similar insult with a four-letter word, we need additional details to determine whether his act is good tempered or irascible, and these details are garnered by perception.16 Overall, passage [J] does not support the particularist interpretation of Aristotle.17 It says both that perception is necessary to provide particulars, and that reason is necessary to provide general principles.

Parameters and failure modes of good temper Aristotle gives a thorough description of the parameters of good temper and its associated failure modes.

16 It is currently fashionable to emphasize the way in which passion, perception, and cognition intertwine and influence each other. These are complicated issues at which I have merely gestured. See D. Achtenberg, Cognition of Value in Aristotle’s Ethics (Albany: SUNY Press, 2002) 159–78; W. Fortenbaugh, Aristotle on Emotion (New York: Harper and Row, 1975) 103; McDowell, “Virtue and Reason,” 331–50; S. Leighton, “Aristotle and the Emotions,” Phronesis, 27 (1982): 144–74; Reeve 67–73; N. Sherman, The Fabric of Character (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989) 28–50, 165–71; N. Sherman, Making a Necessity of Virtue (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997) 39–52. 17 Of course, the dispute over Aristotelian particularism is not going to be settled merely by an interpretation of passage [J].

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[L] The man who is angry at the right things and with the right people, and, further, as he ought, when he ought, and as long as he ought is praised. This will be the good tempered man, then, since good temper is praised. . . . Those who are not angry at the things they should be are thought to be fools, and so are those who are not angry in the right way, at the right time, or with the right persons. . . . The excess can be manifested in all the points (for one can be angry with the wrong persons, at the wrong things, more than is right, too quickly, or too long; yet all are not found in the same person. . . . Now hot-tempered people get angry quickly and with the wrong persons and at the wrong things and more than is right, but their anger ceases quickly. . . . Choleric people are quick-tempered and ready to be angry with everything on every occasion; whence their name. Sulky people are hard to appease, and retain their anger long. . . . We call bad-tempered those who are angry at the wrong things, more than is right, and longer, and cannot be appeased until they inflict vengeance or punishment. (1125b31–1126a27)

In passage [L] Aristotle maintains that good temper is a disposition for getting five different parameters right: (a) occasions (when one gets angry), (b) objects (about what one gets angry), (c) people (with whom one gets angry), (d) duration (how long one stays angry), and (e) amount (how angry one gets). “Right,” of course, means medial. In this passage, Aristotle mentions only the excesses, but of course one can be habitually deficient with respect to any parameter, too. Good temper lies between a vice of excess and a vice of deficiency, after all. Passage [L] is Aristotle’s clearest statement that the parameters of good temper are independent of each other. The hot-tempered person (orgilos) goes to excess with respect to four parameters; the bad-tempered person (chalepos) with respect to three; the choleric person (akrocholos) with respect to two; and the sulky person (pikros) with respect to one. For any pair of parameters, one zigs when the other zags in at least one of Aristotle’s four failure modes. Occasions

Objects

People

Duration

Amount

Hot-tempered

wrong

wrong

wrong

right

wrong

Choleric

wrong

wrong

right

right

right

Sulky

right

right

right

wrong

right

Bad-tempered

right

wrong

right

wrong

wrong

Of course these four are not the only possible combinations. Thirty combinations of excess and thirty combinations of deficiencies are possible, assuming that Aristotle is right to maintain that “All [excesses or deficiencies] are not found in the same person.” Aristotle might have mentioned that one can go to excess with respect to some parameters while being deficient with respect to others. Just as a single person can be a rash coward (1115b31–2), a single person can be both irascible and inirascible. For example, many people are both too quick to anger and also too quick to cool off. They are irascible with respect to the occasions parameter, and inirascible with respect to the duration parameter. Thus, numerous excess-deficiency combinations are possible, too.


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Aristotle is right to maintain that all five of these parameters are independent. We can become angry with the right person, but about the wrong object or vice versa. For example, if Roscoe remains calm when his son calls him obscene names, and then flares at his son over a mis-squeezed toothpaste tube, then Roscoe is angry with the right person over the wrong provocation. On the other hand, whenever Svetlana’s boss hassles her at the office, she takes it out on her co-workers. She is angry over the right thing, but she displaces her anger to the wrong people. Similarly, it is clearly possible to become angry on the right occasions, but over the wrong objects or vice versa. And so on. In the rest of this chapter I shall flesh Aristotle’s account out by looking at a few points concerning a few parameters. Most of the issues I shall mention could be framed in different ways involving different parameters. For example, the question of whether one should be angry over unavengeable slights is a question about the object parameter. But it is equivalent to the question of whether one should be angry at people against whom one cannot retaliate, which is a question about the people parameter.

Amount parameter: The right rule The term “slight” suggests trivial snubs, while the term “retaliation” conjures images of blood feuds. But for Aristotle, both slights and retaliations range from small to extralarge. On the one hand, that is good news for good temper because it means that good temper is not a trivial virtue governing only a narrow range of situations. Moreover, it means that Aristotle is not making the claim that one must defend one’s honor in inflexible or extravagant ways. We are not required to clobber absolutely everyone who makes a rude remark or sneaks ahead of us in a checkout line. On the other hand, the range of possible slights and retaliations means that good temper is complex. We must make choices about how angry to be and how severely to retaliate in response to each insult or injustice. Such questions are answered by practical reason along lines and within limits specified by the right rule. But one impediment to this interpretation is that Aristotle does not explicitly provide the right rule for good temper, or for most of the other virtues. I shall suggest that the right rule for good temper can be determined by applying Aristotle’s account of justice to the good of honor or respect. In general, the right rules of the virtues turn out to be approximately Aristotle’s principles of justice applied to the goods of fortune. Aristotle distinguishes two sorts of justice which he calls general justice (hole dikaiosune¯ ) and particular justice (kata meros dikaiosune¯ ). General justice is the character trait that “is complete excellence—not absolutely, but in relation to others” (1129b25–7, 1130a32–b2). That is, general justice is a second-order virtue consisting of those aspects of the first-order virtues which pertain to other people. For example, Quilliam’s courageous act of remaining at his post in battle is also an act of general justice if others are at risk, and his act is an acceptance of his fair share of the risk. Petunia’s cowardly act of fleeing a battle is also an unjust act insofar as she is taking more than her share of safety, burdening her fellow soldiers who remain at their posts with more than their

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share of risk. Since general justice with respect to the good of safety simply is the interpersonal portion of courage, the principle of general justice applied to safety simply is the interpersonal portion of the right rule of courage. Of course, some courageous, cowardly, and rash acts do not concern the sharing of safety with others, and so are not matters of justice. Thus the right rule of courage is not completely specified by applying Aristotle’s principle of distributive justice to safety. The issue of appropriate sharing of risk and safety is a matter of distributive justice, one of the three parts of general justice. Another one of the three parts is rectificatory justice which concerns the righting of wrongs. The principle of rectificatory justice is that victims should gain compensation equal to their losses, and wrongdoers should lose what they illegitimately gained, so that both victims and wrongdoers end up as close as possible to their pre-injustice holdings (1132a6–10).18 Now good temper concerns this very thing! It governs situations in which someone has been unfairly deprived of honor or respect. Good temper may be understood as urging victims to reclaim their honor through acts of retaliation. So understood, good temper just is the rectificatory part of general justice applied to the good of honor. Applying Aristotle’s principle of rectificatory justice to honor yields the right rule of good temper. Acts of retaliation are in accord with good temper (irascibility or inirascibility) insofar as they conform to (violate) the principle of rectificatory justice. Since good temper is completely social, there is nothing to good temper’s right rule over and above Aristotle’s principle of justice: [Right Rule for Good Temper] Retaliation should be equal in severity to the wrong, undoing the wrongdoing. The victim should get his or her honor back, no more, no less.

This line of thought rests upon several assumptions. The first is that wrongdoers can gain honor from their wrongdoing. This may seem counterintuitive at first. How can people gain honor from dishonorable acts? But of course honor is not bestowed only upon acts worthy of honor. (Nor is honor always bestowed upon acts worthy of honor.) People sometimes honor those who are not deserving of honor. Nevertheless, praise for acts that are not praiseworthy is still praise. Successful embezzlers, seducers, muggers, are often respected for their success, for example (and not just by wannabes). Their wrongs may earn them reputations for cleverness, persuasiveness, and toughness, respectively. Another assumption is that victims lose honor. While initially counterintuitive, this too is true. Whether they actually deserve it or not, victims are often considered to have brought their misfortune upon themselves. Blaming the victim is so common that the phrase has become a cliche´. A third assumption is that acts of retaliation remove honor from wrongdoers and restore honor to victims. Since wrongdoers gain honor by “getting away with it,” 18 Note that rectification has nothing to do with punishment. Punishment would be over and above any rectification. Thus, retaliation is not punishment.


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retaliation deprives them of that honor, for now they did not get away with it, after all. The claim that victims recover their honor by retaliating becomes plausible when concrete cases are considered. Think of cuckolded husbands who “get their honor back” by striking a blow at the seducers, and victims of theft or defamation who regain their honor along with their goods or reputation. Think of the practice of dueling, and fights behind the Junior High School gym. In general, victims are no longer thought to be wimps and losers after they retaliate successfully. Understanding good temper as the application of rectificatory justice to honor rests upon a fourth assumption, too. This is the assumption that gains and losses of honor are quantitatively measurable and commensurable. The victim must be able to determine how much honor he or she has lost, and how much the wrongdoer has gained by an act of insult or injustice. The victim must also be able to calibrate a matching act of retaliation. Of course, precision about such matters is impossible, but rough approximations are feasible. We have a sense of what is necessary to ensure that the wrongdoer does not “get away with it.” A slap would suffice for mild harassment, but would be clearly insufficient for burglary, and clearly excessive for jumping the grocery store queue, for example. Consider a pair of cases. Suppose Niblick steals a bicycle from Mashie, and Obadiah steals Mashie’s ipod. Niblick apologizes, but Obadiah does not. An apology includes restitution, so Niblick gives the bicycle (or its monetary value) back. He compensates Mashie for the loss of respect she suffered by profusely apologizing. Now there is no need for retaliation against Niblick, for rectification has been achieved. Mashie’s acts of retaliation against Obadiah should restore both her honor and her ipod. It should also remove the stolen honor and ipod from Obadiah. He should not be able to profit from the theft or boast (or even just feel smug) that he got away with it. If Mashie merely leaves nasty messages on Obadiah’s answering machine, she will not get her honor back or deprive Obadiah of his “bragging rights.” Mashie had better call the police, and ensure that Obadiah is convicted and the ipod restored. Indeed, most retaliation for major wrongdoing was accomplished through the courts even in Aristotle’s day. The victim prosecuted the wrongdoer rather than assaulting him or her. In our day, most retaliation for major wrongdoing also occurs through the courts, although rather than prosecuting the wrongdoer, the victim delegates the prosecution to the state. Thus, Aristotle is not endorsing vigilantism. He is not endorsing road rage or other obviously excessive anger, either. When Aristotle gives further guidance about approximating, he remarks that the good tempered person “is thought to err rather in the direction of deficiency; for the good tempered man is not revengeful, but rather tends to forgive” (1126a1–3). Extrapolating, we might say that people with the character trait of Aristotelian good temper feel anger and take retaliation on the mild side of what is considered reasonable by reasonable people. Aristotle further stipulates that various factors within the situation such as the relationship between the parties, the degree of voluntariness of the deed, etc. must also be taken into account. Although the right rule remains vague,

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Aristotle does give significant guidance about which acts of retaliation are in accord with good temper. Right rules do not replace the appeal to practical wisdom, but rather they provide a framework for thinking.

People parameter: Forgiveness A person who becomes and remains angry at the right people, about the right things, at the right times, is also a person who ceases to be (or avoids becoming) angry at the right people, about the right things, at the right times. Aristotle describes this anger abatement as appropriately settling down and quieting anger (praünsis). Now Aristotle is aware that people cool off in various ways, for various reasons. He says that we should withhold or withdraw anger from people who insult or injure us involuntarily or unintentionally. Thus, we should not be angry with people who treat themselves as they treat us, or who take us seriously, or who wronged us in anger, or who revere us, or who humble themselves before us. In general, we should eschew anger against wrongdoers if they do not now, or never did, consider us to be unimportant, presumably because such wrongdoers did not mean to slight us. In such cases we refrain from anger by excusing or justifying the act. These people do not deserve our anger or acts of retaliation. Aristotle also says that we should not be angry with people to whom we owe debts of kindness, or who ask for mercy, or who have already been sufficiently punished by suffering worse things than they deserve. These people do deserve our anger and acts of retaliation, but we withhold it presumably from kindness.19 Finally, Aristotle says that we should become calm toward those who apologize (Rhet. 1380a10–b28).20 This is neither excuse nor justification nor generalized benevolence, but rather it is a particular sort of benevolence that we call forgiveness. On the other hand, presumably we should be angry with, and retaliate against unapologetic wrongdoers unless they meet one of the conditions mentioned above.

19 Aristotle also claims that we should not be angry with people we fear or respect, or who cannot be aware of our anger. This claim may be linked to his remark in passage [E] that, “nobody aims at what he thinks he cannot attain” (See also Rhetoric 1380a32–4). Aristotle thus maintains that anger is not the proper response to all apparent slights, but only to those that can be avenged. Casey agrees with Aristotle about this, suggesting that slights from those who are safe from retaliation produce only sadness, not anger. See J. Casey, Pagan Virtue (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990) 12. On the other hand, Harris suggests that Aristotle is speaking only of the paradigm case of anger, and not of all anger, when he claims that anger presupposes the possibility of retaliation. See W. Harris, Restraining Rage (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2001) 58–9. Whatever Aristotle’s view is, victims can clearly be angry with wrongdoers even if retaliation cannot be carried out, but can only be imagined. Indeed, I think that people can be angry at each other without wishing for, or even fantasizing about, retaliation at all. Although a generalized inability to defend one’s honor may well produce depression, isolated unavengeable insults do not. 20 This claim is not completely uncontroversial. Aristotle takes forgiving the apologetic to be a duty, not an optional act of kindness. But Calhoun points out that many thinkers who maintain that forgiving the repentant is optional, also inconsistently maintain that it is morally required. See Calhoun, “Changing One’s Heart,” Ethics 103 (1982): 81–3.


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We should not forgive them. Thus, Aristotle’s account of good temper is, among other things, his account of forgiveness.21 Elsewhere, Aristotle remarks that, [M] Not every action nor every passion admits of a mean; for some have names that already imply badness, e.g. spite, shamelessness, envy, and in the case of actions adultery, theft, murder. (1107a8–12)

Is Aristotle right to maintain that anger should sometimes be felt and retaliation sometimes taken, or are anger and acts of retaliation always wrong, like spite, shamelessness, envy, adultery, theft, and murder? Such challenges are uncommon with respect to the actions and passions that are governed by some of Aristotle’s other virtues. It is generally agreed, for example, that the sort of actions that Aristotle considers to be courageous and liberal should be performed, and the corresponding passions should be felt. Disagreements arise only about the details of when, how much, toward whom, and so on. However, there is widespread opposition to Aristotle’s claim that anger should sometimes be felt and retaliation sometimes taken. Some people demand and others recommend that we forgive absolutely every wrongdoer, even the unapologetic ones. We are to cultivate a disposition of unconditional forgiveness.22

21 Griswold explicitly denies that Aristotle takes forgiveness to be a virtue. When discussing voluntary action and incontinence, Aristotle uses the term sungno¯me¯, which might be translated “forgiveness,” but Griswold shows that in these passages Aristotle is talking about excusing, instead. However, Griswold barely touches on the Aristotelian virtue of good temper, and then turns to disparaging Aristotle’s ideal person, the megalopsychos, for being unforgiving. This is doubly surprisingly. First, good temper concerns how one should respond to being wronged, so Aristotle’s account of good temper is a natural place to look for an account of forgiveness. Second, megalopsychoi are not unforgiving. The megalopsychos is not “mindful of wrongs; for it is not the part of a proud man to have a long memory, especially for wrongs, but rather to overlook them” (1125a3–5. See also 1126a1–3). Aristotle does not mean that megalopsychoi err by ignoring or excusing the inexcusable, for that would be inirascible. Instead, Aristotle’s claim is that megalopsychoi tend to forgive when it is morally optional to do so. See Griswold 2–10. 22 Philosophers favoring unconditional forgiveness include C. Calhoun, “Changing One’s Heart,” Ethics 103 (1992): 76–96; R. S. Downie, Philosophical Quarterly 15 (1965): 128–34; E. Garrard and D. MacNaughton, “In Defense of Unconditional Forgiveness,” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 103 (2003): 39–60; T. Govier, Forgiveness and Revenge (London: Routledge, 2002); J. Hampton, “Forgiveness, Resentment and Hatred.” In Forgiveness and Mercy, ed. by J. Murphy and J. Hampton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986); P. Hieronymi, “Articulating an Uncompromising Forgiveness,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 62 (2001): 529–55; M. Holmgren, “Forgiveness and the Value of Persons,” American Philosophical Quarterly 30 (1993): 341–52; J. North, “The ‘Ideal’ of Forgiveness: A Philosopher’s Exploration.” In Exploring Forgiveness, ed. R. Enright and J. North (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1998) 15–34; G. Pettigrove, “Unapologetic Forgiveness,” American Philosophical Quarterly 41 (2004): 187–204. Philosophers opposing unconditional forgiveness include C. Bennett, “Personal and Redemptive Forgiveness,” European Journal of Philosophy 11 (2003): 127–44; A. Corlett, “Forgiveness, Apology, and Retributive Punishment,” American Philosophical Quarterly 43 (2006): 25–42; Griswold 49–51; J. Haber, Forgiveness (Savage, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 1991); A. Kolnai, “Forgiveness,” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 74 (1973–74): 91–106; J. Murphy, “Forgiveness and Resentment.” In Forgiveness and Mercy, ed. J. Murphy and J. Hampton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986); N. Richards, “Forgiveness,” Ethics 99 (1988): 77–97; R. Swinburne, Responsibility and Atonement (Oxford University Press, 1989); J. Wilson, “Why Forgiveness Requires Repentance,” Philosophy 63 (1955): 534–5.

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With the remark that “Men are good in but one way, but bad in many” (1106b35) Aristotle reminds us that each virtue and its associated failure modes exhaust the range of possible character traits governing that virtue’s sphere. No sphere is governed by two virtues endorsing incompatible actions, passions, etc. Since good temper is the Aristotelian virtue governing the sphere of insults and injustices, any other incompatible character trait concerning this sphere must be irascibility, inirascibility, continence, incontinence, brutishness, or some other failure mode.23 In particular, Aristotle implicitly classifies a disposition to forgive wrongdoers unilaterally as a version of the vice of inirascibility. Forgiving unapologetic wrongdoers is a vicious act, the sort of thing that people with a vice reliably do.24 It could be described as forgiving too many people (assuming that one forgives all the people that one should, plus more) or as forgiving people too quickly (i.e. before they apologize). That is, it could be thought of as an excess of the people parameter or of the duration parameter. As I said above, Aristotle describes inirascible people as deficient with respect to perception, reason, passion, and action in passage [H]. They are overly reluctant to retaliate because they are not angry enough, at enough things, etc. And they are too mild because they are oblivious to wrongful injuries. Technically, they do not forgive wrongdoers at all, but instead they deploy other psychological mechanisms to ignore insults and injustice and thus avoid anger and acts of retaliation. After all, minimizing one’s wrongful injuries so as to avoid anger at the wrongdoer is denial, not forgiveness. Allowing time or distraction to turn one’s attention away from wrongful injuries is forgetting, not forgiving. Undervaluing one’s deserts in order to delegitimize one’s anger at wrongful injuries is self-degradation, not forgiveness. And so on. These are the sorts of things that inirrascible people do. But true forgiveness requires acknowledging that the wrongdoing is inexcusable, and that the wrongdoer is morally responsible. Victims must also acknowledge that they are entitled to anger and capable of acts of retaliation. Then victims must deliberately purge their anger and renounce retaliation in order to forgive wrongdoers.25 Of course, no one admires people who “forgive” everyone because they are oblivious to insults and injustice. No one considers the absence of self-respect, or general obtuseness, or moral blindness, etc., to be good character traits. So the dispute between Aristotle and advocates of unconditional forgiveness is not that Aristotle disapproves of inirascibility while advocates of unconditional forgiveness approve of it. Instead, Aristotle thinks that the only character traits that reliably yield no anger and

23

I take heroic good temper to be a variety of good temper rather than an alternative to good temper. Complete rejection of anger and retaliation might even be considered to be a sort of brutishness. Conversely, advocates of unconditional forgiveness might consider good temper to be the vice of irascibility or even something pathological. See M. Stocker and E. Hegeman, Valuing Emotions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996) 277–80. For a rebuttal, see S. Leighton, “Aristotle’s Account of Anger: Narcissism and Illusions of Self-Sufficiency,” Ratio 15 (2002): 23–45. 25 D. Novitz, “Forgiveness and Self-Respect,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, 58 (1998): 299–315. 24


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no acts of retaliation are the obviously nasty traits that he labels inirascibility, while his opponents maintain that there is a package of respectable character traits called unconditional forgiveness, from which anger and acts of retaliation reliably do not flow. When the focus is on acts, the act of forgiving unapologetic wrongdoers can seem noble, kind, gracious, admirable, etc. But shifting the focus to character traits challenges Aristotle’s opponents to show that the character trait of unconditional forgiveness exists, and that it is a virtue. They must show that unconditional forgiveness is more conducive than good temper to happiness. Or they must deny that virtues are character traits maximally conducive to happiness, and deploy an alternative account of what a virtue is. Otherwise those who reliably forgive unapologetic wrongdoers stand revealed as the vicious or sick people Aristotle describes in passage [H]. The question of whether people should be moderately or totally forgiving is one piece of the larger controversy between Aristotelian moderation and Stoic/Christian extremism. Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean is triadic; each sphere of human life is governed by a single virtue which is medial, bracketed by two vices which are extremes. The competing doctrine is dyadic: each virtue lies on one end of a continuum and its one corresponding vice lies on the other end. The fact that many people profess admiration for unconditional forgiveness should not blind us to the fact that they are applauding an extreme. While Aristotle says that the virtue governing insult and injustice is a disposition to retaliate moderately and angrily, the advocates of unconditional forgiveness say that the virtue governing insult and injustice consists in getting as far away from the vice of irascibility as possible. Irascibility is bad; forgiveness is good—so the more forgiving a person is, the better.26 The right way to be lies on the extreme end of a continuum.

Object parameter: Atrocities and apologies Questions about which things should anger us and which things we should forgive are not completely settled by specifying that the sphere of good temper is insults and injustices. Several questions about the objects of good temper have recently been forcefully raised by Wiesenthal. While Wiesenthal was imprisoned in a concentration camp, a dying German named Karl asked his forgiveness for atrocities committed against other Jews.27 Can we forgive people for acts against others? Should we forgive people who have done terrible things?

If this doctrine were to acknowledge the possibility of being “too far away from irascibility,” it would become triadic. It would be accepting the doctrine of the mean. 27 S. Wiesenthal, The Sunflower (NY: Random House, 1997). 26

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Aristotle says in passage [B] that we are angered not only at slights to ourselves, but also at slights to our friends. Because we rejoice and sorrow with our friends (1166a7–8), wrongful injuries to our friends also wrongfully injure us, and thus anger us (1126a7–8). That is, someone who wrongs one of Ludwig’s friends thereby also wrongs Ludwig. Presumably, Ludwig can forgive the indirect wrong done to himself, but the direct wrong done to Ludwig’s friend is for the friend to forgive. One cannot forgive on behalf of one’s friends. Now Aristotle defines friendship so broadly that our business partners and tennis partners, and even our fellow citizens, turn out to be our friends. Arguably, friendship extends to our co-religionists. When Karl directly injured other Jews, he indirectly injured Wiesenthal. So Aristotle might say that Wiesenthal could forgive Karl for the indirect injury Karl did to Wiesenthal, but not for the direct injury Karl did to his victims. It is easy to see why Ludwig should get angry if his friends are slighted. The honor of his friends is bound up with his own, so that to slight his friend is to slight Ludwig, himself. Aristotle’s claim that good-tempered people are angry because of slights to their friends takes him pretty far because Aristotelian friendships include not only the close, character friendships that we in the modern world call “friendships,” they also include pleasure and utility friendships, as well as distant character friendships and even civic friendships. Yet Aristotle’s claim does not go far enough. People can and should become angry even when a foreign stranger is slighted. Genocide in Africa should anger Texans. Aristotle’s theory could cover this if he were to say that insults and injustices to persons, not just to friends, are also insults and injustices to every other person. “Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”28 What is possible is not always required, of course. Aristotle does not explicitly address the question of whether one should forgive apologetic atrocity perpetrators, but he does recognize, in general, that some admirable acts are beyond us. He says, [Q] On some actions praise indeed is not bestowed, but pardon is, when one does what he ought not under pressure which overstrains human nature and which no one could withstand. (1110a23–6; see also 1115b7–8)

Here Aristotle is envisioning situations where the right thing to do is so difficult that a person who acts wrongly should be excused.29 Forgiving an apologetic atrocity perpetrator may well be an action so difficult that not-forgiving is an excusable action. For Aristotle, an apology does not consist merely in uttering the words, “I apologize.” He says that we grow calm “towards those who admit their fault and are sorry . . . we cease to be incensed against those who agree that they deserve their punishment” (Rhet. 1380a14–19). I take Aristotle to be specifying that an apology

J. Donne, “Meditation XVII.” Here Aristotle is clearly not talking about a person who declines to perform a supererogatory act or who chooses the lesser of two evils. Such acts need no pardon. 28 29


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includes (a) acceptance of responsibility for the act, (b) acknowledgement that it was wrong, (c) assurance of actual repentance, (d) implicit commitment to try to refrain from repeating the offence, (e) acceptance of punishment, and (f ) implicit commitment to try to make restitution.30 Presumably, these are proportional to the act’s wrongfulness, so the assurance of repentance for atrocities must be ironclad, the accepted punishment very severe, the restitution enormous, and the commitment to reform demonstrably wholehearted. Thus, although Aristotle says that we should forgive apologetic people—perhaps even apologetic atrocity perpetrators—he sets the standards for what counts as an apology very high. And he is willing to excuse us if we are unable to forgive atrocity perpetrators, even when their apologies meet this high standard.

Conclusion Aristotle’s account of good temper in NE IV.5 is interesting for several reasons. It is brief, yet surprisingly comprehensive. Uncluttered by distracting complexity, it straightforwardly exhibits several central components of Aristotle’s architectonic: the doctrine that virtues govern disjoint spheres, the interdependence of different sorts of goals and pleasures, the independence of different parameters, and the doctrine of the mean. In each of Aristotle’s accounts of a virtue he deploys some new architectonic component(s). The new component mentioned in Aristotle’s account of good temper is that each aspect of a virtue or vice is both a cause and a consequent of every other aspect. Thus good dispositions of action, passion, perception, and reason are synergistic, and bad dispositions are mutually destructive. Consideration of good temper’s relationship to justice suggests that good temper is just the part of general justice concerned with dishonor. The right rule of good temper is just Aristotle’s principle of rectificatory justice applied to honor. Does this generalize? Does the interpersonal portion of the right rule of every first-order virtue consist of a principle of general justice applied to the good governed by that virtue? If so, then we must acquit Aristotle of the charge of neglecting or refusing to provide right rules for the virtues (or at least their interpersonal portions).

30 I am glossing over some subtleties here. I suggest that the victim must be assured somehow that the wrongdoer is repentant, so a secret repentance will not do. “Unexpressed questioning or changes of heart, like unexpressed dissent from evil, risks nothing and achieves nothing” (C. Card, The Atrocity Paradigm (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002) 186–7). On the other hand, the wrongdoer need not assure the victim directly: the apology could go through a third party, for example. For a very detailed description of the components of apologies, see N. Smith, I Was Wrong: The Meanings of Apologies (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008) 28–107.

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Commentators have seldom remarked upon the fact that Aristotle’s account of good temper includes an account of forgiveness. He says that we should be angry and retaliate in moderation. By contrast, some people urge us to forgive all wrongdoers, even unapologetic atrocity perpetrators. The stakes are high, for if unconditional forgiveness is a virtue, then it is a counterexample to Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean. On the other hand, if good temper is a virtue, then Aristotle wins a round against a popular, Stoic/Christian theory of virtue ethics.

8 Wit and Wounding (NE IV.8)

Introduction Aristotle is often said to have a broader notion of morality’s scope than more modern moral philosophers such as Kant or Mill. This view rests on several aspects of Aristotle’s ethics, including Aristotle’s decision to list wit (eutrapelia) as a virtue.1 Wit is understood as a good sense of humor. Critics observe that while the disposition to make and appreciate funny jokes in proper quantity is clearly a charming character trait, it hardly seems to be an essential component of a morally good character. Surely both humorless people and clownish people can be moral. Non-critics take Aristotle’s broader notion of morality to express a refreshingly different moral perspective from our own. Perhaps we should prize social skills such as a sense of humor more highly than we do. Contrary to both critics and non-critics, I take Aristotle’s view of morality’s scope to be roughly the same as that of contemporary moral philosophers. So it behooves me to rebut the claim that Aristotle maintains that a good sense of humor is a requirement of morality. The Eudemian Ethics denies that wit is a virtue on the grounds that it is not chosen (EE 1234a25). In the Nicomachean Ethics, however, Aristotle clearly considers wit to be a virtue. Both the Greek term, “eutrapelia,” and its standard English translations, “wit, liveliness, jesting, and ribaldry” suggest that the virtue of wit is essentially a good sense of humor, a disposition to tell funny jokes in a funny way and to enjoy jokes in proportion to their degree of funniness. Similarly, the vice terms, “bo¯molochia” and “agroikia,” and their standard English translations, “buffoonery” and “boorishness” foster the impression that to lack the virtue of wit is to lack a good sense of humor. However, I shall argue that these are misimpressions. My analysis of Aristotle’s account reveals that his virtue of wit is not the same as a good sense of humor. Aristotle’s witty person need not be a good joke teller or a good joke appreciator. Instead, Aristotle’s virtue of wit is a character trait that is clearly morally significant, even according to a very narrow notion of morality. Furthermore, on my interpretation, it is no longer puzzling why Aristotle bothers to include wit on his list of virtues. 1

See, for example, Ross 204.

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A word about procedure. Aristotle’s account of wit is elliptical as well as condensed. I shall attempt to fill in some gaps by modeling Aristotle’s account of wit on his account of temperance. I shall also extrapolate from remarks about wit’s associated vices. As Aristotle says, “often one contrary state is recognized from its contrary” (1129a17–18). These maneuvers will have the dividend of shedding some new light on Aristotle’s account of temperance.

The sphere of wit Aristotle’s specification of wit’s sphere foreshadows the extent to which his account of wit is compressed. He squeezes most of the sphere’s description into the following sentence. [A] Since life includes rest as well, and in this is included leisure and amusement, there seems here also to be a kind of intercourse which is tasteful. (1127b33–1128a1)

Here, Aristotle makes three moves. Wit’s sphere is preliminarily described as “rest.” Aristotle then narrows the sphere to “leisure and amusement” and further narrows it to conversational “intercourse.” Three sentences later Aristotle makes clear that the sphere of wit is “humor” (1128a4). This is not the end of the story, however. In his final winnowing of wit’s sphere Aristotle picks out a particular type of humor. [B] The jest is a sort of abuse. (1128a30–1) [Wit is] well-bred insolence. (Rhetoric, 1389b11–12)

Indeed, most of the passages quoted below support the claim that wit does not concern all sorts of humor, but rather wit’s sphere consists of a particular sort of humor, namely jokes that ridicule someone and/or something. Aristotle’s virtue of wit does not govern shaggy dog stories or puns or goofy faces; rather wit governs put-downs or barbs.

Boorish and buffoonish speaking Aristotle says with respect to wit that, [C] There is such a thing as saying—and again listening to—what one should and as one should. (1128a1)

So wit governs two activities: speaking and listening. In the light of Aristotle’s designation of wit’s sphere, speaking must mean telling jokes. I shall explain what Aristotle means by listening below. Aristotle goes on to sketch the vices bracketing wit in terms of speaking and listening. [D] Those who carry humor to excess are thought to be vulgar buffoons, striving after humor at all costs, and aiming rather at raising a laugh than at saying what is becoming and at avoiding pain

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to the object of their fun; while those who can neither make a joke themselves nor put up with those who do are thought to be boorish and unpolished. But those who joke in a tasteful way are called ready witted . . . To the middle state belongs also tact. (1128a4–17)

To begin with the activity of speaking, in passage [D] Aristotle makes clear that by “buffoon” he does not mean a person who goes to excess by telling jokes that are too funny, whatever that might mean. Nor do buffoons go wrong merely by telling unfunny jokes, or by telling a distractingly large number of jokes, or by joking on serious occasions. Instead, Aristotelian buffoons aim “rather at raising a laugh than at saying what is becoming and at avoiding pain to the object of their fun.” Buffoons tell unbecoming and/or painful jokes which I shall call hateful jokes. By contrast, witty people “joke in a tasteful way” rather than an unbecoming way. Their jokes are also tactful rather than painful, as passage [D]’s last sentence indicates. So buffoons tell too many jokes because they tell hateful jokes as well as tasteful, tactful jokes. And they tell jokes on too many occasions because they tell jokes in situations where these jokes are hateful as well as in situations when these jokes are tasteful and tactful. In general, for each parameter, “excessive” does not mean “enough to spoil the fun,” but rather “enough to offend or wound.” Aristotelian buffoonishness is not simply a confusion about what jokes are funny or a penchant for clowning around when seriousness is called for. Instead, buffoonishness is a tendency to act in a way that is insensitive to the feelings of others, a disposition to be offensive and/or hurtful through humor. Boors are people who are deficient with respect to wit. Aristotle does say in passage [D] that boors are unable to make jokes. But since buffoons are excessive by being insensitive to the feelings of others, symmetry requires that boors be deficient by being overly sensitive, overly worried about hurting the feelings of others, rather than by being serious, solemn people. Their problem is not that they don’t like jokes or that they can’t think of any jokes to tell. Boors refrain from telling certain jokes on certain occasions because they wrongly believe that these jokes would be hateful. Passage [D] provides further evidence for this understanding of Aristotelian boorishness. Aristotle describes boors as “those who can neither make a joke themselves nor put up with those who do.” Their problem, when it comes to hearing jokes, is that they are oversensitive. The correlate of this, when it comes to telling jokes, must be that they are overly cautious about the sensibilities of others. They can neither dish it out nor take it. Like buffoonishness, boorishness is not simply a flawed sense of humor, but rather it is a flawed moral sensitivity manifested in the sphere of wit. Boors are excessively touchy both with respect to themselves and on behalf of others. Extreme solicitousness hardly seems to be a moral failing, yet Aristotle finds a problem with boorish behavior. [E] The boor, again, is useless for such social intercourse; for he contributes nothing and finds fault with everything. But relaxation and amusement are thought to be a necessary element in life. (1128b1–4)

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In this passage Aristotle maintains that jokes are crucial to human life, particularly to “social intercourse.” But despite the fact that Aristotle says that the boor “contributes nothing,” I do not think that Aristotle is accusing boors of sinning by omission, of not doing their part to amuse, of being social free riders. On Aristotle’s account of justice, a person should contribute to the joint project of a friendship in proportion to his or her benefits from the friendship. But this does not imply that when friends engage in social intercourse they must all provide a share of amusement. The idea that each person must tell a fixed number of jokes per day is . . . laughable. People may contribute to social intercourse in many ways. Some tell jokes, but others cook dinners, or tell tales, or ask illuminating questions, or bring the wine, or listen sympathetically, etc. Aristotle’s real criticism of the boor is that he or she “finds fault with everything.” Boors are wet blankets: they cast a pall of criticism over social gatherings. Now Aristotle does not mean that boors object to affirmative action or to Country Western music. Boors object to jokes. Furthermore, boors do not object to jokes on the grounds that they are unfunny. No one does that. Instead, boors object to jokes on the grounds that they are hateful. Of course, this would be praiseworthy, rather than problematic, if boors objected only to objectionable jokes. Boorishness is a vice because boors take the fun out of life by objecting to unobjectionable jokes. One might disagree with Aristotle about whether extreme solicitousness expressed as a refusal to tell unobjectionable jokes is a vice, just as one might disagree with his claim that extreme monetary generosity is a vice. But these are clearly moral questions. Aristotle’s remarks about boorish and buffoonish joking place his virtue of wit squarely within the moral realm, narrowly understood.

Boorish and buffoonish listening In light of the fact that the sorts of jokes governed by Aristotle’s virtue of wit are putdowns, passage [D] indicates that what Aristotle means by “listening to jokes” is not simply aurally attending to jokes. Instead, “listening to jokes” means putting up with jokes, or as I shall say, tolerating jokes (see also 1128a28–9). To tolerate a joke is to allow the joker to proceed while continuing to listen. Of course, most of the time one is not conscious of a difference between attending to jokes and tolerating jokes. If a friend who has never told you a hateful joke begins, “Hey, did you hear the one about . . . ” the question of whether to let him or her proceed does not present itself. But that question may present itself if a person with a history of inappropriate joking starts to tell a joke, or if the beginning of a joke hints that something inappropriate is coming. In such a situation people who simply attend to jokes take up a stance that is relaxed, open, ready to be amused, and anticipating pleasure. They take up this stance no matter what sort of joke is coming. People who are good at attending to jokes are connoisseurs of jokes: they are good at distinguishing what is funny from what is not. People who are good at tolerating jokes are good at distinguishing what is truly disrespectful from what is just harmless fun. When they suspect that a hateful joke is coming, they become


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tense, guarded, alert to the possibility of taking offence on behalf of self or others, ready to take action such as attacking the attacker in a mild or major way, anticipating pain (perhaps mitigated by pleasure). So since witty people are good tolerators, the question that witty people reliably answer rightly, and buffoons and boors answer wrongly is not, “Is this joke funny?” but rather, “Is this joke hateful?” Now Aristotle says in passage [D] that those who cannot “put up with [jokers] are thought to be boorish and unpolished,” so presumably, witty people put up with being put down, at least somewhat. Perhaps they also put up with some ridiculing of things they value, and with some ridiculing of other people. On the other hand, witty people are not willing to listen to all sorts of jokes. [F] It is the mark of a tactful man to say and listen to such things as befit a good and well-bred man; there are some things that it befits such a man to say and to hear by way of jest. (1128a17–20, emphasis mine. See also 1128a33–b1)

Aristotle is surely not implying that witty people refuse to listen to jokes unless the jokes are funny. The proper response to unfunny jokes is not to cover one’s ears; instead one smiles politely and changes the subject. In passage [D] Aristotle practically equates the jokes one should tell and one should hear.2 And I have argued that the jokes one should not tell are the hateful jokes. Thus the jokes to which witty people refuse to listen must be hateful jokes. When someone begins to tell racist jokes, for example, the witty person might silence the tactless joker, or walk away, or threaten legal action, or use violence, etc., depending upon the details of the situation. To summarize, buffoons are not raucous people who tell too many innocuous jokes or spoil a serious moment with an ill-timed jest, but rather they tell offensive, hurtful jokes. Boors are not simply dull people who put a damper on parties by telling too few jokes, but rather they “find fault with” inoffensive, harmless jokes. They neither tell nor tolerate them. Thus, Aristotle’s witty people are not necessarily good at telling and appreciating funny jokes. Instead, they tell and tolerate tasteful, tactful jokes, jokes that poke merely mild fun at themselves, at other people, at institutions or practices, etc. Aristotle’s virtue of wit is expressed by “saying what is becoming,” that is, by not inflicting pain on others through humor, and by refusing to stand for hateful joking. Indeed, a witty person might enjoy humorless jokes and tell jokes badly, so long as these jokes are tasteful and tactful. Thus, Aristotle’s virtue of wit clearly differs from a good sense of humor. And it is clearly a morally desirable character trait. The fact that he lists wit as a virtue is not evidence that Aristotle has a broad notion of morality.

The passion of wit Aristotle’s taxonomy of character traits presupposes that each virtue governs one or more passions. In each sphere, virtue and vice involve harmony between reason and 2

Aristotle revises this view a bit later. See below.

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passion; continence and incontinence involve a conflict between reason and bad passion. Unfortunately, Aristotle fails to specify characteristic passions for several virtues including wit. Bostock infers that Aristotle associates no passion with these virtues.3 In order to preserve the idea that Aristotle’s taxonomy of character traits applies to wit, I shall argue that wit does have a characteristic passion. What does it mean for a virtue to govern a passion? While arguing that people can become virtuous by habit, Aristotle observes that one can perform temperate acts without being a temperate person (1105b5–9). Similarly, one can perform intemperate acts without being an intemperate person (1103b14–21; 1130a24–8). So Aristotle does not think that a virtue’s characteristic passion is the only possible motivation for the characteristic acts of that virtue or its associated vices. Aristotle suggests that courageous people face shipwreck and terminal illness well, although doing so is not a courageous act (1115a35–b6). He even says that liberal people sometimes act illiberally (1120b4–6; 1121a1–7). So Aristotle does not think that the only acts that flow from the characteristic passion of a virtue are that virtue’s characteristic acts. Instead, to say that a virtue governs a passion is to say, among other things, that that passion, rather than some other passion, typically motivates the virtue’s characteristic acts (1130a28–32). If wit is to govern a passion, then that passion must typically motivate the telling and tolerating of jokes since these are the activities of wit. Now people tell and listen to jokes for many reasons. Some people tell jokes to control others or to increase their own importance, for example. However, Fortenbaugh claims that the appreciation or desire for the enjoyment of jokes is the passion governed by wit.4 Joke appreciation is to wit what fear and confidence are to courage, and desire for sensual pleasure is to temperance. According to Fortenbaugh, people who typically tell and tolerate jokes well (badly) do so because they properly (improperly) appreciate jokes. I shall argue against this claim. Now joke appreciation cannot possibly be the primary passion motivating the telling of jokes. The urge to tell a joke is not the desire to appreciate the joke, for we already know the punch lines of the jokes we tell.5 That is why we typically do not tell jokes to ourselves. Instead, joke telling is driven by a desire to share jokes with others (or inflict jokes upon others). Continence and incontinence make this particularly clear. For example, suppose Beatrice believes that she should not tell racist jokes, but is tempted to tell one. Surely the passion against which Beatrice struggles is not the desire to enjoy

3

Bostock 47–8. W. Fortenbaugh, “Aristotle and the Questionable Mean-Dispositions,” Transactions of the American Philological Association 99 (1968): 216–19. 5 Ross renders ho bo¯molochos he¯tto¯n esti tou geloiou (1128a33–4) as “The buffoon is the slave of his sense of humor” which seems to suggest that the buffoon is driven by his or her appreciation of certain jokes to tell these jokes to others. But this is an overtranslation. I propose the translation, “the buffoon cannot resist a joke.” So translated, this remark does not carry the implication that buffoonishness arises from an excess of joke-appreciation. 4


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the joke. It must be a desire to bestow or impose the joke upon others. Fortenbaugh’s suggestion does not fit the activity of telling jokes. I suggest that the characteristic passion motivating people to tell jokes is the passion of friendly feeling (philia). Aristotle says in Rhetoric II.4, [G] We may describe friendly feeling towards anyone as wishing for him what you believe to be good things, not for your own sake but for his, and being inclined, so far as you can, to bring these things about. A friend is one who feels thus and excites these feelings in return.” (Rhetoric 1380b34–1381a2).

So friendly feeling includes a desire to help others, and reciprocated friendly feelings constitute friendship. My claim is that we tell jokes to others not primarily because we like jokes, but rather because we like others. On my interpretation, Aristotle’s witty people tell jokes rightly because they have the right friendly feeling for others. They want to amuse the right people, in the right way, at the right time, etc. Buffoons and boors tell the wrong jokes because they have deficient and excessive friendly feelings, respectively. Buffoons are not excessive with respect to joke telling because they care about jokes too much, nor are boors deficient with respect to joke telling and listening because they care about jokes too little.6 Instead, the problem is that buffoons and boors care about other people too little and too much, respectively. For example, Beatrice’s wayward passion is a deficiency of friendly feelings toward black people, rather than an excess of appreciation of racist jokes. Fortenbaugh’s suggestion seems more plausible with respect to the activity of listening to jokes. Appreciation of jokes is an obvious motivation for listening to jokes, although people listen to jokes for other reasons, too. And Aristotle does mention that witty people and people who lack the virtue of wit find different things amusing. They take pleasure in telling and listening to different sorts of jokes (1128a20–5). The part of wit concerned with listening to jokes parallels temperance. Just as temperate people have the right taste in sensual pleasure, so witty people have the right taste in humor. Temperate people partake of, and enjoy, only the right sorts of food, drink, and sex, at the right times, etc. Similarly, witty people listen to and appreciate only the right sorts of jokes on the right occasions, etc. However, Fortenbaugh’s suggestion that wit governs the passion of joke appreciation does not take seriously the fact that wit governs only put-downs. This restriction is puzzling on Fortenbaugh’s interpretation, but straightforward on mine. The important challenge put-downs pose to listeners is “Which jokes to tolerate?” not “Which jokes are funny?” It is the passion of friendly feeling that drives the decision to tolerate or not tolerate jokes. Witty people tolerate only the right sorts of jokes on the right occasions etc. because they have the right friendly feelings.

6 I would not dream of denying that there are such people; I deny only that they are Aristotle’s buffoons and boors.

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On Fortenbaugh’s suggestion, buffoons and boors go wrong in their appreciation of jokes. They appreciate jokes too much and too little, respectively. But what does “appreciating jokes too much” mean? On my suggestion, buffoons and boors go wrong in their toleration of jokes because their friendly feelings are flawed in different ways: they are undersensitive or oversensitive to the feelings of others. Again, continence and incontinence are revealing. Continent and incontinent people experience a conflict between their flawed passions and their right beliefs. Suppose that Clyde sees that someone is about to tell a joke. Clyde knows that he should not listen, but he is tempted by a flawed passion to do nothing and let the joker proceed. According to Fortenbaugh’s suggestion, Clyde fights the desire to enjoy the joke because he knows that the joke will not be funny. But people do not struggle against the desire to hear jokes lest they hear an unfunny one. The picture is more plausible if listening means tolerating, and the joke in question is a put-down, for example a racist joke. Then Clyde struggles with the desire to savor the demeaning of black people, and his reason for struggling is that the joke is hateful. This is a twisted variant of the passion of friendly feeling. Thus one passion, friendly feeling, motivates both speaking and listening to jokes. Right friendly feeling makes a person witty; wrong friendly feeling makes a person buffoonish, boorish, continent, incontinent, or brutish.7

The parameters of wit Aristotle specifies the parameters of wit as follows: [H] There is such a thing as saying—and again listening to—what one should and as one should. The kind of people one is speaking or listening to will also make a difference. Evidently here also there is both an excess and a deficiency as compared with the mean. (1128a1–4)

Passage [H] says that each of wit’s two activities, speaking and listening, is a function of three parameters: objects, manner, and people. Buffoons are excessive and boors are deficient with respect to one or more of these parameters. It is important to tell and listen to jokes at the right times, too. Some situations call for jokes to lighten the mood; other situations are not suitable for jokes. Certain jokes are suitable for some situations but not others. Aristotle should have included a type-ofsituation or occasions parameter for the virtue of wit. What is the manner parameter? What does Aristotle mean by speaking and listening “as one should”? By this Aristotle does not mean telling and tolerating the right jokes. That is speaking and listening to “what one should,” that is, the object parameter. Nor does speaking and listening “as one should” mean telling and tolerating jokes with the

7 One advantage of my interpretation is that Aristotle offers an account of the passion of friendly feeling, but never mentions the passion of joke appreciation.


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right style. Style is not quantifiable. When the phrase “as one should” appears in Aristotle’s accounts of other virtues, it means “amount or degree of something.” In Aristotle’s account of courage, fearing “what one should” means fearing the right types of dangers, while fearing “as one should” means feeling the right amount of fear. Similarly, in his account of temperance, desiring “what one should” means desiring the right types of food, drink, and sex, while desiring “as one should” means feeling the right degree of desire for each type. By analogy, the manner parameter of wit should be understood as an amount or degree parameter. Like actions, passions can be felt rightly or wrongly with respect to several different parameters. But the actions and passions of a virtue need not utilize the same parameters. Friendly feeling does not require quite the same parameters as do the activities of speaking and listening. It makes sense to say that one can go wrong by having friendly feelings toward too many or too few people. Similarly, one can go wrong by having feelings that are too friendly or not friendly enough. And one can have friendly feeling on too many or too few occasions. So the people, amounts, and occasions parameters apply to the passion of friendly feeling. But one does not have friendly feeling toward jokes, so the object and people parameters coincide. The parameters of speaking, listening, and friendly feeling can vary independently. For example, Dominique has suffocatingly intense affection for a few friends and relatives while shutting out the rest of the world. On the other hand, Eustace has a thousand Facebook friends, but no one he cares much about. Dominique has excessive friendly feelings toward too few people, and Eustace has insufficient friendly feeling toward too many people. One might have proper friendly feelings toward the right sorts of people, yet tell or listen to inappropriate sorts of jokes. Or vice versa. Fiona, for example, has the right feelings, but is always giving pain or offence because her poor social skills lead her to tell inappropriate jokes. Conversely, Dominique and Eustace may each be socially smooth. Speaking and listening vary independently of each other. Although Fiona is disposed to tell jokes wrongly, she may listen to them rightly, for example. Moreover, Aristotle should allow that some people are boorish buffoons. Some people are excessive with respect to telling jokes, and deficient with respect to listening to them. They can dish it out, but can’t take it. Others are deficient with respect to telling jokes and excessive with respect to listening to them. They can’t dish it out, but can take it, perhaps because they lack self-esteem.

Which jokes are hateful? When Aristotle limits the sphere of wit to jokes that demean or lower things by poking fun at them he goes on to raise the possibility of censorship. [I] The jest is a sort of abuse, and there are things that lawgivers forbid us to abuse; and they should, perhaps, have forbidden us even to make a jest of such. (1128a30–1)

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Although Aristotle does not pursue the idea of banning certain jokes, the fact that he even brings it up shows how seriously he takes the harm and offence that jokes can cause. It also supports my suggestion that Aristotle is not primarily concerned with the funniness of jokes, for censorship is hardly a reasonable response to humorless jokes. Finally, Aristotle’s mention of censorship parallels certain contemporary views. His suggestion to ban unbecoming and/or painful jokes is approximately Feinberg’s Harm Principle plus Offence Principle applied to jokes.8 Aristotle’s claim in passage [I] is that those things that should not be demeaned should not be butts of demeaning jokes. This may seem obvious, even tautologous, but it is actually a substantive remark. Some people hold the view that the sphere of humor is a morality-free zone, a region of human life where nothing is sacred. They give themselves and others permission to joke about absolutely everything. Aristotle rightly rejects this view. Some things are just not laughing matters. How should we determine what things should not be demeaned? Different people find different jokes acceptable, of course. From this fact, many people infer that whether a joke is hateful depends upon the taste of the listeners. There is no objective standard of hatefulness. If the listeners find the joke unacceptable, then it is unacceptable. Otherwise it is OK. The responsibility of jokers is simply to respect the feelings of their listeners. Alternatively, under some interpretations, the golden rule implies that a joke is hateful if and only if the joker finds it hateful. Although Aristotle sometimes seems to have in mind people kidding each other, the butt of a barbed joke need not be the listener or the joker. When two KKK members tell racist jokes to each other, for example, the jokes’ butts are third parties. Aristotle explicitly rejects the thesis that joke hatefulness is relative to the feelings of the listeners, and implicitly rejects the idea that hatefulness is relative to the feelings of the jokers or the butts. Neither the listener nor the joker nor the joke’s butt provides the standard for joke acceptability. Instead, a joke is acceptable if and only if the witty person finds it acceptable. [ J] Now should we define the man who jokes well by his saying what is not unbecoming to a well-bred man, or by his not giving pain, or even giving delight, to the hearer? Or is the latter, at any rate, itself indefinite, since different things are hateful or pleasant to different people? The kind of jokes he will listen to will be the same; for the kind he can put up with are the also the kind he seems to make. (1128a25–9; see also EE 1234a1823)

Passage [ J] indicates that there is an objective standard of joke hatefulness, and that the witty person is a barometer of that standard. A joke is hateful not if the listeners would find it hateful, but rather if the listeners should find it hateful. And the listeners should find it hateful if the witty person would find it hateful. This is, of course, another application of Aristotle’s familiar doctrine that the virtuous person is the measure of all things pertaining to his or her virtue (1113a31–3; 1176a10–29). 8

J. Feinberg, Social Philosophy (Prentice-Hall, 1973) 33.


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Aristotle’s virtue-is-the-measure doctrine must be understood in combination with his relative-to-us doctrine (1106a29–b4). Different things are appropriate for different situations. It is not the case that everyone always ought to advance 5,000 yards in battle, consume 5,000 calories per day, and give $5,000.00 per year to charity. There is always an objectively right thing to do, but the right thing to do depends upon one’s situation. So a certain joke may be hurtful or offensive in some situations, and tasteful and tactful in others (relative-to-us), but it is the witty person rather than the teller, listener, or butt who is qualified to make that determination (virtue-is-the-measure). Dead baby jokes are unacceptable at the funeral of a baby, even if the teller, the listener, and the butt don’t mind the joke. What makes these jokes unacceptable in this situation is not that they would hurt feelings, but that they should hurt feelings. Similarly, what makes some ethnic jokes OK (a) between people of that ethnicity, but not (b) between people prejudiced against that ethnicity, is not that the listener takes the jokes to be hateful in situation (a), but not situation (b). After all, the listeners in both situations might think the joke is acceptable. Instead, it is that joker and butt are the same in situation (a), but not in situation (b). Laughing at oneself is very different than being laughed at. Aristotle is right to reject subjective standards of joke acceptability. Discovering how people are affected by jokes is often difficult. People mask their reactions because of politeness or peer pressure. Moreover, people are sometimes unaware of how they, themselves, are affected. Denial, for example, may conceal from people how deeply wounded they are by certain jokes. Jokes can also be termites or time bombs, lingering unnoticed in a person’s subconscious, gnawing on his or her self-esteem or exploding it at a later time. But even if one could accurately determine how people are affected, this would not be an accurate measure of hatefulness. People are often simply wrong about whether a joke is acceptable or hateful. For example, people notoriously find terribly hateful jokes about themselves or their sex, nationalities, professions, etc. unproblematic until their consciousness becomes raised. And the raising of consciousness is often followed by a period of hypersensitivity where people are hurt or offended even by tasteful, tactful jokes.

The right rule of wit Does Aristotle really think that it is OK to tell a tasteful, tactful joke to an oversensitive person who would be hurt or offended by the joke? Shouldn’t jokers respect the feelings of their listeners, even when those feelings are inappropriate? Luckily, Aristotle leaves room for the view that acceptable jokes should not be told to people who do not recognize their acceptability. Passage [ J] equates (a) tasteful and tactful jokes, (b) jokes that witty people tell, and (c) jokes that witty people tolerate. A few sentences later, however, Aristotle revises this view. He suggests that witty people are willing to listen to jokes that they are unwilling to tell.

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[K] The buffoon . . . says things none of which a man of refinement would say, and to some of which he would not even listen. (1128a33–b1)

The first part of passage [K] says that buffoons (who go wrong with respect to the object parameter) say things that witty people say, plus things that witty people would not say. No surprise. And presumably boors tell fewer jokes than witty people. But the last part of passage [K] is a surprise. It indicates that witty people would listen to some, but not all, of the jokes that only buffoons tell. So the set of jokes that witty people tell is a proper subset of the jokes which they tolerate, which is, in turn, a proper subset of the set of jokes that buffoons tell. Surely witty people neither tell nor tolerate hateful jokes. Thus, passage [K] implies that witty people not only refuse to tell all hateful jokes, they also refuse to tell some tasteful, tactful jokes. Boors tell JOKES

Witty people tell Witty people tolerate Buffoons tell

Why do witty people decline to tell perfectly acceptable jokes? What sorts of jokes are appropriate to hear, but not appropriate to tell? Aristotle does not say. Perhaps these are jokes that oversensitive listeners would find hateful. Witty people are not indifferent to their listeners. They try to respect the sensibilities of their listeners even if they do not share these sensibilities. After all, the sphere of wit lies within the sphere of leisure and amusement, and the point of jokes is generally to produce pleasure. So the witty person generally avoids telling jokes that would offend or hurt the listeners, even when the witty person knows that the listeners should not be offended or hurt. A witty person might rule that a certain joke is inoffensive, yet refrain from telling this joke to thin-skinned people lest they take offence. If my speculation is correct, then Aristotle’s witty people are able to take every sort of joke they make, but they do not make every sort of joke they can take.9 To summarize, Aristotle thinks that jokes may be objectively classified as hateful (unbecoming and/or painful) jokes or tasteful, tactful jokes by witty people. A joke is

9

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hateful in a certain situation if and only if the witty person would find it hateful in that situation. Witty people will not tolerate hateful jokes. Nor will they tell hateful jokes, even to callous listeners who would enjoy these jokes. Moreover, witty people will not inflict tasteful, tactful jokes on oversensitive listeners who would mistakenly find these jokes hateful. Thus, the right rule for wit, the rule specifying at a very general level what should be done and what should be avoided, is this: [Right Rule of Wit] Do not listen to hateful jokes, and do not tell jokes that are hateful, or would be perceived by your listeners to be hateful.

Like the right rules of other virtues, the right rule for wit is non-trivial, though far from an algorithm. It is specific enough to rule out a large number of jokes, for many jokes are blatantly hateful. And it gives some direction for thinking about which of the remaining jokes to tell and tolerate.

Goals, pleasures, and pains of wit Now Aristotle says that, “we must take as a sign of states [of character] the pleasure or pain that supervenes on acts” (1104b3–5). Because humor is a pleasure, it functions as an indicator of a person’s character. Thus, Aristotle says, [L] [ Jokes] are thought to be movements of the character, and as bodies are discriminated by their movements, so too are characters. (1128a10–12)

In order to flesh out this remark, I shall sketch the relationships among several different types of goals, pleasures, and character types. The virtue of wit has a goal structure similar to that of other virtues. In general, virtuous agents do the right thing (a) because it is right. They also do the right thing (b) in order to accomplish something, or (c) in order to avoid losing something, or both. Corresponding to these three sorts of goals are three sorts of pleasures and pains, each with different flavors. (a) Like all other virtuous acts, witty acts are performed by witty people partially because they are the right thing to do in the circumstances, or as Aristotle might say, “for the sake of the noble.” Believing that one has acted rightly produces what might be called noble pleasure. Conversely, believing that one has acted wrongly produces the pain of shame. (b) What the witty person hopes to achieve by joking and listening to jokes is tricky. Technically, each act is a behavior-under-a-description, so each behavior can be the matter, so to speak, of several different acts. Suppose General Gerard humorously mocks the enemy in his rousing speech to his troops before the big battle. Technically, Gerard’s mockery is two acts: making light of danger, and joking. The former is a courageous act; the latter a witty act. The former aims at raising the spirits of fellow soldiers; the latter at amusing friends. Aristotle might say that Gerard’s joke aims essentially at amusement, and only incidentally at raising spirits. Jokes may aim

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incidentally at money, sensual pleasure, honor, etc., but essentially they aim at pleasing others and oneself through humor. Now Aristotle thinks that each sort of act, if unimpeded, produces a different sort of pleasure. The type of pleasure produced by success yields the proper pleasure of the virtue. Conversely, failure to accomplish its goal yields the pain of frustration. Presumably, the proper pleasure of telling a joke is the pleasure of amusing others, and the proper pleasure of listening to a joke is being amused. (c) To each virtue there corresponds a proper pain, too. Encountering the potential harms governed by the virtue generates the virtue’s proper pain; avoiding these harms generates the pleasure of relief. Death, wounds, and physical pain are the harms of courage; impoverishment and ingratitude are the harms of liberality, and so on. Presumably, the proper pain of telling a joke is the pain of having hurt others, and the proper pain of listening to a joke is the pain of being hurt oneself, or on behalf of others. So what the witty person seeks to avoid is hearing or telling hateful jokes. Except for the act of refusing to tolerate hateful jokes, witty acts have risks, and possible benefits. Fear and confidence are appropriate in situations calling for witty action. When a person tells a joke or agrees to listen to a joke, he or she accepts the risk that the joke may hurt in order to achieve the gain of amusing others or being amused. Of course, in many situations the risk that the joke might hurt is negligible.

How jokes reveal character Using temperance and its associated failure modes as examples, Aristotle distinguishes between people who go wrong with respect to the pleasures they pursue and those who go wrong with respect to the pains they seek to avoid. This enables Aristotle to expand his taxonomy of character types. [M] [a] The man who pursues the excesses of things pleasant, or pursues to excess necessary objects, and does so by choice, for their own sake and not at all for the sake of any result distinct from them, is self-indulgent . . . the man who is deficient is the opposite; the man who is intermediate is temperate. [b] Similarly, there is the man who avoids bodily pains not because he is defeated by them but by choice. [c] (Of those who do not choose such acts, one kind of man is led to them as a result of the pleasure involved, another because he avoids the pain arising from the appetite.) . . . [d] Of the states named, then, the latter is rather a kind of softness; the former is self-indulgence. [e] While to the incontinent man is opposed the continent, to the soft is opposed the man of endurance. (1150a19–33)

Unfortunately, this passage contains an equivocation between two sorts of softness and requires a bit of unscrambling. But it is worth the effort for Aristotle adds three new character types to his taxonomy. I propose the following interpretation of passage [M]. Sentences [a], [b], and [d] together imply that those who go wrong with respect to pleasure by choice are vicious; those who go wrong with respect to pain by choice are


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softly vicious. From sentences [c] and [e] we may infer that those who go wrong with respect to pleasure because of wrong desires and despite right choices are incontinent; those who similarly go wrong with respect to pain are softly incontinent. Those who choose and act rightly with respect to pleasure despite wrong desires are continent; those who similarly act rightly with respect to pain are people of endurance. Combining Aristotle’s motive doctrine with his expanded taxonomy of character types, I take Aristotle’s view to be that people who have wrong desires with respect to the possible gains are the continent, incontinent, and vicious; people who have wrong desires with respect to the possible losses are the endurant, softly incontinent, and softly vicious.10 These character types together with their goals and pleasures may be displayed in the chart below. For the sake of definiteness, I suppose that the agents end up achieving the appropriate gains and avoiding the appropriate losses (sometimes despite their misguided efforts). Actions Choice Desires Desire to performed of goals for avoid gains losses

Pleasures or Noble pleasures pains or pains concerning gains

Pleasures or pains concerning losses

Virtuous

Right

Right

Right

Right

Pride

Proper pleasure

Relief

Continent

Right

Right

Wrong

Right

Pride

Frustration

Relief

Incontinent Wrong

Right

Wrong

Right

Shame

Frustration

Relief

Vicious

Wrong

Wrong

Wrong

Right

Pride

Frustration

Relief

Endurant

Right

Right

Right

Wrong Pride

Proper pleasure

Proper pain

Right

Right

Wrong Shame

Proper pleasure

Proper pain

Wrong

Right

Wrong Pride

Proper pleasure

Proper pain

Softly Wrong Incontinent Softly Vicious

Wrong

Aristotle gives an example of yet another failure mode. Neoptolemus experiences a conflict between right desires about gains and wrong choices, “for telling the truth was noble to him, but he had been persuaded by Odysseus to tell the lie” (1151b19–21). Intellectually, he is mistaken about what the right act is, but his heart is in the right place. Neoptolemus acts on his desires. One might call him inversely-incontinent. One can easily imagine a person with Neoptolemus’s choices and desires who acts on his choices. One might call such a person inversely-continent. These character types are illustrated by Bennett’s Huck Finn and Heinrich Himmler, respectively.11 For alternative views of endurance, see C. Gould, “A Puzzle about the Possibility of Aristotelian enkrateia,” Phronesis 39 (1994): 177–9; Heil 65–8. 11 J. Bennett, “The Conscience of Huckleberry Finn,” Philosophy 49 (1974): 123–34. 10

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InverselyIncontinent

Right

Wrong

Right

Right

Shame

Proper pleasure

Relief

InverselyContinent

Wrong

Wrong

Right

Right

Pride

Proper pleasure

Relief

Three combination character types are possible. The remaining permutations are impossible. Continent + Endurant

Right

Right

Wrong

Wrong

Incontinent + Softly Incontinent

Wrong

Right

Wrong

Wrong

Vicious + Softly Vicious

Wrong

Wrong

Wrong

Wrong

Impossible

Wrong

Right

Right

Right

Impossible

Right

Wrong

Wrong

Wrong

Impossible

Right

Wrong

Wrong

Right

Impossible

Right

Wrong

Right

Wrong

Often it is important to determine a person’s character. Clearly, I cannot determine Henrietta’s character on the basis of her acts alone, for virtuous, continent, endurant, and inversely-incontinent people all act rightly, and vicious, incontinent, softly incontinent, softly vicious, and inversely-continent people all act wrongly. If I knew the sort of things that Henrietta chooses and desires as well as how she acts, then I would know what sort of character she has, but the choices and desires of other people are opaque to me. On the other hand, people’s pleasures and pains are often transparent.12 Luckily, if I know how Henrietta acts, and I also know what sorts of pleasure and pain she feels, then I can accurately pigeonhole Henrietta. Suppose that Henrietta tells and tolerates only tasteful, tactful jokes. If Henrietta thoroughly enjoys what she does, then she is witty. If Henrietta feels a pang of frustration because she would like to tell and hear hateful jokes in addition to tasteful, tactful jokes, then she is buffoonishly continent. If she does not enjoy telling and tolerating some tasteful, tactful jokes because she finds them hateful, then she is boorishly continent. Although witty and continent people actually tell and tolerate the same jokes, they can be distinguished because they enjoy telling and tolerating different jokes. If Henrietta enjoys telling tasteful, tactful jokes, but feels a pang of proper pain at tolerating them because even tasteful, tactful put-downs really get to her, then she is boorishly endurant. If she finds herself neither hurt nor offended by jokes that should hurt or offend, then she is buffoonishly endurant. Witty and endurant people can be distinguished because they are pained by tolerating different jokes.13 If

12

This is especially true with respect to humor. Aristotle suggests that people sometimes cannot help bursting into laughter (1150b5–12). 13 The difference between continence and endurance is subtle. A joke that is perceived to be hateful hurts and/or offends the listener, and it can prevent the listener from getting or appreciating the joke. Often a joke that is perceived as hateful does both, but sometimes a person is hurt or offended by a joke and yet nevertheless experiences the joke as funny. Of course, it is impossible to be blocked from experiencing the


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Henrietta feels a pang of shame at telling and tolerating tasteful, tactful jokes, then she is inversely-incontinent. Witty and inversely-incontinent people do and feel the same things, but they believe different things and make different choices. Inversely-incontinent people have wrong beliefs, but their right passions are more potent. They do what they mistakenly think is wrong and feel shame about it. Similarly, suppose Irving tells and tolerates hateful as well as tasteful, tactful jokes. Or suppose that Irving tells and tolerates only some tasteful, tactful jokes. Then he is incontinent if he is frustrated, softly incontinent if he feels proper pain, inverselycontinent if he is ashamed, and softly vicious if he feels no pain. Overall, the jokes that Henrietta and Irving tell and tolerate, together with the accompanying pleasure and pain, determine their characters with respect to the sphere of wit. This reveals who, what, when, and how they desire and choose to mock and allow to be mocked. This is an important index of their levels of virtue within the social sphere. Jokes offer clues about people’s characters with respect to other spheres, too. They are evidence of tastes and actions. For example, Jasper’s jokes about rape suggest that he desires and enjoys a certain sort of unhealthy and ignoble sex. Though far from conclusive, his jokes are evidence that Jasper is not temperate. Of course, even if we could extrapolate reliably from Jasper’s taste in humor to his taste in sex, we cannot say whether he is intemperate, incontinent, or continent. We would need to know whether Jasper is actually a rapist, and if so whether he regrets it. Similarly, Krystal’s constant self-critical humor suggests that she lacks self-respect. She is probably not a megalopsychos. Of course, we cannot tell what sort of non-megalopsychos she is merely from her jokes. Again, we cannot say whether she is intemperate, incontinent, or continent. The fact that he tells and tolerates racist jokes and finds them fun to tell and funny to hear suggests that Ludwig is a racist. Of course, it is possible that he enjoys the jokes, but finds acts of racism repugnant and never performs such acts. Then he would be lacking in wit, but not in justice. Even if he enjoys acts of racism, he might reliably force himself to act justly. He would then be continent with respect to justice. In general, though hardly definitive, people’s pleasure and pain reactions to the jokes they tell and tolerate are indicators of character traits in spheres other than the sphere of wit. Jokes serve as red flags with respect to character. Jasper’s jokes should make his date cautious. Krystal’s jokes should make her friends solicitous. Ludwig’s jokes should make his black acquaintances nervous. Hateful jokes warn of possible problems of character. A person’s pattern of telling or tolerating hateful jokes should cause us to be wary of that person and to investigate further.

joke as funny by the hatefulness of the joke without being hurt or offended. Thus, boorishly endurant people are hurt or offended by some tasteful, tactful jokes while boorishly continent people don’t get them. Most boorishly endurant people are also boorishly continent and all boorishly continent people are also boorishly endurant.

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That’s not funny! Or is it? The perception that Aristotle’s virtue of wit is simply a good sense of humor seems to be supported by Aristotle’s statement that witty people and people who lack the virtue of wit have different senses of humor. [N] The well-bred man’s jesting differs from that of a vulgar man. . . . One may see this even from the old and the new comedies; to the authors of the former indecency of language was amusing, to those of the latter innuendo is more so; and these differ in no small degree in respect of propriety. (1128a20–5)

In this passage Aristotle asserts that witty and non-witty people disagree about how funny certain jokes are. Presumably, they also disagree about whether certain jokes are funny at all. Now Aristotle’s doctrine that the good person is the measure of all things pertaining to his or her virtue seems to imply that in such disputes the witty person is right. However, I shall argue that Aristotle’s virtue-is-the-measure doctrine does not have this implication. A non-witty person may be a better judge of how funny jokes are than a witty person. Temperate people have temperate taste: [O] [The temperate person] neither enjoys the things that the self-indulgent man enjoys most— but rather dislikes them—nor in general the things that he should not, nor anything of this sort to excess, nor does he feel pain or craving when they are absent, or does so only to a moderate degree. (1119a12–14)

Thus, temperate people are pained by intemperate drink.14 The more intemperate the drink, the more pained temperate people would be if they somehow happen to drink it. But temperate people are not necessarily discriminating within the class of temperate drinks. They are not necessarily connoisseurs of drink. A temperate person does not necessarily enjoy a fine wine more than a coarse wine, for example, so long as both wines qualify as temperate. The temperate person is the measure of what is temperate, but not the measure of what is tasty.15 Similarly, the more hateful a joke is, the more painful a witty person will find it. However, it does not follow that witty people are connoisseurs of humor. When it comes to tasteful, tactful jokes, there is no reason to think that witty people are particularly good at identifying and appreciating the funny ones. They do not necessarily enjoy hilarious, appropriate jokes more than barely-funny, appropriate jokes. The witty person is the measure of what is hateful, but not the measure of what is amusing. The humorousness of a joke depends upon many factors; its level of taste and tact is only one of these. Passage [N] says only that witty people are less amused than

14 15

They may not be pained overall, but unlike the intemperate they do experience pain. Aristotle may be distinguishing connoisseurs of food and drink from temperate people at 1118a26–b1.


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non-witty people by indecent, improper language. Generalizing, they are less amused by hateful jokes. Passage [N] supports the narrow claim that witty people find that a joke’s lack of taste and tact detracts from its humorousness. But passage [N] does not support the broader claim that witty people are proportionately sensitive to all of the factors of humorousness so that they are amused by a joke exactly to the degree that the joke is amusing. Beyond discriminations based upon hatefulness, wit is of no help in appreciating the funniness of jokes. Wit says nothing about the humor of tasteful, tactful jokes. What does wit say about the humor of hateful jokes? Some thinkers take the position that hateful jokes are simply not funny. Hatefulness precludes humorousness. If you enjoy such jokes and find them funny, you are simply mistaken. And lacking in virtue.16 Passage [O] makes it seem as if Aristotle agrees. Just as the temperate person doesn’t enjoy intemperate food, so the witty person does not enjoy hateful jokes. Other thinkers aver that hateful jokes are funny. Hatefulness and humorousness are simply independent. Virtuous people can find hateful jokes funny.17 Thus Cohen says, “Wish that there were no mean jokes. Try remaking the world so that such jokes will have no place, will not arise. But do not deny that they are funny. That denial is a pretense that will help nothing.”18 Aristotle disagrees with Cohen; he clearly thinks that hatefulness affects the funniness of jokes. But passage [N] says that innuendo is “more” amusing to witty people than indecency of language. Aristotle does not deny that witty people find indecency of language funny: they just find it less funny than innuendo. At the risk of overinterpreting this “more,” I suggest that Aristotle is taking the plausible intermediate position that hatefulness always detracts from, but never simply trumps funniness. Aristotle’s account of goals and pleasures allows him to take a complex, intermediate position on the question of whether hateful jokes are funny and pleasant. For Aristotle, the humorousness of a joke is its proper pleasure, while the overall pleasure or pain of a joke is a combination of the noble pleasure (or shame), proper pleasure (or frustration), and proper pain (or relief ). Thus, Aristotle can allow that a person might find a hateful joke funny, yet overall painful. To illustrate, suppose that Mashie is a witty person who agrees to listen to a joke. Mashie has no reason to believe that the joke is hateful until the punch line is reached. Thus, Mashie’s act of tolerating the hateful joke is a witty act. Naturally, she experiences the noble pleasure, the pride of acting virtuously. Since the 16 De Sousa says that in order to appreciate a hateful joke one has to accept hateful attitudes. Since good people will not accept hateful attitudes they will not find hateful jokes amusing. See R. de Sousa, “When is it Wrong to Laugh?” In The Philosophy of Laughter and Humor, ed. J. Moreall (Albany: SUNY Press, 1987) 239–40. 17 Roberts suggests a mechanism for how a good person might find a hateful joke amusing. A good person can temporarily entertain a hateful perspective, and appreciate the joke without ceasing to be good. Thus hateful jokes can be funny despite their hatefulness to a good person who suspends disbelief. See R. Roberts, “Humor and the Virtues,” Inquiry 31 (1987): 135–7. I think that Roberts has not gone far enough. Some hateful jokes can be appreciated without entertaining any new attitudes or perspectives. One merely needs to be aware that other people hold such attitudes or perspectives. 18 T. Cohen, Jokes (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999) 84.

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joke is hateful, Mashie also experiences the proper pain of wit, the hurt or offence caused by the joke. Finally, Mashie experiences the frustration of not fully achieving the proper pleasure of wit. She does not enjoy the joke as much as she would have enjoyed an equivalent (whatever that means) tasteful, tactful joke. Note that the hatefulness of the joke is double-counted: it not only causes Mashie proper pain (hurt or offence), it also detracts from her proper pleasure (it diminishes the humorousness of the joke). This often causes hateful jokes to be overall painful to Mashie. However, mildly hateful, hysterically funny jokes may end up being overall pleasant for her because the humorousness of such jokes (even diminished by their doublecounted hatefulness) may outweigh the pain they cause. If Mashie were buffoonishly continent, she would experience the same pride and proper pain, but not the same frustration. Her corrupt taste would enable her to enjoy the joke just as much as a buffoon, even though the joke hurts and/or offends her. If Mashie were buffoonishly endurant, she would experience the same pride, but not the same proper pain and frustration. Her corrupt sensibility would enable her to not feel hurt or take offence. If Mashie were inversely-incontinent, she would experience the same frustration and proper pain, but not the same pride. Her mistaken beliefs would cause her to feel shame for having tolerated the joke. That the position I am attributing to Aristotle is a reasonable one may be seen from its parallel with respect to temperance. Suppose temperate Niblick is forced by considerations of politeness or friendship to eat a second piece of cheesecake. (His elderly aunt “spent hours making it just for you, Niblick.”) Will he find the cheesecake unsavory since it is intemperate? Will his enjoyment of its taste be unaffected by the fact that it is intemperate? Both of these seem implausible. Surely Niblick will savor the taste of the cheesecake. But because of his concern about the calories, the cheesecake will be a tad less tasty than it would have been in the good old pre-diet days, when he was a marathon runner, and could eat anything without gaining anything. Overall, wit is of no use in measuring the humorousness of tasteful, tactful jokes, and only limited use with respect to the humorousness of hateful jokes. The reason is that wit does not enable its possessor to determine the extent to which jokes are funny, except insofar as their humorousness is influenced by their hatefulness. Hatefulness reduces, but does not necessarily eliminate the humorousness of jokes.

Conclusion It is easy to (a) notice that Aristotle takes wit to be a virtue, (b) assume that witty people are connoisseurs of humor, and then (c) conclude that Aristotle’s view of morality is too broad. I have argued, however, that what makes someone a witty person is not a good sense of humor, but rather it is being appropriately sensitive to the feeling of others. Aristotle’s witty people avoid telling and tolerating hateful (i.e. unbecoming and/or painful) jokes. The passion of wit is not joke appreciation, but rather it is friendly feeling. Witty people are not humor experts. Qua witty, witty people cannot


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distinguish between humorous and humorless jokes, except to say that the more hateful a joke is, the less funny it is. Instead, they are hatefulness experts: they can specify which jokes are hateful in which situations. The right rule for Aristotle’s virtue of wit is not, “Avoid unfunny jokes and tell funny jokes well,” but rather it is, “Do not listen to hateful jokes, and do not tell jokes that are hateful, or would be perceived by your listeners to be hateful.” Indeed, the jokes one tells and tolerates plus the pleasures and pains they cause, offer clues about one’s character. Aristotle’s virtue of wit is not a good sense of humor. Instead, wit is a disposition to prevent people (including oneself) from being offended and wounded through humor. Wit’s vices are not (a) being boringly unfunny and (b) being a clown. Instead, they are (a) being overly sensitive to the feeling of others with respect to humor, and (b) being correspondingly undersensitive. Aristotle’s decision to list wit as a virtue does not reflect an outmoded, alien belief that a good sense of humor is required to be a morally good person. Instead, it indicates that Aristotle considers offending and wounding people through humor to be morally wrong. Rather than drawing the boundaries of the moral realm differently than we do today, Aristotle is calling attention to the moral relevance of put-downs. This is, of course, a very modern thing to do.

9 Friendliness and Civility (NE IV.6)

Introduction Like wit, friendliness (philia) seems rather trivial, at first. It is a nice trait, but it hardly seems morally important enough to make it onto Aristotle’s list of virtues. However, Aristotelian friendliness is more morally important than it first seems for the same reason that wit is surprisingly important. This is no coincidence. I shall show that friendliness is a generalization of half of the virtue of wit. And I shall suggest that Aristotle should have generalized the second half, too.

The sphere of friendliness Aristotle says that that both wit and friendliness “are concerned with pleasure, one is displayed in jests, the other in the general social intercourse of life” (1128b7–9). So the sphere of wit is jests, and the sphere of friendliness is “general social intercourse,” the social sphere. Presumably, the sphere of human social interactions is not every interaction between human beings, but rather it is what we might call socializing. Perhaps it excludes business, academics, and warfare, but includes dinner parties, political meetings, and softball games. Of course, socializing includes jests. Thus, Aristotle seems to assert that the sphere of wit is part of the sphere of friendliness. At first glance, this looks like a blatant violation of Aristotle’s doctrine of disjoint spheres. We will have to look deeper. Aristotle begins his description of the virtue of friendliness plus its associated vices in the following straightforward way: [A] In gatherings of men, in social life and the interchange of words and deeds, some men are thought to be obsequious, viz. those who to give pleasure praise everything and never oppose, but think they should give no pain to the people they meet; while those who, on the contrary, oppose everything and care not a whit about giving pain are called churlish and contentious. . . . [Friendliness] is that in virtue of which a man will put up with, and will resent, the right things and in the right way. (1126b11–19)

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In the social world, one is constantly confronted with the “words and deeds” (statements, jokes, proposals, questions, requests, gestures, travels, etc.) of other people. One must take a stand on each of these words and deeds. One may “put up with” something, accepting and perhaps praising it. Or one may “resent” or refuse to put up with something, opposing and perhaps criticizing it.1 Accepting and praising someone else’s words and deeds typically gives the other person pleasure, of course. Opposing and criticizing typically cause the other person pain. So the sphere of friendliness consists of situations in which one must take a stand on the words and deeds of others. The actions governed by friendliness are accepting, praising, opposing, and criticizing.

The goal and actions of friendliness Aristotle describes the characteristic goal of friendliness in the following passage: [B] While for its own sake [the friendly person] chooses to contribute pleasure, and avoids the giving of pain, he will be guided by the consequences, if these are greater, i.e. the noble and the expedient. (1127a2–3; see also 1126b29–30)

The virtue of friendliness has the same characteristic goal as the virtue of wit. Like the witty person, the friendly person seeks to give pleasure to others and to avoid causing others pain. The friendly person accomplishes this by generally responding with acceptance and approval to the words and deeds of others. The witty person accomplishes this partially by tolerating the jokes of others. Aristotle does not recommend indiscriminately pleasing others. His view is that one should please others by accepting and possibly praising their words and deeds except when doing so would not be appropriate. This is an important qualification. Aristotle ends up spending a substantial percentage of his extremely brief discussion of friendliness talking about when it is right to pain rather than please people. He says, [C] [a] Wherever it is not noble, [b] or is harmful, for him to contribute pleasure, [the friendly person] will refuse, and will choose rather to give pain; [c] also if his acquiescence in another’s action would bring disgrace, and that in a high degree, or injury, on the agent, while his opposition brings a little pain, he will not acquiesce but will decline. . . . [d] For the sake of a great future pleasure, too, he will inflict small pains. (1126b31–1127a6)

Of course, in passage [C] Aristotle is merely adding some qualifications to the claim that the friendly person strives to produce pleasure and avoid pain in others. Friendly people should accept and perhaps praise the words and deeds of others except in four sorts of situations. [a] First, Arbuckle should not accept and praise Belinda’s words and deeds 1 Passage [A] says that the friendly person will “resent the right things.” But resentment is not a passion governed by friendliness. As the first part of passage [A] makes clear, friendliness is about one’s attitude toward giving pleasure and pain to others. Moreover, resentment is already governed by another virtue. It is the good tempered person who resents the right things, to the right degree, on the right occasions, etc.

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when doing so would be ignoble. [b] Nor should he accept and praise when doing so would be harmful. Arbuckle should oppose and perhaps criticize her words and deeds, instead. Harmful to whom? Well, the next clause says that [c] Arbuckle should oppose Belinda’s words and deeds in cases where “opposition brings a little pain” and acceptance would be very disgraceful or injurious to “the agent,” that is, the speaker or doer, in this case to Belinda. So in clause [b] Aristotle probably means that Arbuckle should oppose and perhaps criticize Belinda’s words and deeds in order to prevent harm to people other than Belinda. For example, if Belinda’s proposal is to have Italian food for dinner, friendly Arbuckle may acquiesce because he wants to please Belinda, but if Belinda’s proposal is to go beat up some innocent people, Arbuckle will object because the pain of rejection felt by Belinda is insignificant compared to the harm that acquiescence might cause. So the friendly person generally accepts words and deeds in order to please (or not pain) the person who says or does these things. But if these words and deeds are ignoble or hurtful to the agent or to anyone else, the friendly person will object. [d] Finally, Arbuckle should oppose Belinda’s words and deeds when doing so would produce small pain in exchange for great future pleasure. Again, Aristotle does not specify whose pleasure he has in mind. Perhaps it makes no difference. If Arbuckle and/or Belinda and/or anyone else will reap great pleasure from his opposition, and Belinda will suffer only small pain, then Arbuckle should oppose Belinda’s words and deeds. So the right rule of the virtue of friendliness is this: [Right Rule of Friendliness] Words and deeds should be accepted and perhaps praised unless doing so would be (a) ignoble, (b) harmful to others, (c) disgraceful or harmful to the agent, or (d) unless opposing would cause small pain and cost great pleasure, overall.

Again the virtues of friendliness and wit are parallel to some extent. Just as the witty person will refuse to tolerate unbecoming and/or painful jokes, even if tolerating them would give pleasure to the teller, so the friendly person will refuse to accept words and deeds “wherever it is not noble, or is harmful,” even if accepting them would give pleasure to the agent.

The passion of friendliness Since both continent and incontinent people strive to perform good actions despite bad passions, if continence and incontinence with respect to friendliness are to be possible, then friendliness must govern some passion(s) as well as the already specified actions of accepting, opposing, praising, and criticizing. Aristotle does not explicitly identify a passion associated with friendliness, but the passion of friendly feelings described in Rhetoric II.4 is an obvious candidate. “Friendliness” and “friendly feelings” are both translations of philia, after all. I have argued that friendly feeling is the passion of wit. If friendly feeling is the passion of friendliness, too, then once again the virtues of friendliness and wit are parallel. Aristotle does say that friendliness “differs from friendship in that it implies no passion or affection for one’s associates” (1126b22–3). On the basis of this remark,


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Fortenbaugh denies that the virtue of friendliness governs any passion.2 However, Fortenbaugh has taken this remark out of the following context: [D] The state in question differs from friendship in that it implies no passion or affection for one’s associates; since it is not by reason of loving or hating that such a man takes everything in the right way, but by being a man of a certain kind. For he will behave so alike towards those he knows and those he does not know, towards intimates and those who are not so, except that in each of these cases too he will behave as is befitting; it is not proper to have the same care for intimates and for strangers, nor again to pain them in the same ways . . . he will associate differently with people in high station and with ordinary people, with closer and more distant acquaintances, and so too with regard to all other differences, rendering to each class what is befitting. (1126b23–1127a2)

Aristotle’s point in passage [D] is not that friendly people are passionless automata, or that their friendly acts are motivated by rote or duty rather than passion. Instead, Aristotle is saying that the friendly act of a friendly person is not necessarily motivated by a particular affection for a specific person. Easygoing Chloe may accept Dogbert’s idea just because she is easygoing: she need not be particularly fond of Dogbert. Indeed, Aristotle observes that friendly people perform friendly acts toward people ranging from close friends to total strangers. In passage [D] Aristotle is not implying that a friendly act of accepting or opposing some word or deed is unmotivated by passion: he is merely saying that such acts need not be motivated by the affection constitutive of an already existing friendship. So passage [D] does not stand in the way of my claim that the passion of friendliness is a generalized desire to please others. Aristotle immediately goes on to point out that, although a friendly person’s impulse to perform a friendly act does not arise from any particular love or fondness the friendly person may have toward the agent, the expression of that impulse will take different forms, depending upon the relationship between the friendly person and the agent. If Chloe and Dogbert are strangers, then merely listening to Dogbert’s idea may be sufficient to constitute a friendly act, but if Chloe and Elmira are best friends, then friendliness may require much more. Similarly, if Chloe and Dogbert are on an equal footing, then the requirements of friendliness are different than between professor and student, parent and child, etc. In general, Aristotle thinks that the way we should react to the words and deeds of other people depends upon the relationships that we have with them. In particular, while Aristotle is far from demanding that we love strangers as we love ourselves, he is maintaining in passage [D] that we should have, and act upon a desire to please total strangers by responding positively to their words and deeds. By listing friendliness as a virtue, Aristotle is requiring that people adopt a general, although limited stance of acceptance toward everyone’s words and deeds. So Aristotle asks us to respond to people’s words and deeds in ways that please them, if it is otherwise morally acceptable and reasonable to do so. He adds that we should 2

Fortenbaugh, “Mean-Dispositions,” 215–16.

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modulate our efforts in proportion to the degree of emotional closeness with other people and to various other aspects of our relationship with them.

Vices of friendliness and wit The friendly person accepts and even praises other people’s words and deeds when it is right to do so. On the other hand, the friendly person opposes and even criticizes other people’s words and deeds when it is not right to accept them. But the obsequious person (areskos) accepts and praises too many things and/or praises things too much, thus opposing and criticizing too few things and/or too little. Obsequious people cause too much pleasure and too little pain to the agent. They are too ready to go along, avoid a fuss, let it pass, agree for the sake of harmony, etc. The churlish and contentious person (dyskolos and dyseris) does the opposite, thus causing too little pleasure and too much pain to the agent.3 Friendliness and its vices overlap with wit and its vices in the following way. The virtue of wit has two components, telling jokes appropriately and tolerating jokes appropriately. Buffoons and boors tell and tolerate jokes inappropriately. Now, obsequious people and contentious people do not go wrong by speaking and acting inappropriately, but they do accept words and deeds inappropriately. Among the things they accept inappropriately are jokes. So friendliness and its associated vices are generalizations of the tolerating part, but not the telling part of the virtue of wit and its associated vices. It is tempting to see the connection among the vices in the following way. Buffoons tolerate too many jokes; boors tolerate too few. Obsequious people accept too many things (including too many jokes); contentious people accept too few things (including too few jokes). Thus with respect to tolerating jokes, buffoons are obsequious and boors are contentious. Unfortunately, this way of connecting these four vices is based upon a superficial resemblance that reverses the underlying relationship. Obsequious people “think they should give no pain to the people they meet,” as Aristotle says in passage [A]. Basically, boors and obsequious people are overly concerned to give pleasure and avoid pain to others. Conversely, contentious people “care not a whit about giving pain.” So buffoons and contentious people are insufficiently concerned with the pleasure of other people. Oversensitivity to others’ feelings expresses itself as insufficient acceptance with respect to barbed jokes (being overprotective of the butts of jokes), but excessive acceptance with respect to most words and deeds (being overprotective of the speaker or agent). Insensitivity expresses itself in the opposite way. So in terms of the shared goal of friendliness and wit, obsequiousness turns out to be a generalization of boorishness, while contentiousness is a generalization of buffoonishness. Just 3

In the Statesman, Plato’s Stranger says that the statesman must weave together these two types (306aff ).


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as boors strive to give no pain to people by allowing no barbed jokes, so obsequious people strive to give no pain to people by making no objections, that is, by going along with whatever other people want and say. And just as buffoons generally tolerate hateful, hurtful jokes without regard to the pain these jokes may be inflicting on others, so contentious people generally oppose the statements and projects of others without regard to the pain their opposition may be inflicting upon those others.

The virtue of civility I have argued that the sphere of friendliness includes the sphere of wit. The passions of wit and friendliness are the same, namely friendly feelings. These two virtues also share the same characteristic goal, namely pleasing others. The actions of friendliness match some of the actions of wit. Just as the witty person tolerates innocuous jokes, but refuses to tolerate unbecoming and/or painful jokes, so the friendly person accepts and praises innocuous words or deeds, but opposes and criticizes ignoble or harmful words or deeds. Finally, the vices of friendliness and wit also overlap. Now, the witty person tells as well as tolerates the right jokes on the right occasions, etc. The actions of friendliness, namely accepting, praising, opposing, and criticizing, are generalizations of the acts of tolerating and not tolerating jokes, but not of the acts of telling or refraining from telling jokes. I argued in an earlier chapter that the parts of courage belong together, that Aristotle is right not to separate courage into a fear virtue and a confidence virtue. Similarly, Aristotle is right to insist that the virtue of wit includes both telling and tolerating jokes rightly. The disposition to act and feel rightly with respect to telling jokes is the same as the disposition to act and feel rightly with respect to tolerating jokes. A single state of character confers both dispositions. Now I suggest that in a parallel way, people with the virtue of friendliness, people who feel friendly feelings and who are disposed to accept, praise, oppose, and criticize words and deeds rightly in each situation, also have the disposition to speak and act rightly in the social sphere. Just as the witty toleration of jokes and telling of jokes belong together to form the virtue of wit, so Aristotle should have combined the virtue of friendliness with the disposition to speak and act rightly in the social sphere to form a single virtue that might, perhaps, be called the virtue of civility. Civility would be a generalization of both halves of the virtue of wit. That Aristotle should have generalized all, rather than just part of wit is not really very controversial. It does have a somewhat surprising consequence, however. Civility would contain wit. A virtue within a virtue. Might other virtues be easily subdivided, too? Yes. Temperance, for example, might be divided into three virtues, one for food, one for drink, and one for sex. Subdividing virtues might sometimes be a good thing. It might provide a more fine-grained analysis of the virtuous person’s character. One implication of this claim is that there is no canonical list of virtues. For some purposes it is useful to work with a short list of bulky virtues; for other purposes a longer list of subdivided virtues would be better. Thus, despite Aristotle’s declaration

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that by discussing the virtues “it will become plain how many they are” (1115a5), his account of the virtues does not allow us to conclude that there are exactly ten virtues.

Conclusion I have argued that friendship generalizes half of wit, and that civility should generalize all of wit. Once that is accepted, a great deal of what I have said about wit carries over straightforwardly. For example, Aristotle says nothing about the parameters of friendliness beyond the remark that the friendly person, “will put up with, and will resent, the right things and in the right way” (1126b18–19). This is obviously a pretty incomplete list of parameters. Indeed, Aristotle does not bother to show that friendliness conforms to most of his architectonic’s doctrines. Once it is accepted that wit and friendliness overlap, it becomes clear that the parameters of friendliness are the same as those of wit: objects, amounts, people, and occasions. And in general, it becomes clear that, and how, friendliness conforms to the doctrines of Aristotle’s architectonic.

10 Truthfulness and Integrity (NE IV.7)

Introduction Honesty is on everyone’s list of virtues. Everyone agrees that the virtue of honesty governs all sorts of communications, from casual conversations to official reports. Some people maintain that dishonesty is never legitimate. Aristotle could have sided with these thinkers by adding deception to his list of intrinsically wrong acts, along with adultery, theft, and murder (1107a8–14). But Aristotle does not reject all deceptions. Alternatively, we might have expected Aristotle to give something like the following account of the virtue of honesty. Honest people tell the truth about the right things, on the right occasions, to the right people, etc. Some people are deficient in truthtelling. They go wrong by telling too many lies, on too many occasions, to too many people, and/or about too many things. Other people are excessively truthful. They go wrong by telling the truth too often, on too many occasions, to too many people, and/or about too many things. Liars are more common and worse than excessively truthful people, so deceitfulness is mistakenly thought to be the only opposite of truthfulness, and the other vice has no name. Excessive truthtelling is a vice nonetheless, for there are times when silence or even white lies are preferable to the truth. Nice, neat, plausible, Aristotelian. Aristotle says nothing like this. Instead, he presents an account of a very different virtue that he calls truthfulness (ale¯theia). He does not describe truthfulness as a mean between deceitfulness and excessive truthtelling at all. Instead, Aristotle positions truthfulness between two different versions of deceitfulness, boastfulness (alazoneia) and false modesty (eiro¯neia). Moreover, Aristotle ignores most sorts of truth and deception completely, and focuses exclusively upon truth and deception with respect to what one says about oneself to others. Finally, Aristotle’s account of truthfulness seems seriously incomplete. He seems to provide neither parameters nor passions for truthfulness. The absence of parameters is easily remedied by importing them from his accounts of other virtues, but the absence of passions poses a more difficult challenge. And unless a passion or passions can be found, truthfulness will be seriously at odds with Aristotle’s

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architectonic. Overall, Aristotle seems to have done a miserable job of describing the widely accepted virtue of honesty, jeopardizing his architectonic in the bargain.1 People see what they expect to see. Expecting an account of the virtue of honesty, some people might see Aristotle as having botched the job. But this would be an unfortunate misperception. Instead, Aristotle has done something unexpected, yet welcome. I shall uncover a plausible account of an interesting virtue in NE IV.7 that nicely conforms to Aristotle’s architectonic. Aristotle’s account of truthfulness is not a flawed account of the virtue of honesty, but rather it is a sketchy, but insightful account of the virtue of integrity. Indeed, I shall argue that Aristotelian truthfulness is a leaner and better version of integrity than the packages of character traits currently lauded as integrity by contemporary philosophers.

The sphere of truthfulness Aristotle places truthfulness, along with wit and friendliness, within the sphere of social interaction. [A] In the field of social life . . . let us now describe those who pursue truth or falsehood . . . (1127a17–20)

Here Aristotle announces that truthfulness is not the virtue of honesty which covers truth and falsehood in all sorts of situations, but rather it is a much narrower virtue covering only situations within the social sphere. For example, it doesn’t cover matters of truth and deception on the battlefield, except incidentally. Aristotle narrows the sphere of truthfulness further by invoking the doctrine of disjoint spheres, the doctrine that different virtues govern different sorts of situations: [B] [Truthfulness] is concerned with truth, the other two [wit and friendliness] with pleasantness. (1128b6–7) Let us discuss . . . the truthful man. We are not speaking of the man who keeps faith in his agreements, i.e. in the things that pertain to justice or injustice (for this would belong to another virtue). (1127a32–b1)

In passage [B] Aristotle stipulates that the sphere of truthfulness does not overlap the spheres of the virtues of wit, friendliness, and justice. This dramatic narrowing rules out more of what most people would consider the virtue of honesty. False promising, for example, turns out to be unjust rather than untruthful, even if the false promise is given in a social context. By bracketing truthfulness with the vices of boastfulness and false modesty, Aristotle implicitly excludes even more:

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[C] The boastful man, then, is thought to be apt to claim the things that bring repute, when he has not got them, or to claim more of them than he has, and the mock-modest man on the other hand to disclaim what he has or belittle it, while the man who observes the mean is one who calls a thing by its own name . . . (1127a20–3).

Boastful people make exaggerated claims about themselves; falsely modest people make deflationary claims; and truthful people portray themselves accurately. Thus, Aristotle limits the virtue of truthfulness to issues concerning how one presents oneself in the course of socializing with others. Lying about one’s neighbors is not unwitty, unfriendly, or unjust, but it turns out to be not untruthful, either. It falls outside of the sphere governed by the virtue of truthfulness, for truthfulness only concerns claims about oneself. Moreover, not even all claims about oneself fall within the sphere of truthfulness. Truthfulness concerns only claims about “the things that bring repute,” the grounds of honor or respect, dishonor or disgrace. If Axelrod avoids these, then he does not act untruthfully, even if everything he says about himself is false. On the other hand, the sphere of truthfulness includes more than merely what one might put on a re´sume´ or criminal record. Relatively minor things can be matters of repute. A person can be known as a snappy dresser or a good cook, for example. Importantly, reputations include more than one’s own accomplishments and failures. For example, being a parent is the sort of thing that may bear upon one’s reputation. So is being a friend of so-and-so or a citizen of such-and-such a country. The fame and/or notoriety of one’s friends, family, and country reflect back upon oneself. Even one’s values and goals may affect one’s reputation, insofar as they become known. To summarize, Aristotle narrows the sphere of truthfulness in four stages. First, he locates truthfulness within the social sphere. Second, he separates the sphere of truthfulness from the spheres of wit, friendliness, justice, and implicitly from the other virtues as well, in accordance with the doctrine of disjoint spheres. Third, Aristotle limits truthfulness to self-presentation. Finally, Aristotle further limits truthfulness to matters of repute.

The honesty interpretation The sphere of truthfulness is nontrivial because a person’s major and minor accomplishments (both positive and negative, successes and failures) and commitments (to deploy a piece of contemporary jargon) are central to his or her reputation.2 Yet Aristotelian truthfulness still seems to be a pretty narrow virtue. Rather than bundling all issues of truth and deception into one big sphere governed by the virtue of honesty, Aristotle divides these issues among different virtues. Truth and deception with respect

2 Some commitments are not matters of repute because they cannot become public. And some matters of repute are not commitments, of course. Nevertheless, there is substantial overlap.

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to self-presentation fall under the virtue of truthfulness; truth and deception about distribution of scarce goods fall under justice; truth and deception concerning detached inquiry presumably fall under some intellectual virtues; and so on. But why treat these issues separately? It seems counterintuitive, even grotesque, to allow Axelrod to make numerous false promises and say numerous false things about science, about history, about other people, and even about himself, without losing his claim to being a truthful person. Someone might maintain that Aristotle responds to this problem in the following multifaceted passage: [D] [a] Each of these courses [boasting, belittling, or being truthful about oneself] may be adopted either with or without an object. But each man speaks and acts and lives in accordance with his character, if he is not acting for some object. [b] And falsehood is in itself mean and culpable, and truth noble and worthy of praise. . . . [c] The man who in the matters in which nothing of this sort [things pertaining to justice] is at stake is true both in word and in life because his character is such. [d] But such a man would seem to be as a matter of fact equitable. For the man who loves truth, and is truthful where nothing is at stake, will still more be truthful where something is at stake; [e] he will avoid falsehood as something base, seeing that he avoided it even for its own sake. (1127a26–b6)

In passage [D], especially in part [d], Aristotle considers two sorts of situations: those in which “something is at stake,” and those in which “nothing is at stake.” Surely Aristotle would not be so naı¨ve as to claim that everyone who reliably tells the truth (or lies) when nothing is at stake will also tell the truth (or lie) when something is at stake. After all, many people tell the truth only when lying would bring no profit, because they value truth some, but profit more. So Aristotle must be making a more limited claim. His claim is only that people who reliably tell the truth about their reputations in situations when nothing is at stake because they possess the virtue of truthfulness will also tell the truth when something is at stake. Clearly, the distinction between the two sorts of situations is that when “nothing is at stake” only the reputation of the agents is at stake, while when “something is at stake” some other goods are involved. Now the interpretation of passage [D] comes to a branch point. A narrow reading of passage [D] takes the situations in which “something is at stake” to include all situations concerning reputation in which some good in addition to reputation is also at stake. It divides the situations involving reputation into those concerning nothing else and those concerning something else, and says that truthful people communicate truthfully about their reputations in the former situations and even more truthfully in the latter situations. I shall eventually defend this narrow reading. But now let me consider an alternative reading and its implications. The broad reading of passage [D] takes the situations in which “something is at stake” to include all situations in which some good other than mere reputation is at stake whether or not the situations concern reputation. On this reading, passage [D] says that truthful people reliably tell the truth, not just


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about matters involving their own reputations, but about all sorts of things in all situations where any good at all is at stake. On this broad reading, passage [D] reverses Aristotle’s restriction of the sphere of truthfulness to matters of repute. People with the virtue of truthfulness are honest across the board. Aristotle does not negligently neglect vast tracts of the truth-and-deception landscape. I shall call this the honesty interpretation of truthfulness.

Seven problems Passage [D], plus certain components of Aristotle’s architectonic, raise seven problems of plausibility and consistency for the honesty interpretation of truthfulness. After sketching these problems, I shall present an alternative interpretation that avoids them. Problem #1 Part [a] of passage [D] refers to boasting, belittling, or being truthful about oneself. It says that when nothing is at stake, people’s tendencies to tell the truth or to lie about the bases of their reputations shines forth. Boasters will boast about their accomplishments and commitments, falsely modest people will belittle themselves, and truthful people will be candid. Thus, part [a] implies that truthfulness governs only claims and situations involving the speaker’s own reputation. Part [a] fits the narrow reading of passage [D], rather than the broad reading and the honesty interpretation of truthfulness. Problem #2 As I mentioned above, if Aristotelian truthfulness actually governed all situations involving truth and deception, then Aristotle would have to recant his efforts to narrow the sphere of truthfulness to prevent overlap with other virtues. That is, on the honesty interpretation of truthfulness, passage [D] is incompatible with passages [B] and [C], and with the doctrine of disjoint spheres. The honesty interpretation might try to reconcile the claim that truthful people are honest across the board with Aristotle’s narrow specification of the sphere of truthfulness in the following way. A cliche´ of pop culture is that once a person achieves inner peace, everything else falls into place. On the honesty interpretation, Aristotle seems to be saying something like this about truth. When Aristotle claims in passage [D] that truthful people tend to be truthful with respect to matters other than reputation, he is not making a claim about the sphere of truthfulness. Instead, Aristotle is making the very interesting claim that across-the-board honesty is a side-effect of truthful communication about matters of repute. Once a person acquires a disposition for truthful selfpresentation, a disposition to avoid falsehood about all sorts of things in all sorts of situations follows more or less automatically. Truthful people tell the truth on the witness stand and honor their agreements because they are truthful people, although these are not characteristic acts of truthfulness, just as courageous people act well when facing shipwreck and terminal illness, although these are not characteristic courageous

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acts. The fact that truthfulness leads to truthtelling in other spheres is just one example of synergy among the virtues. The point of studying ethics, says Aristotle, is to become good (1103b27–8). The honesty interpretation might draw from passage [D] a psychological and pedagogical moral about moral development. Aristotle does not say that honesty in all spheres will result from the cultivation of honesty within just any sphere, or from the cultivation of honesty across the board. Instead, he suggests that the root of honesty is accurate selfpresentation. One does not produce an honest child, for example, by propounding a general prohibition against dishonesty and applying it, among other things, to lying about oneself. Instead, one should inculcate a taste for accurate self-presentation. Across-the-board honesty will follow. Unfortunately for the honesty interpretation, the idea that honest communication across the board is just a side effect of the virtue rather than its characteristic activity is ultimately implausible. Across-the-board truthtelling is too big an effect to be indirect. If a single virtue produces it, it must be a characteristic activity of that virtue. Moreover, the root of across-the-board honesty just is not accurate self-presentation. Plenty of people are truthful about themselves, but not about other matters, and even those that are truthful across the board are seldom so because of their disposition to accurate self-presentation. Problem #3 Aristotle creates a significant problem by remarking in part [b] of passage [D] that, “Falsehood is in itself mean and culpable,” and “base,” and to be avoided “even for its own sake.” Here Aristotle seems to take truthful communication to be always the right thing to do; falsehood to be always and intrinsically wrong, rather than merely typically and contingently wrong. But this seems to be a counterintuitive and inconsistent position for Aristotle to take. Aristotle certainly ranks truthful communication quite highly (1096a16). But surely Aristotle is too practical to believe that we should be unfailingly honest about absolutely everything. He is too practical to condemn all poker bluffing and white lies, for example. A puritanical, obsessive commitment to universal truthful communication for its own sake violates the spirit of Aristotelian common sense and moderation. Aristotle also passes up various opportunities to state explicitly that lying is intrinsically wrong. Lying is not mentioned, for example, among Aristotle’s catalog of intrinsically wrong acts (1107a8–14). He does not even include a condemnation of political lies in his critique of Plato’s Republic (Politics II.1–5).3 So far, this is merely an argument from silence. But Aristotle expressly allows lying to people for whom one has no good will (Rhet. 1378a6–14). Moreover, Aristotle’s exemplary person, the megalopsychos, “is given Just a few sentences after passage [G], Aristotle goes on to say that the truthful person “inclines rather to understate the truth; for this seems in better taste” (1127b7–8). This is not decisive, however, for Aristotle probably means merely that understatement is the failure mode of the truthful person. 3


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to telling the truth, except when he speaks in irony to the vulgar” (1124b30–1). Exactly what this phrase means is unclear. Presumably Aristotle is not suggesting that megalopsychoi mock the vulgar, for the megalopsychos is closer to nobles oblige than to its opposite. Instead, perhaps megalopsychoi understate their accomplishments in order to avoid overawing the vulgar. If so, then Aristotle not only allows lying about this or that, but actually endorses self-deprecation in certain situations. On the honesty interpretation, megalopsychoi seem to have the vice of false modesty. So in addition to being implausible, Aristotle’s statement that falsehood is wrong in itself seems to lead to contradictions. Zembaty tries to rescue Aristotle by reinterpreting his remarks. She takes Aristotle to be saying that lies are wrong, unless they harm no one, flow from a good character, and have a good justification. When Aristotle says that lying is wrong “in itself ” and should be avoided “for its own sake” (kath’ hauto), what he means is that “simply” (haplo¯s) lying is wrong. That is, plain lying, unconditioned lying, lying without some sort of ameliorating circumstances is wrong. But lying with certain sorts of qualifications is OK. Lying (period) is wrong, but lying in appropriate situations (e.g. small lies to save many innocent people) is morally acceptable. In other words, lying is only prima facie wrong.4 Zembaty’s desire to avoid saddling Aristotle with the thesis that lying is always and intrinsically wrong is commendable. Unfortunately, “for its own sake” and “simply” cannot be combined in the way that Zembaty urges. Aristotle is not saying that simple falsehood is wrong, although falsehood is not wrong in certain complex situations. Instead, he is saying that falsehood is simply wrong, although some non-falsehood that in some ways resembles falsehood is not wrong. Problem #4 Passage [D] introduces the notion of degrees of truthfulness with the remark that truthful people “will still more be truthful where something is at stake.” But truthful people cannot be more truthful in some situations, unless they are less truthful in others. Aristotle seems to be suggesting that truthful people are not wholly frank when nothing is at stake. Degrees of truth are unsavory because those who are not perfectly truthful must be making false or misleading or incompletely truthful statements, or withholding information when they should be forthcoming. But such a suggestion would contradict the thesis that falsehood is always intrinsically wrong. Part [d] of passage [D] seems incompatible with parts [b] and [e]. Problem #5 A disposition for accurately presenting matters of repute does not typically include or produce across-the-board honesty. Common sense says that the more one stands to gain from a lie, the more tempting that lie becomes. Most people who tell the truth when there is no incentive to lie find it harder to resist the temptation to lie when they

4

J. Zembaty, “Aristotle on Lying,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 31 (1993): 17–24.

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can gain from it. But Aristotle’s remark that truthful people “will still more be truthful where something is at stake” suggests the opposite. Aristotle’s remark seems to fly in the face of common sense, something Aristotle does rarely, and never without a struggle. So the honesty interpretation is uncharitable because it attributes a wildly implausible view to Aristotle. Problem #6 An interpretation of Aristotle’s account of the virtue of truthfulness must insure that truthfulness conforms to the doctrine of the mean. Indeed, this task is arguably more important for truthfulness than for any other virtue, because it is within his account of truthfulness that Aristotle says, [E] We shall both know the facts about character better if we go through them in detail, and we shall be convinced that the virtues are means if we see this to be so in all cases. (1127a14–17)

The doctrine of the mean requires that truthfulness be bracketed by a vice of deficiency and a vice of excess. Now there is a sense in which the disposition to depict one’s accomplishments and commitments accurately is a mean between boastfulness and false modesty. Very roughly speaking, these are extremes with respect to the degree of positive spin or exaggeration or puffery with which one presents oneself. Boastful people use excessive spin; falsely modest people sell themselves short; and truthful people apply a medial amount of spin. However, if truthfulness is about honesty, then it does not fit the doctrine of the mean at all because, as I mentioned earlier, both boastfulness and false modesty are versions of deception. Both understating and overstating one’s accomplishments are less truthful than stating one’s accomplishments precisely. And nothing is more truthful than a precise statement. Precision is an extreme; inaccuracy is a matter of degree. Another way to see the difference is this. If truthfulness is about spin, then substituting false accomplishments for equivalent actual accomplishments is unproblematic because such substitutions do not change one’s level of impressiveness. If Betty Sue claims to be a world-class ping-pong player with a Ph.D. in chemistry, but is actually a world-class badminton player with a Ph.D. in physics instead, then she is neither boasting nor falsely modest, for these are comparable accomplishments. However, on the honesty interpretation such substitutions are falsehoods, and thus vicious acts. It seems that Aristotle’s account of truthfulness either finds some false self-presentations to be unproblematic or fails to fit the doctrine of the mean. Problem #7 Fortenbaugh claims that Aristotle does not identify a characteristic passion of the virtue of truthfulness.5 He also denies that Aristotelian truthfulness has characteristic goals. Fortenbaugh, “Mean-Dispositions,” 214–15. See also Bostock 49. In the EE, Aristotle does say that truthfulness has a characteristic passion, although he denies that truthfulness is a virtue on the grounds that it does not involve choice. See EE 1233b16–18; EE 1234a23–7. 5


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Fortenbaugh says that truthfulness and the other questionable dispositions “are not primarily goal-directed dispositions, but character-traits which govern the manner in which goals are pursued.”6 Fortenbaugh’s claim is that, while virtues such as courage and justice aim at specific goals, truthfulness specifies that these goals be pursued truthfully rather than deceptively. Now this would be a serious omission for several reasons. First, Aristotle’s taxonomy of character traits requires that each virtue govern a characteristic passion or passions as well as a set of situations, actions, perceptions, and beliefs.7 Characteristic passions are necessary preconditions of the possibility of Aristotelian virtue, vice, continence, incontinence, etc. Aristotle cannot get by on actions alone because the same act may express different character traits when motivated by different passions. For example, even if Cordovan reliably acts courageously despite temptation, he is not continent with respect to courage unless the temptation arises from excessive fear or insufficient confidence. If he typically overcomes the temptation to run away from battle in order to wolf down donuts, then he is expressing continence with respect to temperance, but not courage. Even if Cordovan happens to crave donuts in all and only situations of physical risk, the match will be merely coincidental. Continence with respect to courage requires overcoming a temptation to act wrongly arising from fear of death, injury, and physical pain. Similarly, if Cordovan overcomes a temptation to lie about himself in order to gain donuts, then he is not expressing continence with respect to truthfulness. Expressions of continence with respect to truthfulness must consist in overcoming a temptation arising from the characteristic passion of truthfulness. For similar reasons, incontinence, vice, and virtue also presuppose a passion peculiar to the virtue. So if the sphere of truthfulness does not include a characteristic passion, then Aristotle’s account of truthfulness will fail to conform to his taxonomy of character traits.8 Aristotle’s motive doctrine provides another reason that truthfulness needs a characteristic passion and goal. Each virtuous act aims at three sorts of goals: (a) the noble, (b) accomplishing something worthwhile, and/or (c) avoiding something harmful. A virtuous act is performed because (a) it is the right thing to do, but what makes it right is that it has a reasonable chance of (b) appropriately gaining some good (for the agent or for someone else) and/or (c) appropriately preventing some evil (i.e. the loss of some good). Actions are not right because it would be noble to perform them; rather, they are noble because they are right. Practical reason needs a reason to endorse an action. Gaining goods and/or avoiding evils are the reasons. Now different virtues are individuated by having different sorts of reasons, different sorts of goals that make acts Fortenbaugh, “Mean-Dispositions,” 228. Of course, several virtues may govern the same passion with respect to different objects. Courage and liberality both govern fear, but courage governs fear of death, injury, and physical pain while liberality governs fear of poverty and ingratitude. So, to identify the characteristic passion of a virtue, one must specify the object as well as the general passion. 8 See also passage [H] below. 6 7

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noble. To each sort of goal there corresponds a sort of desire and thus a different sort of pleasure and pain. Temperate acts seek sensual pleasure and/or the avoidance of sensual pain; friendly acts seek to please or refrain from paining others; and so on. Virtuous people feel (a) noble pleasure upon doing the right thing, (b) proper pleasure upon achieving the right sort of good, and (c) proper pain upon suffering the right sort of harm. By contrast, people who lack the virtue either desire the wrong things, or desire the right things in the wrong ways, or both. Thus, they feel different pleasures and pains than the virtuous person. Now proper pleasure and pain, as well as correct reasons and goals, are necessary to produce virtuous acts which express a virtue. Without the desire to achieve the proper pleasure and/or the desire to avoid the proper pain, without the characteristic aims and judgments, action expressing the virtue would be unmotivated. Such acts would not occur. After all, Aristotle says, [F] The origin of action—its efficient, not its final cause—is choice, and that of choice is desire and reasoning with a view to an end. . . . Hence choice is either desiderative reason or ratiocinative desire. (1139a31–b5)

Chosen acts are driven by both reasons and desires. Thus, both a proper goal and a proper pleasure and/or pain are essential elements of virtuous action done from virtue. If the sphere of truthfulness lacks a specific passion or passions, then it will lack a proper pain or pleasure. Aristotle’s account of truthfulness will fail to conform to his motive doctrine. While narrowing the sphere of truthfulness, Aristotle explicitly precludes the possibility suggested by Fortenbaugh that truthfulness merely demands that the goals of other virtues be pursued in a truthful manner. In passage [B], Aristotle restricts truthfulness so that it does not deal with matters pertaining to the other virtues. Fortenbaugh’s suggestion is incompatible with the doctrine of disjoint spheres as well as passage [B], for Fortenbaugh’s suggestion requires each act to be governed by two virtues: one specifying the act’s substance, the other specifying the act’s manner. The main reason for rejecting Fortenbaugh’s suggestion is that Aristotle does specify a passion and goal for truthfulness, although he does so rather indirectly. I shall track down the characteristic passion and goal of truthfulness. This will be a first step toward developing an alternative to the honesty interpretation of truthfulness. And my alternative interpretation will solve the seven problems listed above.

The passion of truthfulness As I mentioned above, the location of passage [E] within Aristotle’s account of truthfulness emphasizes that truthfulness conforms to the doctrine of the mean. Now, the doctrine of the mean specifies that the vices bracketing a virtue must consist (partially) of excessive or deficient dispositions of passion(s) and actions (1106b18–28). Thus, the truthful person feels the right amount of whatever passion the boastful


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person feels too much of, and the falsely modest person feels too little of. Now in the following passage, Aristotle offers three different motivating passions for people who boast, and thus three different candidates for the characteristic passion of truthfulness: [G] He who claims more than he has with no ulterior object is a contemptible sort of fellow (otherwise he would not delight in falsehood), but seems futile rather than bad; but if he does it for an object, he who does it for the sake of reputation or honor is (for a boaster) not very much to be blamed, but he who does it for money, or the things that lead to money, is an uglier character. (1127b9–14)

Some people who boast, boast for no further reason than the love of falsehood; others boast to gain honor; yet others boast to gain money. Those who enjoy boasting for its own sake are just silly; those who seek honor are only mildly bad; but those who seek money are seriously flawed. Technically, people who boast “for money, or the things that lead to money” are not boasters. That is, insofar as their boasting is motivated by a desire for wealth, such people do not have the vice of boastfulness. After all vices, like virtues, are not just dispositions to perform certain acts in certain situations: they are also dispositions to perform these acts from certain interrelated characteristic passions, desires, perceptions, and beliefs. The motive is important. Aristotle assumes this point in the following, rather opaque passage: [H] If one man commits adultery for the sake of gain and makes money by it, while another does so at the bidding of appetite though he loses money and is penalized for it, the latter would be held to be self-indulgent rather than grasping while the former is unjust, but not self-indulgent; evidently, therefore, he is unjust by reason of his making gain by his act. (NE 1130a24–8).

Aristotle’s point in passage [H] is that acts which are typically performed by people who share a certain vice (or the correlate sort of incontinence) may also be performed by people who lack that vice (or correlate incontinence). So the mere fact that a person does something vicious does not imply that that person has the vice (or correlate incontinence) which typically generates that sort of vicious act. If Cordovan reliably commits adultery from lust without regret, then he is intemperate, but if he does so for the sake of gain, then he is unjust. Now just as people who commit adultery for the sake of gain are not necessarily intemperate, but rather unjust, so people who boast for the sake of money are not necessarily boasters (i.e. lacking in truthfulness). Since money and monetary objects are governed by liberality, those who boast in order to gain money are mean rather than boastful. Similarly, since the desire for honor is governed by appropriate ambition, those who boast to gain honor are ambitious rather than boastful. Thus, Aristotle’s three-way distinction in passage [G] is misleading. Only those who boast for no reason other than a “delight in falsehood” are technically boasters. Indeed, Aristotle defines a liar or phony (anthropos psuedos) as someone who “is ready at and fond of [false] formulae, not for any other reason but for their own sake, and one who is

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good at impressing such formulae on other people” (Meta. 1025a2–5; see also EE 1233b38–1234a3). Such people enjoy a lie for its own sake. They get a kick out of fooling people. They go home chuckling after successfully misleading others. By contrast, in the last sentence of passage [D], Aristotle describes the truthful person as a lover of truth (philale¯thes). The fact that the boaster loves falsehood and the truthful person loves truth indicates that the characteristic passion of truthfulness is the desire for truth. The truthful person is moderate with respect to this desire, but boasters have much too little of it.9 Falsely modest people will be discussed below.10

What is truth? What does a lover of truth love? My claim is that the characteristic passion of Aristotle’s virtue of truthfulness is the love of truth (i.e. the desire for truth). This is the key to an alternative interpretation of truthfulness that will solve all of the outstanding problems, so long as “truth” and “truthful communication” are rightly understood. Is Aristotle saying that the truthful person loves truth in the sense of having the passion for knowledge, the fire for discovery that lights the path of true scholars? No. The fire for discovery motivates acts of knowledge acquisition rather than truthful communication. Does the truthful person love truth in the way that a contemplator loves the object of contemplation? No. Knowledge contemplation, like knowledge acquisition, is not truthful communication. Teachers (the best ones, anyhow) love transmitting knowledge to their students. Is this the passion characteristic of truthfulness? No. What teachers love is benefiting students through knowledge, but truthful communication is merely a means to that end. Some people are unfailingly honest. Does Aristotle’s truthful person simply tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about everything? This proposal, not unreasonably, takes Aristotle’s talk about truth and falsehood to be about true and false statements. But unfailing honesty is not the sort of thing that people love. People may be unfailingly honest from duty, or as a means to entering heaven, or for some other reason, but not because of a burning desire for uttering numerous true statements. Nor is uttering false statements intrinsically wrong. None of these proposals provide solutions to the seven problems. None of these proposals is compatible with the way in which Aristotle narrows the sphere of truthfulness. They are incompatible with Aristotle’s doctrine of disjoint spheres. On none of these proposals would an excess of the love of truth produce a disposition to deceive. Yet both boastfulness and false modesty are sorts of deception. So these proposals would make Aristotle’s account of truthfulness incompatible with the doctrine of the mean. Similarly, neither excesses nor deficiencies of the love of truth,

9 A corollary of my interpretation is that in passage [E] Aristotle is ranking different vices rather than different versions of boastfulness. He is saying that meanness is worse than vanity or excessive ambition, which is, in turn, worse than boastfulness. 10 Similarly, at 1127a8–10, flatterers are lacking in liberality rather than in friendliness.


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understood in these ways, would yield the right sort of temptations to generate virtue, vice, continence, or incontinence, with respect to truthfulness. Thus, none of these proposals allow truthfulness to fit Aristotle’s taxonomy of character traits.

The integrity interpretation Let’s take stock. A successful interpretation of Aristotle’s account of truthfulness must involve a sort of truth that is lovable, for that is the passion of truthfulness. A successful interpretation must involve a sort of falsehood that is intrinsically wrong without being impractical or counterintuitive. Truthfulness must also be limited to self-presentation of matters of repute, for that is how Aristotle explicitly describes the sphere of truthfulness. Finally, truthfulness must involve degrees of truth and constitute a mean between boastfulness and false modesty. Uttering true sentences about oneself and avoiding false ones must be truthful acts, but they cannot be the whole, or even the focus of the virtue. Here is a suggestion that meets these conditions. Truthfulness is being genuine rather than phony, and being a phony is always wrong. Less colloquially, I suggest that what Aristotle means by “truth” is not “true sentences,” but rather it is “being true,” that is, “being oneself.” Falsehood is not “telling lies,” but rather it is “being false,” that is, “wearing a mask.” Truthful communication consists of creating an accurate image of oneself in the eyes of others, portraying oneself correctly.11 Good people take pleasure in doing this. I am not referring to the pleasure that people take in conveying their successes, but rather I speak of the pleasure that people take in conveying who they are, in being themselves. Untruthful communication is misleading people about oneself. This is intrinsically wrong, as the existentialist tradition emphasizes. It is painful to truthful people; they squirm uncomfortably when they must pretend to be someone that they are not. For reasons that will become increasingly clear, I shall call my account of truthful speech and action the integrity interpretation of truthfulness. Mine is not an implausible move, philologically. The Greek word ale¯theia carries the connotation of “matching reality” rather than “true sentences.” Indeed, the term philale¯thes might be very freely translated as “lover of integrity.” Truth in words The integrity interpretation differs significantly from the honesty interpretation in several ways. One way is that crafting an accurate reputation requires both more and less than saying all and only true things about oneself. One can leave a false impression about oneself without saying false things, and one can say false things without leaving a false impression about one’s self. On the integrity interpretation, Aristotle’s claim is that

11 Engberg-Pedersen maintains that the truthful person, “is not in the least concerned about how he will appear to others. He is self-reliant.” I must disagree. Truthful communication is communication to others. Truthfulness is one of the social virtues. So truthful people must be quite concerned to make an accurate impression. See Engberg-Pedersen 88–9n11.

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one should love “seeming to be who one is” and one should never be an imposter; he is not saying that one should love “uttering true sentences” and never tell a lie. To illustrate, suppose that Doylee is a truthful person. On the integrity interpretation, she enjoys correctly conveying to others what really matters about herself, getting across to others the sorts of things that should lead other people to form an accurate image of her. Doylee wants to appear to be just who she really is, neither more nor less. She does not conceal or even play down the fact that she is a doctor in the midst of a doctor-bashing conversation, for example. The honesty interpretation would allow her to hide part of who she is by judicious choice of true statements and emphasis. She might talk at length about her children and dogs, but withhold her profession or merely mention it briefly and then move on. Such maneuvers are ruled out on the integrity interpretation, however, because hiding is not characteristic of a truthful person. Being genuine rather than phony requires more than merely not fibbing about what really matters. At minimum, it requires speaking as the person one is. If Doylee is a lifelong Democrat, a world-class ping-pong player, and childhood friend of Ethel, then Doylee must say certain sorts of things in order to create an accurate impression. She must generally advocate Democratic positions when challenged, give advice about backhand slams when asked, and stand up for Ethel when Ethel is slandered. Otherwise Doylee is hiding behind a mask, even if she says nothing false. On the other hand, Doylee need not be precise or exact about her achievements, failures, and commitments at all times. She need not strain to get the date of her medical school graduation exactly right; she may covertly allow an eager ping-pong novice to win a few points; and so on. Such things do not make a difference to her reputation, because her reputation is an impression about who she is rather than a precise collection of facts. Indeed, sometimes producing a true impression requires saying false things. When Doylee is talking to her elderly uncle, the complicated story of how a mix-up about polling places prevented her from voting in the last election might produce the false impression that she is no longer a committed Democrat. So in order to produce a true impression, Doylee might falsely assert that she voted straight Democratic as usual. Truth in deeds Truthful people love more than truthful speech about their accomplishments and commitments. Aristotle introduces his account of truthfulness thus: [I] Let us now describe those who pursue truth or falsehood alike in words and deeds. (1127a19–20) [The truthful person] is truthful both in life and in word. (1127a23–4; see also 1126b11–12; 1127a27–8; 1127b1–3)

So the truthful person is truthful both “in words” and “in deeds” (praxis), or “in words” and “in life” (bios). These are not isolated phrases; Aristotle bundles truthfulness “in words” with truthfulness “in deeds” or “in life” four times in IV.7 alone. Presumably, truthful speaking is truthfulness “in words.” I also presume that being truthful “in life”


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consists in being generally truthful “in deeds” throughout one’s life, that is, having a truthful way of life. Aristotle’s claim that the love of truth motivates people to act truthfully would be puzzling if he were talking about people who love learning, contemplating, teaching, or truthtelling, so passage [I] is evidence against these interpretations. But how does truthful action differ from truthful speech? A mundane reading of passage [I] takes truthful action to be a mere extension of truthful speech. On this reading, truthful action consists in making non-verbal true statements and refraining from misleading people in non-verbal ways. For example, suppose that Ethel has somehow scandalized the whole town so that friendship with Ethel is now inconvenient or even dangerous. If Doylee replaces the picture of herself hugging Ethel on her desktop with a doctored picture of herself slapping Ethel, in order to avoid suggesting that she and Ethel are friends, then according to the mundane reading, Doylee is misleading her neighbors in deeds about her friendship with Ethel. On the integrity interpretation, Aristotle’s phrase, “in words and deeds” makes a less trivial point in passage [I]. Since truthful speech does not consist merely in uttering true sentences about oneself, truthful action must not consist merely in non-verbally presenting true propositions about oneself. By analogy to truthfulness in words, truthfulness in deeds requires Doylee to act like a doctor and world-class ping-pong player. She must do the sort of thing that people with such accomplishments and commitments do. She must treat patients and play ping-pong. She must walk the walk, as well as talk the talk. This does not mean that one must keep up one’s accomplishments lest one lose one’s truthfulness. When Professor Filbert retires, truthfulness does not require that he continue to give lectures on a regular basis. He may (indeed, he must) now speak and act like a retired professor. Similarly, if he has failed at something, he is not forever doomed to speak and act like a failure. Truthfulness does not lock people into place, but rather requires them to change their image along with the facts. In addition to being true to one’s achievements, truthfulness in deeds requires being true to one’s commitments. One must express one’s goals, values, loyalties, etc. in one’s actions. Truthfulness requires undertaking one’s projects rather than engaging in avoidance, proceeding according to one’s principles rather than engaging in hypocrisy, honoring one’s allegiances rather than engaging in betrayal, and so on. As a Democrat and friend of Ethel, truthfulness requires Doylee at least to vote generally Democratic and occasionally chat with Ethel. On the integrity interpretation, Aristotle shares the existentialist horror of a disconnect between one’s claims and commitments, on the one hand, and one’s actions, on the other hand. If the self may be said to consist in one’s accomplishments and commitments, then truthfulness requires being true to oneself. Very roughly speaking, being true to oneself in words consists in fitting self-presentation to accomplishments;

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being true to oneself in deeds consists in fitting accomplishments to commitments. Truthful people say what they do, and do what they commit to doing.12 The integrity interpretation is cool, but does it fit the text? Specifically, does it fit passage [D]? The integrity interpretation favors the narrow reading of passage [D]. On this reading, passage [D] says that truthful people reliably communicate truthfully about their own reputations, not only in situations where nothing is at stake, but also in situations where something is at stake. Part [c] of passage [D] indicates that what is at stake includes matters of justice, but the narrow reading says that these are situations which involve matters of justice along with matters of repute. About situations unrelated to the speaker’s reputation, passage [D] says nothing. Truthful people are not required to tell the truth about all sorts of things in all sorts of situations. A person can make many false statements in situations unrelated to reputation, without ceasing to be a truthful person. Thus on the narrow reading, passage [D] does not turn Aristotle’s virtue of truthfulness into the virtue of honesty. Most people are honest about this and that, but not the other thing. Honesty is typically compartmentalized. This phenomenon is hard to explain if honesty is thought to be a virtue. Presumably, people with the virtue of honesty would be honest across the board, while people far from honest would be mostly dishonest across the board. But if honesty about physical risk is part of courage, honesty about sensual pleasure is part of temperance, honesty about money is part of liberality, and so on, then unevenly virtuous people will also be unevenly honest. So the narrow reading of passage [D] brings Aristotle plausibility, while the broad reading saddles him with an unwieldy notion of across-the-board honesty.

Seven solutions The evidence for the integrity interpretation consists in the fact that it solves all seven of the problems presented above. Problem #1 One immediate, significant advantage of the integrity interpretation is that it is compatible with part [a] of passage [D]. Problem #2 Another advantage is that the integrity interpretation does not make passage [D] conflict with passages [B] and [C]. It brings Aristotle’s account of truthfulness into harmony with the doctrine of disjoint spheres.

“He is truthful inasmuch as the things he divulges about himself are true. He does this not only by word, but also by his manner of living, according as his exterior conduct and his speech conform to his nature.” Aquinas, Commentary on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics 266. 12


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Problem #3 What does Aristotle mean when he says, that “falsehood is in itself mean and culpable, and truth noble and worthy of praise,” in part [b] of passage [D]? What does he mean by saying that truthful people, “will avoid falsehood as something base . . . for its own sake” in part [e] of passage [D]? We need not attribute to him the overly broad, extremist position that telling lies is always wrong, that all falsehood is intrinsically wrong. If “falsehood” means “being false,” and untruthful communication consists in hiding behind a mask, then passage [D] says merely that presenting a false image to others, either by misrepresenting one’s accomplishments and commitments or by not acting on them, is intrinsically wrong. Thus, truthfulness allows white lies, trivial lies, and various other sorts of lies. Aristotle does not make a fetish of truth. His claim is not that making false statements is intrinsically wrong, but rather that being false, that is, deliberately making a false impression, is intrinsically wrong.13 Problem #4 Aristotle’s claim that truthful people are more truthful in some situations than in others is unproblematic on the integrity interpretation of truthfulness because speaking and acting in accord with one’s accomplishments and commitments is a threshold concept and a matter of degree. Doylee is truthful in word and deed if she argues and votes Democratic, talks and plays ping-pong, and defends and visits Ethel. She will be even more truthful if she writes big checks to the Democratic National Committee, enters a national ping-pong tournament, and throws a big party for Ethel. Being more truthful consists in making an extra effort to convey one’s accomplishments and carry out one’s commitments. Problem #5 On the integrity interpretation, Aristotle’s remark that truthful people “will still more be truthful where something is at stake” is perfectly straightforward. Truthful people, qua truthful, desire to present themselves accurately. So in situations where not only their reputations, but also other goods are at stake, truthful people make extra efforts to present themselves accurately because more is at stake, and the standard for what counts as accurate self-presentation rises with the stakes. For example, Filbert usually identifies himself simply as a novelist when asked about his current profession. But when a publisher, entranced by a book idea Filbert casually outlines at a party, offers him a lucrative book contract, truthful Filbert takes an extra step to clarify his image. “Before you make that offer, you should know that I just changed careers last year, and I’m still working on my first book. I’m an aspiring novelist, not a proven one.”

13 Aristotle will need to make an exception for James Bond, Batman, and other people with jobs requiring secret identities.

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Problem #6 The integrity interpretation of Aristotelian truthfulness easily enables truthfulness to fit the doctrine of the mean. Truthful people value and desire accuracy in self-presentation moderately, and thus make moderate efforts to present themselves accurately to others. Boastful people are less interested in making a correct impression. They have little compunction about deceiving others, and are not particularly driven to live up to the commitments that they profess. Falsely modest people, by contrast, have an excessive love for the accuracy of their reputations. In particular, they are worried about getting credit that they do not deserve. They are so fastidious about making sure that other people don’t incorrectly attribute accomplishments to them that they understate their accomplishments. They go to excessive lengths to avoid leaving a false impression, or as Aristotle says, “to avoid parade” (1127b24).14 Problem #7 With a passion for truthfulness on board, accommodating Aristotle’s taxonomy of characters is trivial, and satisfying Aristotle’s motive doctrine is reasonably straightforward. According to the integrity interpretation, the truthful person is motivated by the love of truth, understood as accurate self-presentation in speech and action. Truthful people are pleased to be known for themselves, so they work to make sure that their image corresponds to their reality. Similarly, truthful people are quite uncomfortable if, for some reason, they have to pretend to be someone they are not or renege on their commitments. So the integrity interpretation of Aristotle’s virtue of truthfulness fits the proper pleasure part of his motive doctrine. There are obvious risks to being open about oneself to others. Over time, truthful people end up revealing their faults, vulnerabilities, jealousies, etc. They also risk offending others, or just not fitting in. Sticking to one’s commitments has obvious risks, too. Now life is not ultimately better for phonies than for truthful people. If it were, then truthfulness would not be a virtue. Nevertheless, truthfulness is potentially painful in predictable ways. It fits the proper pain part of Aristotle’s motive doctrine. Finally, truthfulness on the integrity interpretation has the same noble goal and noble pleasure as all of the other virtues. Truthful people strive to match self and reputation, not only because they enjoy it, but also because it is the right thing to do.

Truthfulness plus this or that Integrity is a much-discussed virtue these days. Although contemporary philosophers of integrity do not completely agree about the whole nature of integrity, most agree 14 Falsely modest people differ from those who lack megalopsychia and appropriate ambition because, unlike unduly humble people and unambitious people, falsely modest people are not confused about what honor they deserve. Some fastidious people worry about not getting enough credit, but they end up as boasters.


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upon a common core. Each takes integrity to consist of Aristotelian truthfulness plus some other traits, although they disagree among themselves about what other traits to add to truthfulness. I shall argue that when contemporary philosophers of integrity and Aristotle diverge, Aristotle gets it right. That is, truthfulness is really a virtue, and could reasonably be called “integrity,” but what contemporary philosophers call “integrity” does not deserve the name, and is not even a virtue.15 I shall sketch the traits added to truthfulness by contemporary philosophers of integrity, highlight the ways in which they go beyond Aristotelian truthfulness, and finally argue that truthfulness rather than truthfulness-plus-this-or-that, deserves to be called “integrity.” I begin with some common ground. On anyone’s view, to have integrity one must present one’s successes and failures accurately. Contemporary accounts of integrity are typically framed in terms of commitments. All agree that one must have commitments of one’s own. These commitments include (1) values, (2) projects, and (3) relationships. On any view, integrity requires (1) holding fast to judgments about what is good and bad (especially what is right and wrong), (2) working resolutely toward personal objectives rather than quickly giving up or turning aside in the face of setbacks, and (3) loyalty to lovers, friends, families, organizations, and nations. People with integrity do not lightly abandon or betray their ideals, their goals, or other people. Aristotle does not talk in terms of commitments, values, projects, and relationships, of course. But it is not too anachronistic to say that Aristotle and the contemporary philosophers of integrity agree that (a) the commitments of integrity must be important. Integrity is not about trivialities. Reasonable people must consider the commitments to be worth some sacrifice. As Aristotle says, truthfulness is about “the things that bring repute.” Aristotle and contemporary philosophers of integrity also agree that (b) the commitments must be expressed honestly. People with integrity are allergic to hypocrisy. Like Horton the elephant, they say what they mean and mean what they say. Components (a) and (b) approximately constitute Aristotelian truthfulness. Aristotle stops here, but each contemporary philosopher of integrity makes some of the following further claims about commitments. (c) The commitments must be held without selfdeception. People with integrity know to whom, and to what they are committed. They are not confused or in denial about their commitments. (d) The commitments must be implemented. People with integrity don’t just have commitments: they act according to their commitments, even in the face of obstacles and/or temptations. There is no disconnect between their acts, on the one hand, and their words and deeds, on the

15 See E. Ashford, “Utilitarianism, Integrity, and Partiality,” Journal of Philosophy 97 (2000): 421–39; J. Blustein, Care and Commitment (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991) 69–141; Calhoun, “Standing For Something,” Journal of Philosophy 92 (1995): 235–60; H. Frankfort, “Freedom of the Will and the Concept of a Person,” Journal of Philosophy 68 (1971): 5–20; J. Graham, “Does Integrity Require Moral Goodness?” Ratio 14 (2001): 234–51; L. McFall, “Integrity,” Ethics 98 (1987): 5–20; G. Taylor, Pride, Shame and Guilt (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985) 108–41; B Williams, “Integrity.” In Utilitarianism: For and Against, ed. J. J. C. Smart and B. Williams (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1981) 108–17; B. Williams, “Persons, Character, and Morality,” Moral Luck (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1981) 1–19.

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other. (e) The commitments must be acquired authentically. People with integrity decide for themselves what commitments to make. They do not succumb to peer-pressure or uncritically accept the values or roles presented by their family, friends, or society. (f ) At least some of these commitments must be unconditional. People with integrity don’t compromise on their core commitments. They stand fast on these commitments rather than yielding to temptations and/or threats. (g) The commitments of integrity must be identity-conferring. They make people who they are. They are the basic building blocks of a person’s identity. (h) The commitments must be coherent. They must be mutually reinforcing, or at least compatible with each other. People with integrity do not have significantly conflicting principles, goals, loyalties, etc. They have an inner consistency. (i) The commitments must be held without ambivalence. People with integrity do not waver. Their commitments are wholeheartedly endorsed. (j) Commitments are unbounded by morality. People with integrity may need to act immorally in order to preserve their integrity.

Bare truthfulness With these sketches on the table, the differences between Aristotle and contemporary philosophers of integrity are pretty clear. (c) Self-deception has two faces. In self-deception the self is both deceiver and deceived. Contemporary philosophers of integrity tend to focus on the self as deceiver. Insofar as Geranium is thought of as knowing the truth and yet presenting something else to herself, she is acting wrongly. Thus, they take integrity to preclude self-deception. On the other hand, Aristotle tends to focus on the self as deceived. Insofar as Geranium is thought of as fooled, and thus holding mistaken beliefs about her accomplishments and commitments, Aristotelian truthfulness is not the virtue which governs the matter. Knowledge of one’s worth (i.e. one’s achievements) is not part of truthfulness for Aristotle. Instead, it is part of a different virtue, namely megalopsychia. Knowledge of one’s commitments would be dispersed among the various virtues. Courage governs knowledge of risk commitments; liberality governs monetary commitments; and so on. (d) Aristotle agrees that not doing what one knows that one should do is bad, of course. It is incontinence. But he does not consider the absence of incontinence to be a feature peculiar to truthfulness. Rather he takes the disposition to do what one believes to be right to be a feature of every virtue. (e) Like self-deception, authenticity has two faces. On the one hand, Aristotle is no fan of peer-pressure. He says that virtuous people will not simply go along with others if doing so would be ignoble or harmful. But refusal to go along exhibits the virtue of friendliness, not truthfulness. It is of the friendly person that Aristotle says, [ J] Wherever it is not noble, or is harmful, for him to contribute pleasure, he will refuse, and will choose rather to give pain; also if his acquiescence in another’s action would bring disgrace, and


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that in a high degree, or injury, on the agent, while his opposition brings a little pain, he will not acquiesce but will decline. (1126b30–5)

On the other hand, insofar as authenticity requires coming to one’s commitments on one’s own rather than having them shaped by others or by cultural conditioning, Aristotle is no fan of authenticity, either. Indeed, Aristotle thinks that moral development proceeds by habituation from an early age, ideally guided by the state. One should model oneself upon people of virtue rather than strike out on one’s own to create values as Nietzsche might say. Perhaps people in corrupt societies with no available, decent role models must make their own guesses about virtue, but Aristotle sees nothing intrinsically valuable about doing so. (f) Unconditional commitments are commitments that should be never be violated. Neither temptation nor threat nor any higher moral priority constitutes a good reason to violate such commitments. Aristotle says that some acts should not be performed despite any threat (and presumably any temptation). [K] Some acts, perhaps we cannot be forced to do, but ought rather to face death after the most fearful sufferings. (1110a23–7)

But this passage does not show that Aristotle thinks that unconditional commitments should be made, for it says nothing about higher moral priorities. Indeed, although Aristotle is aware that we sometimes feel conflicting moral pulls (1110a4–8), he does not claim that some sorts of moral pulls always take priority. For example, although we owe our parents more than we can ever repay (1163b20–1), we should not give our parents priority in every situation (1165a14–16). Slighting one’s parents is morally repugnant, but Aristotle does not deny that we must sometimes act with dirty hands, rather than trying to preserve a clean conscience. Aristotle does say that some acts are always wrong: [L] But not every action nor every passion admits of a mean; for some have names that already imply badness, e.g. spite, shamelessness, envy, and in the case of actions adultery, theft, murder; for all of these and suchlike things imply by their names that they are themselves bad, and not the excesses or deficiencies of them. It is not possible, then, ever to be right with regard to them; one must always be wrong. (1107a8–14)

Here Aristotle is making a point about terminology. Some names for acts have wrongness built into them. His point is not that killing, taking things, and extra-marital sex are always wrong, that we should be unconditionally committed to avoiding these things. Instead, he is saying that murder, theft, and adultery are wrong by definition. (g) Commitments are not identity-conferring for Aristotle. Personal identity does not change until species boundaries are crossed. I cannot become a different individual without ceasing to be human—dying for example, or transforming into a giant cockroach. But something in Aristotle’s philosophy does correspond to the idea that people can change who they are through their choices, namely the concept of

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character. Character is changeable through habituation, yet it is said to be our second nature (1152a31–3). Moreover, the best friendships are based upon character, and Aristotle indicates, by contrast with pleasure and utility friends, that each character friend loves the other “as being the man he is” (1156a17–18). Character captures the intuition that people are who they choose to be, but character and commitments are different. (h) Aristotle does not insist that commitments be coherent. Mixed acts can arise from conflicts among commitments, but Aristotle nowhere suggests that we ought to prune our commitments in order to avoid mixed acts. Indeed, he mentions examples of conflicting commitments, and underlines the difficulty in choosing among them: [M] Whether one should render a service by preference to a friend or to a good man, and [whether one] should show gratitude to a benefactor or oblige a friend, if one cannot do both. Surely all such questions are hard to decide with precision. (1164b25–8; see also 1110a29–30)

Aristotle provides a dramatic example of conflicting commitments. He famously prefaces his attack on Plato’s Form of the Good with the poignant remark that, [N] It would perhaps be thought to be better, indeed to be our duty, for the sake of maintaining the truth even to destroy what touches us closely, especially as we are philosophers; for, while both are dear, piety requires us to honor truth above our friends. (1096a14–17)

(i) Therefore, Aristotle also does not object to ambivalence toward commitments. He accepts the existence of difficult, if not irresolvable dilemmas, as passage [M] shows. If, per impossible, all such dilemmas could be resolved, would ambivalence then vanish? No. Aristotle observes that courageous people find risking life and limb to be painful: [O] Death and injuries will be painful to the brave man and against his will, but he will face them because it is noble to do so or because it is base not to do so. And the more he is possessed of virtue in its entirety and the happier he is, the more he will be pained at the thought of death. . . . It is not the case, then, with all the virtues that the exercise of them is pleasant, except in so far as it reaches its end. (1117b9–16)

The last part of passage [O] suggests that people find the exercise of other virtues to be painful, too. Although this is not conclusive, it strongly suggests ambivalence. (j) Finally, Aristotle is quite clear about the relationship between truthfulness and morality. He makes a distinction between cleverness (a morally neutral intellectual ability) and practical wisdom (roughly cleverness plus moral virtue). But he does not make such a distinction with respect to the virtues of character. Aristotle’s philosophy contains no niche for a morally neutral (or immoral) virtue of character. Truthfulness is clearly a moral virtue.


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The triumph of truthfulness simpliciter Who is right about components (c) through (j)? Should any of them be bundled together with components (a) and (b) as contemporary philosophers of integrity think, or should they be separated from components (a) and (b) as Aristotle thinks? Philosophers have a tendency to latch onto one virtue, and then add more and more to it until it comes to comprehend the whole of virtue.16 The synergy and interconnectedness of the virtues surely feed this tendency. But one of the appealing things about Aristotelian virtue ethics is that Aristotle does not succumb to this temptation. By resisting, Aristotle preserves the notion that morality is not an all or nothing matter, that people can be unevenly virtuous. Aristotle also accommodates the possibility that some goods are incommensurable. In particular, although a thorough treatment of each item is far beyond the scope of this chapter, I shall sketch some reasons to think that Aristotle is right to refrain from bundling components (c) through (j) together with truthfulness. (c) Self-deception and deception of others are very different, psychologically. Similarly, being straight with oneself and being straight with another are different sorts of acts requiring different character traits. They should not be bundled together into the same virtue. Thus, Aristotle is right to separate self-knowledge from truthfulness, to deny that the truthful person qua truthful avoids self-deception. It is perfectly possible, indeed quite common, to be the sort of person who is honest with others, and not with oneself, or vice versa. (d) The character flaw consisting of a disposition to fail to act upon one’s choice is better described as incontinence with respect to this-or-that sphere than as a lack of integrity. People who regularly fall off their diets and regret it do not lack integrity: they lack temperance. If they lacked integrity, then they would have similar problems with respect to many different spheres. But people are not typically incontinent across the board. Instead, their problems are localized to this or that sphere. People who cannot refrain from taking inappropriate vengeance are not typically lacking in courage or temperance, for example. (e) Similarly, without taking sides on the question of whether authenticity (understood as choosing one’s own commitments) is a good or bad thing, I merely note that there is no reason to bundle it together with integrity. Even if integrity turns out to govern the way in which one holds one’s commitments, and how these commitments relate to each other, as well as how one represents one’s commitments to other people, the way in which one acquires commitments is a separate matter. Plenty of the people who show up on everyone’s list of exemplars of integrity lack autonomy in this sense.

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Plato, for example, on some interpretations, encompasses all virtue within wisdom. Indeed, it seems that each new article about what I am calling integrity-plus subsumes yet another item under the concept of integrity.

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(f) Aristotle is right to reject the demand for unconditional commitments. Integrity involves holding fast to commitments despite certain sorts of threats and temptations; it does not involve holding fast to commitments despite higher priority moral pulls. Some people are concerned to keep their own hands clean, even if they have to ignore certain moral duties to do so, but I suggest that they are just abdicating their duty from a selfish squeamishness. In some situations, people have a moral duty to do morally repugnant things.17 (g) Aristotle is also right to reject the idea that commitments confer personal identity. Although we sometimes say that Hieronymus becomes a different person when he changes a major commitment, we do not mean that literally. Hieronymus is not born again every time he makes a new friend or takes on a new project. It is more sensible and common-sensible to say that Hieronymus’s character makes him who he is. Hieronymus remains the same person throughout changes in commitment. On the other hand, commitments do create something. Going beyond Aristotle, we might say that commitments create selves, so long as we keep in mind that selves are not personal identities. Then we could say that character is the substratum that remains the same throughout changes in the self. And we could ask whether, and in what circumstances one should be true to one’s self. (h) and (i) Aristotle is right to reject the claims that commitments should be coherent, and people should not be ambivalent. Anyone who has spent much time thinking about Greek tragedy, or any tragedy, or life in general for that matter, ought to realize that commitments within a full life are, and ought to be inconsistent. Life is complex. People and relationships grow, wither, and alter. Goals and perspectives change. Moreover, values are plural and incommensurable. Anyone who is not slighting broad swaths of important values, people, projects, etc., will end up with different sorts, levels, manners, and degrees of commitment which crisscross, combine, diverge, and conflict with each other. A person can achieve consistency only by ruthlessly subordinating many worthwhile projects, ideals, loyalties, etc. to a single overriding thing. We call such people fanatics or monomaniacs. If a person is not torn among competing commitments, something is wrong with his or her life. The ideal of consistency may have been borrowed from the world of art, for we do say that a work of art has integrity if and only if it has a certain sort of coherence. Or perhaps the ideal of consistency has arisen because of a conflation of the self (understood as collections of commitments) and the source of agency. We are unified centers of agency, but it does not follow from that that we are unified selves. People may be best understood as collections of selves: a family self, a work self, a move-goer self, etc.18 Thinking of a person as a collection of selves enables us to frame the problem of H. Curzer, “Admirable Immorality, Dirty Hands, Ticking Bombs, and Torturing Innocents,” Southern Journal of Philosophy 44 (2006): 31–56. 18 See V. Davion, “Integrity and Radical Change.” In Feminist Ethics, ed. C. Card (Lawrence, Kansas: University Press of Kansas, 1991) 180–92; S. Hoagland, Lesbian Ethics (Palo Alto, Calif.: Institute of Lesbian Studies, 1988). 17


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choices within moral dilemmas as a political problem among selves constituted by clusters of commitment. And when it is so framed, the idea of a consistent set of commitments is revealed as a sort of tyranny of one self over the others, when what we want is a democratic process of compromise within a diverse community of selves. (j) Finally, while a case might be made that some virtues could conceivably override the claims of morality, no one would suggest that Aristotelian truthfulness is such a virtue. If, for some reason morality calls upon us to don a mask, it would be absurd to refuse.

Conclusion On my interpretation, truthfulness is not a puzzlingly sophomoric attempt to articulate a general virtue of honesty that fails to conform both to common sense and to Aristotle’s architectonic. Instead, Aristotle offers a rather different virtue. To clarify the nature of that virtue, I first determined the sphere of truthfulness. It consists of situations in which people present their accomplishments and commitments to others. Then I resolved seven interpretive problems by taking the passion of truthfulness to be the desire to present oneself accurately to other people. Truthful self-presentation through speech consists mostly in talking according to one’s accomplishments. Truthful self-presentation through action consists mostly in living up to one’s commitments. Aristotle’s claim that falsehood is always wrong does not commit him to the extreme view that lying is always wrong, because by “falsehood” Aristotle means “hiding behind a mask” rather than “lying.” Thus, truthfulness is not across-the-board honesty, but rather it is a sort of integrity. Contemporary philosophers allow that integrity has a straightforward sense akin to sincerity and trustworthiness. But then they bracket this minimalist sense of integrity, and go on to develop more full-bodied notions of integrity. My account of Aristotelian truthfulness is a rough articulation of the minimalist sense of integrity. My advocacy of Aristotelian truthfulness is the claim that that minimalist sense of integrity is all there is. Truthfulness is the true integrity.


Justice and Friendship


11 General, Particular, and Poetic Justice (NE V)

Introduction Aristotle devotes one tenth of his Nicomachean Ethics to the virtue of justice. Yet although interest in Aristotle’s ethics, virtue ethics, and justice is on the rise, Aristotle’s account of the virtue of justice has been somewhat neglected. Perhaps this is because Aristotle’s account of the virtue of justice is reputed to be contradictory, implausible, and even unAristotelian (in the sense that it does not fit the core of Aristotle’s architectonic, the doctrine of the mean). I shall try to rehabilitate Aristotle’s account of justice. On my interpretation, Aristotle’s account of justice in NE V, supplemented by his sketchy, scattered account of the character trait of poetic justice (nemesis), constitutes a consistent, plausible, and Aristotelian description of the virtue of justice. This chapter addresses five major problems. I shall begin by exploring the subject matter of justice and how Aristotle separates justice from the other virtues. Since Aristotle opposes justice only to one vice instead of two, my next project will be to show how Aristotle’s account of justice fits his doctrine of the mean. Third, Aristotle makes several puzzling remarks. He says that “it is not possible to treat oneself unjustly” (1138a14–15), that “just action is intermediate between acting unjustly and being unjustly treated” (1133b30–1), and that a judge who knowingly sentences prisoners unjustly “is aiming at an excessive share either of gratitude or of revenge” (1136b34– 1137a1). I shall explain these remarks and utilize them to support my interpretation of Aristotle’s account of justice. Fourth, Aristotle believes that virtuous acts are typically performed by virtuous people, but some of the acts Aristotle calls ‘just’ could not be motivated by the virtue of justice as he describes it. I shall argue that the actions which flow from justice, plus the associated character trait of poetic justice, match the actions specified by Aristotle’s right rule for justice. Finally, Aristotle’s account of justice seems to ignore several contemporary, common-sense intuitions about justice, including the

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intuition that just people want other people to have what they deserve. I shall argue that Aristotle’s account of justice plus poetic justice captures these intuitions.1

General justice and particular justice Aristotle’s account of a virtue always begins with a description of the sphere (peri ho) of the virtue. Aristotle starts with a broad range of objects and then gradually narrows the sphere of the virtue. For example, Aristotle starts with the suggestion that courage concerns fearful things, and then rejects case after case until he ends up maintaining that the sphere of courage consists of situations in which the agent is at risk of physical harm and has a reasonable chance of either achieving a characteristic gain worth the risk or avoiding the harm. Aristotle narrows the spheres of the virtues partially to ensure that different virtues have different objects. For example, Aristotle restricts the sphere of the virtue of truthfulness in the following way, “We are not speaking of the man who keeps faith in his agreements, i.e. in the things that pertain to justice or injustice (for this would belong to another virtue)” (1127a33–b1; see also 1117b31–1118a1 and 1122a3–7). Not only does Aristotle want each virtue to be about different things, he wants to make sure that there is no overlap. Aristotle wants his virtues to have disjoint spheres.2 Aristotle begins his description of the sphere of justice by limiting justice to the goods “with which prosperity and adversity have to do” (1129b2–3), and equivalently to all “useful and hurtful” things (1134a7–8). However, Aristotle also describes the sphere of justice as “honor, money, and safety” (1130b2), which is a much smaller collection of goods. Which set of goods does justice concern? Since all sorts of things from birthday cake to punishment may be justly or unjustly distributed, a charitable interpretation of Aristotle’s “honor, money, and safety” remark must take him to be merely giving examples of the sphere of justice, rather than describing the entire sphere. The sphere of justice is all of the goods of fortune rather than merely honor, money, and safety. Aristotle distinguishes two virtues: general justice (hole dikaiosune¯ ) and particular justice (kata meros dikaiosune¯ ). General justice “is complete virtue—not absolutely, but in relation to others” (1129b25–7; 1130a32–b2; 1130a10–13). The most straightforward way to understand the “in relation to others” qualification is that general justice consists simply of those aspects of all of the other virtues which pertain to other people. So soldiers who acquire excessive safety by deserting their comrades in battle display both cowardice and general injustice. People who give the appropriate amount

1

This chapter focuses on the character trait of justice. In ch.13 I say some things about just distributions of goods within states, for a polis is a sort of friendship. But a full treatment of political justice is beyond the scope of this book. 2 Aristotle does think that liberality and magnificence have overlapping spheres, but this is not actually a counterexample because magnificence is not really a separate virtue. Instead, magnificence is merely heroic liberality. See ch.5.

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of money to their needy friends display both liberality and general justice. And so on. It is possible to act virtuously or viciously in ways which do not affect others, but such actions are not matters of general justice. Thus, the sphere of general justice is limited to situations involving both goods of fortune and other people. Notice that general justice is not a virtue alongside the others. Aristotle’s doctrine of disjoint spheres does not apply to general justice, because it is composed of portions of the other virtues. In this sense general justice is a second order virtue.3 Since particular justice is a first order virtue, Aristotle’s doctrine of disjoint spheres implies that the sphere of particular justice does not intersect the spheres of any of the other first order virtues. Aristotle says that particular injustice “is a part of injustice in the wide sense, and similarly justice in the one sense of justice in the other” (1130b14–16). Thus, the sphere of particular justice, like the spheres of the social virtues (good temper, wit, truthfulness, and friendliness), and unlike the spheres of the other first order virtues (courage, temperance, liberality, appropriate ambition, shame), is a proper subset of the sphere of general justice. Aristotle also says that the law-abiding person has the character trait of general justice (1129a33–4), and that lawful acts express this character trait (1129b12). Now Aristotle surely does not mean that obedience to the actual laws of whatever community one finds oneself in constitutes general justice, for he is well aware that some actual laws are badly framed (1129b25). Some even demand vicious acts. He does acknowledge that the word “justice” is sometimes used to mean obedience to whatever laws are on the books: [A] All lawful acts are in a sense just acts. . . . The laws in their enactments on all subjects aim at the common advantage either of all or of the best or of those who hold power, or something of the sort; so that in one sense we call those acts just that tend to produce and preserve happiness and its components for the political society. (1129b12–19, emphasis mine)

So even when the law merely aims at the advantage of whoever is in power, “in one sense” we call lawful acts just. But this is not the sense in which Aristotle identifies general justice and law-abidingness. Unjust laws exist, after all. Aristotle immediately goes on to indicate that general justice and law-abidingness are the same character trait when [B] the law bids us do both the acts of a brave man (e.g. not to desert our post or take to flight or throw away our arms), and those of a temperate man (e.g. not to commit adultery or outrage), and those of a good tempered man (e.g. not to strike another or speak evil), and similarly with regard to the other virtues and forms of wickedness. (1129b19–24; see also 1130b23–4)

In other words, general justice and law-abidingness coincide when the law requires virtuous action, in particular, virtuous action that affects others, as I mentioned above.

Aristotle’s remark that “greatness in every virtue would seem to be characteristic of a proud man (megalopsychos)” (1123b29–30) suggests that pride is also a second order virtue, although Aristotle obscures this point by sometimes speaking as if pride is limited to the sphere of honor. See ch.6. 3

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So Aristotle does not give two incompatible characterizations of general justice—one plausible, the other a blunder.4 Rather he characterizes general justice fundamentally as a collection of the parts of the virtues that concern interactions among people, and then he observes that this is the same as law-abidingness when the laws are correctly framed. To paraphrase one of Aristotle’s theses in the Politics, a person with the character trait of general justice is a law-abiding person only in a good state (see Pol. 1276b30–5; 1288a37–9).5

Particular justice and other virtues Instead of directly describing particular justice and its sphere, Aristotle describes particular injustice and assumes that particular justice and injustice will have the same sphere. Aristotle suggests that particular injustice is pleonexia (1130a16–22), which means roughly, excessive desire, desire for an excessive amount of something, and/or excessive amount of desire for something.6 But an excessive amount of desire for a non-excessive amount of some good does not seem to be injustice. For example, a person with a burning desire for an appropriate share of wealth seems illiberal, but not unjust. Has Aristotle made the sphere of particular justice too broad? No. In cases where the desired amount is not excessive, no one will be denied his or her deserts if the desire is satisfied. Thus, cases of excessive desire for non-excessive amounts are not cases where others are involved. They do not even fall into the sphere of general justice, let alone particular justice. So pleonexia, the distinguishing feature of particular injustice, is desire for an excessive amount of something. “To have more than one’s own is called gain (keros)” (1132b13– 14). Thus, the sphere of particular injustice (and therefore of particular justice) is gain. “The motive [of particular injustice] is the pleasure that arises from gain” (1130b4).7

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Bostock 55–6. Irwin takes Aristotle’s identification of general justice and law-abidingness as fundamental, and then identifies law-abidingness with the common good of the political community. Thus, Irwin maintains that general justice “aims at the common good of the political community . . . while particular justice insists on proper respect for particular people in the fair allocation of external goods.” I must disagree with Irwin because this description of general justice makes it an unsavory character trait in non-utopias. Moreover, Aristotle describes general justice as (a) “complete excellence in relation to others,” not as (b) “aiming at the common good.” These differ because one’s own good is a component of the common good. Thus, a virtuous act that boosts the common good only by boosting my own good would be an expression of (b), but not of (a). Furthermore, we often deal with others as individuals, rather than as parts of a community. Thus, a virtuous act that boosts another person’s good qua person, but not as a member of a community (repaying a loan, for example) would be an expression of (a), but not of (b). Indeed, Aristotle’s description of general justice (“complete excellence in relation to others”) matches Irwin’s description of particular justice (“proper respect for particular people in the fair allocation of external goods”) better than Irwin’s description of general justice. See T. Irwin, Aristotle’s First Principles (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988) 424, 427. 6 Under pleonecto, Liddell and Scott list “to be greedy, grasping, arrogant,” as well as “to have or claim more than one’s due,” and “to get or have too much.” 7 People may have more and less excessive desires for an excessive amount of something. So particular injustice involves the degree of one’s desire for gain as well as the amount of gain. 5


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But how does this separate particular justice from the other virtues? Aristotle’s most concerted attempt to establish the existence of particular justice is the following passage: [C] While the man who exhibits in action the other forms of wickedness acts unjustly but not graspingly (e.g. the man who throws away his shield through cowardice or speaks harshly through bad temper or fails to help a friend with money through meanness), when a man acts graspingly he often exhibits none of these vices, –no, nor all together, but certainly wickedness of some kind (for we blame him) and injustice. There is, then, another kind of injustice which answers to a part of what is unjust in the wide sense. (1130a16–23; see also 1130a28–32)

Here Aristotle distinguishes the person who acts pleonectically (i.e. from a desire to make a gain) from the person who throws away his shield in order to flee the battle faster from a excessive desire for safety. The person who acts pleonectically is also distinguished from the person who fails to help his or her needy friend from a excessive desire for money. Thus, gain is not excessive safety, money,8 or any other good.9 A person who desires gain does not desire any good in particular, except perhaps incidentally. After all, if gain were merely an excessive amount of some good, then actions motivated by gain of honor, money, and safety could be accounted for by over-ambition, meanness, and cowardice, respectively. Aristotle would not need to postulate particular injustice to account for these actions. Moreover, almost every good constitutes a sphere of application for some virtue and a pair of vices. Therefore, excessive desire for almost any good is one of the vices corresponding to that good. If desire for gain were excessive desire for some good involving other people, then particular justice would turn out to be the parts of the other virtues concerned with distribution of goods to other people. Particular justice would simply be general justice. Therefore, interpreting gain as merely an excessive amount of some good not only conflicts with Aristotle’s main attempt to explicate particular justice, but also makes Aristotle fail to achieve one of his major goals, a demonstration that there is a virtue of particular justice separate from all of the other virtues and from general justice. What, then, is gain if it is not an excessive amount of some good? And how is particular justice to be distinguished from the other virtues and from general justice? While discussing liberality, Aristotle tries to carve out a niche for particular justice by suggesting that meanness is excessive desire for small amounts of money while particular injustice is excessive desire for large amounts of money (1122a3–7). That is,

8 Sometimes Aristotle uses the term “gain” to refer narrowly to wealth, but at other times “gain” means something else. At 1147b33–4 and 1148a22–6 Aristotle lists gain alongside wealth. 9 Could Aristotle maintain that pleonectic action flows from a desire to gain safety, money, etc., while cowardly action flows from a desire to not lose safety, mean action flows from a desire to not lose money, etc.? I think not. Cowardly actions may flow from a desire to gain rather than to maintain safety. For example, the person who throws away his shield in order to flee the battle faster is seeking to increase rather than merely to conserve his safety (1130a16–23). Similarly, mean actions may flow from a desire to take too much, rather than to not give or spend enough (1121b31–2). And so on.

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Aristotle here takes gain to be the acquisition of some amount of money. However, this move fails for three reasons. First, if Aristotle applied this move consistently, not only to money, but also to honor, safety, etc., he would impoverish the rest of the virtues in order to create a sphere of application for particular justice. Second, it seems implausible, for example, that cowardice should involve only excessive desire for small amounts of extra safety. People who excessively desire large amounts of extra safety are surely cowards, too. Third, according to Aristotle’s architectonic, if excessive desire for small amounts of money is meanness, then excessive desire for large amounts of money must be a higher degree of meanness or brutish meanness, rather than some other sort of vice.10 Foster says that particular justice differs from liberality by “having as its object honor, safety, and power as well as material possessions.” Foster also distinguishes mean people and pleonectic people. “Whereas the illiberal person is stingy, refusing to share, the unjust person wants to get and keep everything for himself.” Mean people are too reluctant to give: they hoard their wealth when they could afford to benefit others. By contrast, pleonectic people are too eager to take: they take what is not their due.11 Both of Foster’s distinctions are problematic. Her first distinction conflates particular and general justice. If particular justice governs honor, safety, power, and wealth, it encompasses essentially the whole of general justice. Foster’s second distinction fails because Aristotle maintains (correctly) that meanness includes excessive taking as well as deficient giving. Aristotle explicitly says that people who are too eager to take (i.e. thieves) are mean (1121b31–2; 1122a7–13). Moreover, people who already have more than their share of some good, and who are too reluctant to give up their undeserved gains, are actually expressing injustice rather than illiberality. So some excessive takers are mean, and some deficient givers are unjust. Young takes Aristotle to be saying that Although prodigality and profligacy [self-indulgence] are distinct vices, it is possible for one and the same act to display both vices, though in virtue of different features of the act in question. . . . It is open to Aristotle to say something analogous in distinguishing illiberality from injustice. It is open to him to say, in particular, that people who gain by taking what belongs to others count as illiberal in respect of gaining from improper sources and as unjust in respect of the particular improper sources from which they gain.12

This suggests, by the way, that Aristotle’s remark that “the magnificent man differs from the liberal man; the former deals with large sums, the latter with small ones” (1107b17–19) clashes with his doctrine of the mean. See ch. 5. 11 Foster 614–15. 12 C. Young, “Aristotle on Justice,” Southern Journal of Philosophy 27 supp. (1989): 237. O’Connor claims that the difference between liberal and particularly just actions is a matter of perspective. Taken at face value this is incompatible with the doctrine of disjoint spheres, but perhaps the gist of O’Connor’s claim is that liberality and particular injustice concern different aspects of a single entity. See D. O’Connor, “The Aetiology of Justice.” In Essays on the Foundations of Aristotelian Political Science, ed. C. Lord and D. O’Connor (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991) 150–5; J. Swanson, “Aristotle on Liberality: Its Relation to Justice and Its Public and Private Practice,” Polity 28 (1994): 5–6. 10


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However, Aristotle does not distinguish prodigal and self-indulgent aspects or perspectives of the same action. Aristotle’s claim (at 1119b33–1120a1) is that it is possible for a single person to be both prodigal and self-indulgent, but he does not say that a single action may exhibit both vices. Moreover, Young’s distinction between mean and unjust aspects of “taking what belongs to others” breaks down. The source of the gain is improper simply by being unjust. The mean aspect of the action is the same as the action’s unjust aspect. For Aristotle, an action is always a behavior-under-a-description.13 The same behavior (the same set of motions) may have several different descriptions, and therefore may be several different actions. Each action may exhibit a different vice, so the same behavior may exhibit different vices under different descriptions. If Paris leaves a battle in order to have sex with Helen, then his behavior is a cowardly action qua desertion of a comrade and an intemperate action qua adultery.14 Presumably, it could also exhibit particular injustice under some third description. But the question is not whether the same behavior can exhibit two vices, but rather the question is whether the same action can exhibit two vices. Actions, but not behaviors, dwell within disjoint spheres. Aristotle explicitly rejects the possibility of a single action exhibiting both particular injustice and some other vice when he says, “if a man makes a gain, his action is ascribed to no form of wickedness but injustice” (1130a31–2). Similarly, as we have seen, Aristotle explicitly rejects the possibility that a single passion can instantiate different virtues at various points. For example, in his account of courage he says that appropriately fearing disgrace, poverty, insult, etc. are not cases of courage, but rather are cases of modesty, liberality, good temper, etc. (1115a17–24). I suggest that Aristotle distinguishes particular justice from the other virtues and from general justice by defining “gain” as “more than one’s share.” Thus, pleonexia is a desire to get more than one deserves, rather than a desire for particular goods.15 Let me illustrate. Sally is well off and shows in various ways that she is not overly concerned with money, yet she shoplifts. What she desires is not the merchandise, but rather the pleasure of getting away with stealing.16 Similarly, when Sarah cheats at games she does so, not in order to acquire money, or even to win. What she desires is to win illegitimately. Steve seduces married people, not because he finds them attractive, not to acquire sexual pleasure, but merely in order to add more forbidden conquests to his list. Sam gets drunk, not because he enjoys the high, but rather in order to experience the thrill of illicit sensual pleasure. Sidney boasts, not to gain honor or respect, but just

I shall use the term “action” to stand for “action token” rather than “action type.” See ch.2. 15 Engberg-Pederson seems to agree when he says that the unjust person is “motivated by the pleasure of having more than his share.” But Engberg-Pederson goes on to say that the unjust person desires, “the pleasure of knowing that he is ‘doing better’ than the others” which is a very different motivation. See Engberg-Pederson 59. 16 See Augustine, Confessions, 2.4–2.6, where Augustine describes stealing pears for the mere thrill of wrongdoing. Perhaps some teenage rebelliousness is similarly motivated. 13 14

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to fool other people. These five people desire to get away with something. They want to acquire more than their share. But their pleasure comes not from getting the good, but rather from getting what they should not have. Thus, the desire for gain does not reduce to the desire for some other good. Notice that particular injustice is the place in Aristotle’s system for people who do evil for its own sake. But not every sort of evil done for its own sake counts as particular injustice, because not every sort of evil done for its own sake involves both the goods of fortune and other people. On my interpretation so far, the characteristic desires of general justice and injustice are appropriate and inappropriate desires for the goods of fortune in situations involving other people. The characteristic desire of particular injustice is pleonexia; pleonexia is a desire for gain; and a desire for gain is a desire for more than one deserves.17 Pleonexia is a desire for certain goods not qua good, but rather qua more than one’s share.18 The sphere of particular justice is gain, and it does not overlap with the spheres of the other first order virtues.

Objections Aristotle says that, unlike the incontinent person, the vicious person “stands by his choice” (1150b30), and does not repent. “Vice is unconscious of itself ” (1150b36). Some unjust people revel in their injustice. “Justice is for suckers,” they think. Other unjust people believe that they are just.19 But how can the latter group believe that their desires are right when they desire more than they believe that they deserve? To desire gain is to desire an unjust share for the sake of its injustice. I suggest that pleonectic people engage in doublethink. At one level, Sally recognizes that she is stealing. This enables her to feel the thrill of unjust acquisition. On another level, however, she believes that there is nothing wrong with what she does. Perhaps she says to herself that no one will lose because she takes only small things from big companies. This enables her to go on believing that she is just. Similarly, Sarah knows that it is wrong to cheat at games, but she rationalizes that everyone does it, so it is OK. Thus, it is possible for unjust people to enjoy the fact that their gains are unjust, while still believing that they are just people. It might be objected that most of the people considered unjust by common sense are not pleonectic. They do not have the vice of particular injustice as I have sketched it. If they excessively desire anything, it is particular goods rather than gain. They steal in order to acquire money, not in order to get something they do not deserve. As Foster 17 Here I am talking about natural particular justice, particular justice that has not yet been combined with practical wisdom. Proper particular justice is appropriate desire appropriately informed and directed by proper priorities. It is not enough to have right desires. One must have them for the right reasons. 18 D. Sherman, “Aristotle and the Problem of Particular Injustice,” Philosophical Forum 30 (1999) 244. 19 Some people are hard to classify because, while they agree that justice is the right character trait to have, and they consider themselves just, they disagree with Aristotle about what justice is. They might call a disposition to grab whatever they legally can “justice.”


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says, “most people who take an excessive share of goods are not motivated by a love of stealing. They are motivated by a love of stuff.”20 But stealing to enrich oneself is not an instance of particular injustice according to Aristotle, as I interpret him. I seem to be making Aristotle disagree with common sense about which people have the vice of injustice. Is my interpretation of Aristotle uncharitable? Most of the people considered unjust by common sense do excessively desire goods rather than gain. But this is not a good reason for rejecting my interpretation of Aristotle’s account, for a significant number of people seek gain rather than, or in addition to, goods. The thrill of the forbidden, the desire to make fools of others for real or imagined advantages, the lure of being a freeloader, are common incentives. Moreover, the desire for gain is often mingled with other motives. To some people, stolen apples or kisses taste extra sweet. Moreover, according to Aristotle as I interpret him, excessive desire for particular goods is not particular injustice, but it is general injustice. Stealing to enrich oneself is an instance of general injustice (and illiberality), though not of particular injustice. So on my interpretation, Aristotle can accommodate the common-sense view that people who desire excessive particular goods are unjust people. He would merely classify their vice as general rather than particular injustice. My interpretation of particular injustice generates the following paradox. Particular justice is a proper subset of general justice, and the sphere of general justice is the goods of fortune with respect to others. So gain must be understood as one of the goods of fortune. The virtuous person is the standard for what counts as a good of fortune. That is, items are goods if and only if they are good for virtuous people. But gain is intrinsically unjust. So it is not good for virtuous people. They would not enjoy making a gain. So gain cannot be one of the goods of fortune. The solution to this problem is that the sphere of particular justice is actually larger than mere gain. The sphere of particular justice includes a desire for loss and for a just share, too, as the next section will show. And a just share is one of the goods of fortune. So just people desire a just share while unjust people desire gain and loss.

Justice and the mean There is no problem bringing Aristotle’s account of general justice into harmony with his doctrine of the mean. The vice of excess consists in going to excess with respect to one or more parameters of general justice: desiring too large a quantity of certain goods, desiring on too many occasions, desiring too strongly, etc. Similarly, the other vice consists in being deficient with respect to these parameters. Finally, the virtue of general justice consists primarily in having medial desires with respect to these parameters. Since general justice consists of those aspects of the first order virtues pertaining 20 Foster 160. See also S. Drefcinski, “Aristotle and the Characteristic Desire of Justice,” Apeiron 33 (2000): 115–16.

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to the distribution of the goods of fortune to others, general justice fits the doctrine of the mean no worse than the first order virtues. In order to bring Aristotle’s account of particular justice into harmony with the thesis that virtue is a mean of several parameters, I shall take pleonexia to mean going to excess with respect to the object parameter and perhaps some or all of the other parameters of justice: desiring more than one’s share, desiring more than one’s share on too many occasions, desiring more than one’s share too strongly, etc. Aristotle says nothing about a second vice opposed to pleonexia,21 but he does contrast gain with loss (zemia). Loss is a technical term. Here it does not mean losing something one already has. Instead, loss means acquiring less than one’s share (1132b11–20). In order to reconcile Aristotle’s account of particular justice with the requirement that each virtue is bracketed by two vices, I shall suppose that pleonexia’s opposite vice is meionexia, a desire for loss. Meionexia is desiring certain goods not qua good, but rather qua less than one’s share. More precisely, meionexia is a deficiency with respect to the object parameter and perhaps some or all of the other parameters of justice. Meionexia means desiring less than one’s share, desiring one’s share on too few occasions, desiring one’s share too weakly, etc. It is a sort of masochistic desire for being cheated.22 Does Aristotle mention meionectic people? Well Aristotle does say that [D] If a man assigns more to another than to himself, knowingly and voluntarily, he treats himself unjustly; which is what modest people seem to do, since the virtuous man tends to take less than his share. (1136b19–21)

This passage is a bit problematic and not decisive since Aristotle seems to be attributing a vicious act to a virtuous person. But while discussing megalopsychia, Aristotle mentions that some unduly humble people (micropsychoi) are merely confused about what they deserve, but others are what we might call falsely modest. They know what they deserve, but they distribute to themselves less than they deserve (1125a25–7). Perhaps they engage in patterns of doublethink parallel to pleonectic people. The falsely modest person who “robs himself of what he is deserves” (1125a19–20) is meionectic. A contested passage in the EE also mentions meionecxia, although not by that name, and not in reference to justice. Instead, Aristotle describes practical wisdom as a mean between simplicity (eue¯theia) and cunning (panourgia). He says, [E] The rogue (panourgos) aims at gain (pleonektikos) in any way and from any source, the simple (eue¯the¯s) not even from the right source. (EE 1221a36–8)

Aristotle does say, “Since the unjust man is unequal and the unjust act unequal, it is clear that there is also an intermediate for the unequal” (1131a10–11). This may imply that the character trait of justice as well as the just act is intermediate between two extremes. 22 Occasionally, I am cheated out of something that would not enhance my happiness anyway. In such cases, seeking the something would not be in my interest. But these are atypical cases. Thus, Aristotle rightly assumes that a disposition to refrain from seeking what I deserve will not be in my interest. 21


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That is, the rogue will take goods irrespective of whether he or she is entitled to them. He or she seeks more than his or her fair share. Conversely, the simple person will not take goods, even if he or she is entitled to them. He or she seeks less than his or her fair share. Thus, practical wisdom turns out to be bracketed by pleonexia and meonexia in passage [E].23 Moreover, meionexia actually represents a real facet of the world. Just as there are pleonectic people who choose to be free riders, or thieves, or cheaters, or boasters for its own sake, so there are people who reliably and deliberately contribute more than their share or understate their deserts. People with self-destructive or self-sacrificial tendencies and people who lack self-respect often desire less than they deserve because it is less. They are often meionectic. So attributing to Aristotle the view that there are meionectic people is not uncharitable, but rather enhances his account by incorporating another significant aspect of human life. Since Aristotle says nothing of meionexia in NE V, my introduction of meionexia is, of course, a major addition to the text. However, meionexia is a plausible concept which Aristotle develops elsewhere, and which fleshes out Aristotle’s account of justice in accordance with his own architectonic, the doctrine of the mean. As for the virtue of particular justice, it is not merely the lack of pleonexia and meionexia. People with the virtue of particular justice do not simply lack the desire for more or less than what they deserve. Aristotle describes the positive content of justice and injustice as follows: [F] We see that all men mean by justice that kind of state which makes people disposed to do what is just and makes them act justly and wish for what is just; and similarly by injustice that state which makes them act unjustly and wish for what is unjust. (1129a7–10)

As we have seen, Aristotle takes the characteristic desire of particular injustice to be pleonexia, a desire for an unjust share for oneself. The characteristic desire of particular justice must be the corresponding desire to seek a just share for oneself. Particularly just people have a desire for exactly what they deserve. That is, no matter what goods are being distributed or exchanged, they desire to be treated justly. They seek their fair share. They have a desire for their due, over-and-above whatever desire they have for the goods in question.

More objections In order to make Aristotle’s account fit the doctrine of the mean I introduced meionexia, a deficiency with respect to the desire for a just share, so that particular justice would be opposed to a defect as well as an excess. Urmson says, however, that Aristotle rules out the introduction of meionexia because “being willing to forgo that to 23 Gottlieb 34–5; G. Pearson, “Phronesis as a Mean in the Eudemian Ethics,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 32 (2007): 273–95.

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which you have a right is thought by Aristotle to be a sign of liberality or even magnificence.”24 It is evidence of a virtue, rather than of a vice associated with particular justice. Here I must disagree with Urmson about liberality and magnificence. Aristotle does say that [G] It is highly characteristic of a liberal man also to go to excess in giving, so that he leaves too little for himself. (1120b4–6)

However, Aristotle must mean that excessive giving is the error mode toward which the liberal person tends, rather than that excessive giving is a liberal action.25 Similarly for passage [D]. Aristotle cannot maintain that giving excessively or forgoing what one deserves are liberal acts without contradicting the doctrine of the mean. Excessive action is evidence of a vice, not of a virtue. Moreover, the claim that liberal people give excessively would collapse the distinction between the liberal and the prodigal person. As for magnificence, Aristotle says that it does not involve “willingness to forgo” at all, but extends only to actions which “involve expenditure” (1122a21). Hardie and Urmson maintain that the introduction of meionexia is incompatible with Aristotle’s claim that “it is not possible to treat oneself unjustly” (1138a14–15).26 Actually, if meionexia conflicts with the claim that one cannot treat oneself unjustly, then so does pleonexia, for both are dispositions to desire an unjust share. However, Aristotle does not think that there is a conflict. Aristotle’s argument for the claim that one cannot treat oneself unjustly goes like this. It seems that, “to do what is unjust is not the same as to act unjustly” (NE 1136a27–8), because acting unjustly means voluntarily doing what is unjust. Moreover, “it is impossible to be unjustly treated if the other does not act unjustly” (1136a29–30). That is, being unjustly treated means suffering what is unjust at the hands of someone who is acting unjustly. But these definitions are incomplete. We must add “contrary to the wish of the person acted on” (1136b3–5) to the definition of acting unjustly. Thus, being unjustly treated means unwillingly suffering what is unjust at the hands of someone who is voluntarily doing what is unjust. Therefore, “a man may be voluntarily harmed and voluntarily suffer what is unjust, but no one is voluntarily treated unjustly; for no one wishes to be unjustly treated” (1136b5–6). To treat oneself unjustly is to be both agent and patient. One must both act unjustly and be unjustly treated. But acting unjustly involves acting voluntarily, and being treated unjustly involves being unwilling. If people could treat themselves unjustly, they “could be voluntarily treated unjustly” (1138a23–4), but we

24

Urmson, Aristotle’s Ethics 77. See also, Hardie, Aristotle’s Ethical Theory, 184. Meanness is more common than prodigality (1122a15–16). So although liberal people tend toward prodigality, people in general tend toward meanness. 26 Hardie 184; Urmson 78. Joachim objects to the introduction of meionexia because “the vice contrasted with [justice] is one, and unites in itself both too much and too little” (Joachim 152). However, it is quite possible for Aristotle to use the term “injustice” to cover all vices associated with the virtue of justice. 25


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have seen that that is impossible. So “it is not possible to treat oneself unjustly” (1138a15). When Aristotle says that, “no one wishes to be unjustly treated,” he is making a logical rather than a psychological claim. He is not claiming that no one wishes to have an unjust share. Instead, he is claiming that no one wishes to have what is contrary to his or her wish. In general, Aristotle is arguing that it is impossible to treat oneself unjustly because the concept of treating oneself unjustly involves simultaneously wishing to get and not to get something. So although it is impossible to treat oneself unjustly, it is perfectly possible to distribute an unjust share to oneself voluntarily. And meionexia is simply a disposition to do this. The introduction of meionexia is compatible with the claim that one cannot treat oneself unjustly because meionexia is a disposition to be a willing victim. It is a disposition to accept an unjust share, but not a disposition to treat oneself unjustly. Indeed, Aristotle explicitly affirms that a person may “voluntarily suffer what is unjust.” Aristotle even gives an example of a possibly meionectic action. When Glaucus traded armor of gold to Diomede in exchange for much cheaper bronze armor, Glaucus was voluntarily suffering what was unjust (i.e. he received less than he deserved), though he was not treating himself unjustly (1136b9–11). If Glaucus was motivated by a desire to get less than his due, then Glaucus’ action was meionectic. Thus, Aristotle’s discussion of treating oneself unjustly actually provides support for the introduction of meionexia. Aristotle explicitly addresses the problem of reconciling his account of particular justice with the doctrine of the mean when he says “just action is intermediate between acting unjustly and being unjustly treated” (1133b30–1). But this seems to be a blunder, for a person who is unjustly treated can hardly be said to be acting at all, let alone acting unjustly, as Aristotle himself says (1136b26–9). That is, the person who acts unjustly is the victimizer, not the victim.27 Moreover, the doctrine of the mean requires that virtue be intermediate between excessive and defective actions and/or passions, not between acting and being-acted-upon. Since Aristotle goes on to say that, “Justice is a kind of mean, but not in the same way as the other virtues” (1133b32–3), one might try to save Aristotle from this blunder by taking him to be maintaining that, whereas the other virtues are means because they are bracketed by vices, justice is a mean because just acts aim at the production of intermediate distributions.28 I shall attribute to Aristotle neither a blunder nor an unAristotelian view by reading “being unjustly treated” as a type of unjust action. A bit later on Aristotle does just that. He says, “In the unjust act to have too little is to be unjustly treated; to have too much is to act unjustly” (1134a12–13). Here Aristotle seems to be glossing “being unjustly treated” as “acting in such a way that one ends up with too little.” (He seems to be doing something similar when he defines “loss” as the contrary of gain, i.e. getting more of the evil and less of the good (1132a16–17), rather than actually losing

27

Urmson 75.

28

Hardie 201; Young, “Justice,” 241.

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something good.) Being unjustly treated must be an action. It must also somehow involve being victimized by someone voluntarily acting unjustly because “it is impossible to be unjustly treated if the other does not act unjustly” (1136a29–30). Technically, being unjustly treated cannot be a voluntary unjust action because, as we saw above, no one is voluntarily treated unjustly. But if it is not a voluntary action then it cannot exhibit a vice (1135a15). So we must suppose that Aristotle is speaking a bit loosely here. He has not gotten around to defining “being unjustly treated” precisely, yet. He has not yet added “contrary to the wish of the person acted on” to the definition of acting unjustly. Thus, I suppose that “being unjustly treated” here means voluntarily suffering what is unjust at the hands of someone voluntarily acting unjustly. In other words, “being unjustly treated” here means allowing oneself to be cheated. For example, suppose that Diomede and Glaucus respectively desire more and less than they deserve. Then it would make sense to say both that Glaucus is unjustly treated by Diomede and that the unjust treatment is a voluntary action on the part of Glaucus. With respect to this sort of case, Aristotle’s remark that, “just action is intermediate between acting unjustly (accepting too much, like Diomede) and being unjustly treated (accepting too little, like Glaucus)” makes sense. So Aristotle is not foolishly saying that an entirely passive person is acting as an agent. And he is not saying that justice is a mean only because just actions aim at intermediate distributions. Aristotle is saying that just actions are intermediate between pleonectic and meionectic actions.

Particular justice and particularly just actions Aristotle specifies virtuous and vicious acts in two ways. At one point, sounding very much the pure virtue ethicist, Aristotle describes virtuous actions in terms of virtuous people: [H] Actions, then, are called just and temperate when they are such as the just or the temperate man would do. (1105b5–7)

Aristotle’s position is that virtuous acts are the acts that typically issue from virtues in the relevant situations. Courageous acts are the acts typically performed by courageous people in dangerous situations; temperate acts are the acts typically performed by temperate people when sensual pleasure is available; and so on. Naturally, acts are vicious if they are the acts that typically issue from vices in the relevant situations. I say “typically” because it is not the case that every act issuing from a virtuous (vicious) state of character is virtuous (vicious) act.29 Sometimes virtues generate acts 29 Williams takes Aristotle to define particularly unjust actions as whatever actions issue from the character trait of particular injustice. See B. Williams, “Justice as a Virtue.” In Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, ed. A. Rorty, (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980) 193–4; D. O’Connor, “Aristotelian Justice as a Personal Virtue,” Midwest Studies in Philosophy 13 (1988): 420.


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outside of their spheres. For example, courageous people handle death at sea and terminal illness well, although doing so is not a courageous act (1115a35–b6). Surprisingly, virtues also sometimes generate vicious acts, as passages [D] and [G] illustrate.30 Passage [H] poses a particular problem for particular justice and injustice. In order to get exactly what I deserve (or more or less than I deserve), I must get exactly what I deserve (or more or less than I deserve) of something. But the goods in question (safety, sensual pleasure, wealth, etc.) are governed by courage, temperance, liberality, etc. Thus, it seems that every action which exhibits particular justice (injustice) also exhibits some other virtue (vice). Even if these act tokens do not simultaneously express two virtues (vices), it seems that some act types do so, as Aristotle says in the following passage: [I] If one man commits adultery for the sake of gain and makes money by it, while another does so at the bidding of appetite though he loses money and is penalized for it, the latter would be held to be self-indulgent rather than grasping while the former is unjust, but not self-indulgent; evidently, therefore, he is unjust by reason of his making gain by his act. Again all other unjust acts are ascribed invariably to some particular kind of wickedness, e.g. adultery to selfindulgence, the desertion of a comrade in battle to cowardice, physical violence to anger; but if a man makes gain, his action is ascribed to no form of wickedness but injustice. (1130a24–32; see also 1135b19–25)31

Here Aristotle says that acts of adultery, desertion, and assault are sometimes evidence for intemperance, cowardice, and irascibility, respectively. Yet at other times these acts are evidence for particular justice. Each seems to be a characteristic type of act for two different virtues. Does this mean that particular justice violates Aristotle’s doctrine of disjoint spheres? Passage [I] is making a point about evaluation of character. Aristotle says that adultery is generally taken as evidence of self-indulgence, desertion as evidence of cowardice, and assault as evidence of irascibility, but when these acts are clearly motivated by a desire for gain, then they constitute evidence that the agent has the character trait of particular injustice.32 Technically, Aristotle is distinguishing between pairs of different, but similarly named types of acts: adultery and adultery-aimed-atgain, desertion and desertion-aimed-at-gain, assault and assault-aimed-at-gain. That is, the behavior of sleeping with another person’s spouse is evidence for intemperance when the point is the sensual pleasure, and evidence for particular injustice when the See Curzer, “How Good People Do Bad Things,” 233–56. If passage [I] contrasted a person who commits adultery for the sake of money with a person who is motivated by lust, then the passage might be incompatible with my thesis that particular injustice is a desire for more or less than one deserves. Luckily, passage [I] does not mention a person who commits adultery simply for the sake of money. Instead, it mentions a person who commits adultery for the sake of gain (which, as I argued above, must mean undeserved goods), the gain in this case being in the form of money. Thus, passage [I] does not threaten my thesis. 32 This does not violate the doctrine of disjoint spheres. In general, the doctrine of disjoint spheres permits different actions of a certain type (e.g. different thefts) to exhibit different vices if the motives and the objects of the actions differ. A particular theft may be motivated by an excessive desire for money, or a desire for the pleasure of getting more than the thief deserves, or even both. 30 31

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point is the forbidden pleasure. Similarly for desertion and assault. Acts are behaviorsunder-descriptions, as mentioned above, so although a behavior may fall into two different spheres, acts and types of acts do not. Aristotle is not advancing the implausible claim that adultery, desertion, and assault are particularly unjust actions33 when they flow from the character trait of particular injustice and otherwise not. These acts are always intemperate, cowardly, and irascible acts, respectively; they are never particularly unjust. The underlying behaviors sometimes issue from particular injustice, however, and when they do, they are aimed at gain, and they constitute evidence of the character trait of particular injustice. Elsewhere, sounding like a rule ethicist rather than a virtue ethicist, Aristotle specifies which acts are virtuous and vicious, in a way that is independent of his descriptions of virtuous people or of the virtues. Virtuous acts are those acts that accord with right reason or the right rule (orthos logos) for the virtue: [J] That we must act according to right reason . . . must be assumed. (1103b31–3. See also 1106b36–1107a2; 1114b26–30)

Acts are courageous if, and only if, they conform to the right rule for courage; temperate if, and only if, they conform to the right rule for temperance; and so on. Naturally, acts are vicious if they violate these rules. This stricture is sometimes considered useless because Aristotle is thought to have neglected, or declined to provide right rules for the various virtues. Whether or not Aristotle fails to provide right rules for the other virtues, he certainly does sketch right rules for particular justice. First, Aristotle describes the acts to which the right rules apply: [K] Of particular justice and that which is just in the corresponding sense, (1) one kind is that which is manifested in distributions of honor or money or the other things that fall to be divided among those who have a share in the constitution . . . and one is that which plays a rectifying part in transactions between man and man. Of this there are two divisions . . . (2) voluntary transactions such as sale, purchase, loan for consumption, pledging, loan for use, depositing, letting . . . (3) involuntary [transactions include] theft, adultery, poisoning, procuring, enticement of slaves, assassination, false witness . . . assault, imprisonment, murder, robbery with violence, mutilation, abuse, insult. (1130b30–1131a9)34

These acts exhibit the three branches of justice: distributive, reciprocal, and rectificatory. I distill the corresponding rules from V.3–5 as follows. [Right Rules for Justice] (1) When distributing goods, treat equals equally and unequals proportionately unequally according to merit. (2) When exchanging, give and receive items of equal value. (3) When rectifying, take ill-gotten gains (or their equivalent) from wrongdoers and restore them to the victims.

By “particularly just actions,” I mean actions of the sort that typically flow from the character trait of particular justice, rather than especially just actions. Similarly for “particularly unjust actions.” 34 This passage was brought to my attention by Drefcinski, “Justice,” 319. 33


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I take these to be the right rules for general justice as well. Aristotle does not explicitly say this, but he could, and he should. These rules govern the distribution of all sorts of goods, not just gain.35 At the end of NE V.5 Aristotle seems to be suggesting that particular justice is just any character trait which typically produces particularly just acts, and that any character trait that produces unjust acts is the character trait of particular injustice. He says, [L] Justice is that in virtue of which the just man is said to be a doer, by choice, of that which is just, and one who will distribute . . . in accordance with proportion. . . . Injustice is similarly related to the unjust. (1134a1–7; see also 1129a6–10)

However, people who typically perform particularly just actions do not necessarily have the virtue of particular justice. [M] It is not the man who does [just and temperate acts] that is just and temperate, but the man who also does them as just and temperate men do them. (1105b7–9; see also 1134a16–23) Acting unjustly does not necessarily imply being unjust. (1134a17)

Aristotle’s account of continence and his description of five simulacra of courage in NE III.8 shows that Aristotle believes that some people who typically perform virtuous acts are not virtuous people. A charitable interpretation of passage [L] must take Aristotle to mean not that particular justice is whatever character trait typically yields particularly just actions, but rather that particular justice is a particular character trait which typically yields particularly just actions. Similarly for injustice. Of course, Aristotle has already specified one of the character traits of particular injustice in NE V.2 as pleonexia, a desire for gain. Thus, Aristotle does not simply define particularly just (unjust) actions to be whatever actions issue from particular justice (injustice), and he does not simply define particular justice (injustice) to be whatever character trait typically produces particularly just (unjust) action.36 Particularly just acts are the acts typically performed by particularly just people, but particularly just acts and particular justice are also defined independently. Particularly just acts are acts that conform to the right rules for justice; particularly unjust acts are those that violate those rules. Particular justice includes a disposition to seek a just share (qua just) of the goods of fortune for oneself; particular injustice is a disposition to seek an unjust share (qua unjust). These independent definitions open up the possibility of a mismatch.

35

Indeed, I suggest that Aristotle’s principle of distributive justice, applied to whatever is deemed good within a friendship, distinguishes between just and unjust friendships. This principle, applied to the good of safety, is the right rule of the virtue of courage. Similarly, Aristotle’s principle of rectificatory justice applied to honor is the right rule of the virtue of good temper. See ch.2, ch.7, and ch.12. 36 G. Pearson, “Aristotle on Acting Unjustly Without Being Unjust,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 30 (2006): 213–17; Sherman, “Particular Injustice,” 235–48.

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The mismatch objection Aristotle’s account of justice seems counterintuitively incomplete. Common sense says that the character trait of justice includes a positive commitment to just distribution and exchange. In particular, just people want the acquisitions and losses of others to be just. Even as mere observers, just people delight in seeing justice done, and are repelled by the unjust treatment of others. As agents, just people strive to create and maintain just distributions, and to prevent and rectify unjust distributions because they think that distributions should be just. In particular, justice disposes people to perform disinterested just actions. They strive to make distributions and exchanges just even when they, themselves, are not recipients. People who are disposed to treat others unjustly or to allow others to be unjustly treated seem to lack the character trait of justice, even if they scrupulously make sure that they, themselves, end up with no more or less than their due. However on Aristotle’s account, the character traits of general and particular justice can motivate neither the enjoyment of seeing others get what they deserve nor the actions that would bring justice to others. Nor do the character traits of general and particular injustice seem to be able to motivate disinterested unjust actions. On Aristotle’s account, justice only inclines agents to seek the goods that they, themselves, deserve. After all, people can lack a desire that others be justly treated even if they have appropriate desires for goods and for their own due. For example, suppose that Rocky becomes sad and angry when he reads about the exploitation of workers in the third world, but Roxie merely shrugs. Common sense takes these reactions to be evidence of the character traits of justice and injustice, respectively, but Aristotle’s particular and general justice and injustice cannot generate these feelings. Again, suppose that Rose distributes birthday cake fairly among a group of children, taking none for herself. According to common sense, Rose’s act is just, but it cannot be motivated by particular or general justice as Aristotle has defined them. It cannot be motivated by a desire to obtain for herself either a fair share or cake in appropriate quantity. This sort of action seems, therefore, to be a counterexample to Aristotle’s claim that an action is just if and only if just people typically perform that action from justice. Similarly, suppose a judge, Rex, unfairly distributes punishments among a group of prisoners for no obvious reason. (He is not bribed, grinding some ideological ax, etc.) This is clearly a unjust action, but it does not seem to be motivated by particular or general injustice as Aristotle has defined them. Rex does not seem to be motivated by a desire to obtain anything for himself. The problem is not merely that Aristotle’s view and common sense diverge; there is a contradiction within Aristotle’s theory as well. Aristotle’s right rules for justice prescribe the fair distribution of birthday cake, punishments, and in general, the fair treatment of others. They specify that acts providing others with what they deserve are just acts, and acts that trample on the deserts of others are unjust acts. So Aristotle’s two ways of specifying which acts are just and unjust yield different answers. Acts in which the agent is a distributor, but not a recipient, can accord with the right rules as well as with common sense, but they cannot flow from the character traits of general and


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particular justice. The passions and actions that typically issue from the character traits of general and particular justice (injustice) are not the same as those prescribed (proscribed) by the right rules and by common sense. Similarly for passions. I shall call this the mismatch objection. Aristotle replies to part of the mismatch objection by asserting that judges who unfairly distribute punishments are “aiming at an excessive share either of gratitude or of revenge” (1136b34–1137a1). In general, Aristotle’s gratitude-or-revenge suggestion is that intentional mal-distribution is typically motivated by an excessive or defective desire for some good, although not necessarily for the good being distributed. Disinterested mal-distribution is not typical.37 Some commentators take Aristotle’s suggestion to be an attempt to show that mal-distribution typically flows from particular injustice. However such an attempt would be unnecessary. The relationship between particular injustice and particularly unjust actions is only partially parallel to the relationship between particular justice and particularly just actions. If particularly unjust people typically perform an action, then that action is particularly unjust. However, since “it is possible to fail in many ways . . . while to succeed is possible only in one way” (1106b28–31), Aristotle is not committed to the view that if an action is particularly unjust, then that action (rather than some other action) is typically performed by particularly unjust people. The fact that one sort of unjust act is popular with unjust people in a certain situation does not preclude another sort of act from also being unjust. Particularly unjust people may perform a variety of different actions in the same situation. Moreover, Aristotle is not committed to the view that if an action is particularly unjust, then that action is typically performed by particularly unjust people (rather than by other sorts of people). The same action may be performed by all sorts of people. Moreover, if Aristotle’s gratitude-or-revenge suggestion were an attempt to show that mal-distribution could possibly be motivated by particular injustice, the suggestion would be insufficient. Even if an act of mal-distribution is motivated by an excessive desire for gratitude or revenge, this would show only that that action of mal-distribution

37 Commentators who take Aristotle’s suggestion to be a reply to the mismatch objection include Hardie 188; Urmson 77; Young, “Justice,” 239. Urmson calls Aristotle’s gratitude or revenge suggestion “mere verbal juggling” and observes that, “We might as well treat the coward as unjust since he aims at an unfair share of safety; we might in this way be able to reduce all defects of character to greed” (Urmson 77). Urmson is right that if Aristotle takes particular injustice to be excessive desire for some goods (e.g. gratitude or revenge), then particular injustice will overlap or even absorb the other virtues. This would make it unnecessary to postulate various different vices to explain various vicious actions, since these actions could be explained solely by particular injustice. But as we have seen, Aristotle does not take particular injustice to be excessive desire for some goods. Young maintains that Aristotle’s gratitude or revenge suggestion clashes with something Aristotle says elsewhere. Young says, “Aristotle himself seems to take it that private justice [appropriate desire for goods] need not entail public justice [assigning people what they deserve]” (Young, “Justice,” 244). As evidence, Young cites Aristotle’s observation that, “many men can exercise virtue in their own affairs, but not in their relations to others. That is why . . . ‘rule will show the man’” (1129b33–1130a2). In this passage, however, Aristotle is not distinguishing between private and public justice, but rather between general justice and virtue. Thus, this passage does not support Young’s claim. Aristotle is not saying that many people typically mal-distribute without excessively or insufficiently desiring some good.

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is motivated by vanity or irascibility. It would not show that that action of maldistribution is motivated by particular injustice. Thus, Aristotle’s gratitude-or-revenge suggestion does not resolve the mismatch between actions which violate the right rule, and actions which flow from particular injustice. To resolve the mismatch Aristotle would have to show that a desire for gain, rather than a desire for the goods of fortune, could motivate the judge’s mal-distribution. But although people steal in order to get more than they deserve (rather than more money), people do not mal-distribute to others in order to get more than they deserve (rather than more gratitude or revenge). What Aristotle’s gratitude-or-revenge suggestion actually asserts is that mal-distribution is typically motivated by general injustice, an inappropriate desire for the goods of fortune. Aristotle’s suggestion might be read as a reply to Foot’s rival account of the virtue of justice. Foot maintains that virtues “are corrective, each one standing at a point at which there is some temptation to be resisted or deficiency of motivation to be made good. . . . If people cared about the rights of others as they care about their own rights no virtue of justice would be needed to look after the matter.”38 Foot and Aristotle disagree about the vice of injustice and therefore about the virtue of justice. Foot believes that unjust actions are typically caused by indifference to the rights of others. Foot takes justice to be a corrective to this indifference, just as she takes courage to be a corrective to the temptation to flee, and temperance to be a corrective to the temptation to overindulge. Thus, justice is a concern for the rights of others. Aristotle, on the other hand, believes that unjust actions are typically caused by an inappropriate desire for the goods of fortune. Even in cases where the unjust distributor seems to be disinterested, Aristotle maintains that the distributor distributes unfairly because of an excessive desire for gratitude or revenge or some other good. Aristotle, therefore, takes (general) justice to be an appropriate desire for these goods. Is Aristotle’s gratitude-or-revenge suggestion true? Young describes Aristotle’s remark about gratitude or revenge as suggesting, “implausibly, that public injustice [assigning some people more than they deserve] must rest on private injustice [excessive desire for goods].”39 But there is nothing implausible about the suggestion that people who mal-distribute typically do so because they get something out of it, something that they should not want. People sometimes mal-distribute because they are lazy, inattentive, indifferent, or frivolous.40 However, such people are not counterexamples to Aristotle’s gratitude-or-revenge suggestion. Laziness, for example, is a kind of excessive desire for free time. The lazy person, after all, wants less than his share of a particular burden.41 Parallel points might be made for inattention, indifference, and frivolity. 38 Foot 9. Aristotle is criticized for not holding this account by Williams and praised for not holding this account by O’Connor. See O’Connor, “Aristotelian Justice as a Personal Virtue,” 417–27; Williams, “Justice as a Virtue,” 197–8. 39 Young, “Justice,” 244. 40 Williams, “Justice as a Virtue,” 197; Young, “Justice,” 243. 41 D. Keyt, “Injustice and Pleonexia in Aristotle: A Reply to Charles Young,” Southern Journal of Philosophy, 27 supp. (1989): 255.


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Moreover, to rebut Aristotle’s suggestion, Foot would have to show that maldistribution is typically (not merely occasionally) motivated by character traits other than excessive desire for the goods of fortune. Foot would have to show that most unjust actions are performed because the agents do not care much about justice, rather than because the agents think that they will get something out of it. But this is implausible. An insufficient commitment to the deserts of others is not one of the principle causes of injustice, although it may be a contributory factor.42 Indeed, we assume that mal-distribution is motivated by excessive desire for the goods of fortune, even if the psychological mechanism is opaque to us. “I wonder what they are getting out of it,” we say of people who mal-distribute for no apparent reason. A commitment to justice, a concern for the rights of others, a tendency to delight in just distributions and be revolted by unjust distributions might prevent a person with the vice of general injustice from mal-distributing. But the lack of this commitment to justice is not the main motivation of mal-distribution.

Poetic justice Aristotle’s gratitude-or-revenge suggestion is an attempt to match the actions considered unjust by common sense and the right rules to the actions issuing from the character trait of general injustice. Aristotle’s reply to the rest of the mismatch objection, his treatment of the disinterested concern for justice, is not found in NE V. Instead, it is found in his description of the character trait of poetic justice (nemesis).43 After I explain Aristotle’s account of poetic justice I shall argue that poetic justice fills the gaps in Aristotle’s account of justice. So what contemporary common sense attributes to a single virtue of justice, Aristotle divides among general justice, particular justice, and poetic justice. Poetic justice is the only character trait mentioned in NE II.7, but not later treated in detail.44 Thus, the description of poetic justice in the Nicomachean Ethics consists of one sketchy, garbled sentence in NE II.7.45 In sketching an account of poetic justice I shall, therefore, rely primarily upon the Eudemian Ethics and the Rhetoric. In the Eudemian Ethics Aristotle describes poetic justice and its associated extremes in the following ways: [N] Envy is pain felt at deserved good fortune, while the feeling of the man who rejoices at misfortunes has itself no name, but such a man shows his nature by rejoicing over undeserved ill

42 Indifference to the deserts of others is very different from ignorance of their deserts, of course. People committed to insuring that others get their due, but confused about what others deserve, perform many unjust acts. 43 Nemesis is usually translated as proper or righteous indignation, but I think that this is a misleading translation for it suggests that (a) nemesis is a type of anger rather than a type of desire and that (b) nemesis is a response to undeserved fortune rather than a response to all fortune. “Poetic justice” is certainly a very free translation of nemesis, but I think it gets closer to what Aristotle has in mind. 44 Like shame, poetic justice is not a virtue (EE 1234a24–32). 45 See Urmson, “Aristotle’s Doctrine of the Mean,” 167, and MacIntyre 66, for problems with this description.

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fortune. Between them is the man inclined to poetic justice (nemesis), the name given by the ancients to pain felt at either good or bad fortune if undeserved, or to joy felt at them if deserved. (EE 1233b19–25) A man is envious when he feels pain at the sight of prosperity more often than he ought, for even those who deserve prosperity cause when prosperous pain to the envious; the opposite character. . . . shows excess in not grieving even at the prosperity of the undeserving. (EE 1221a33–b3)

As I interpret this account, poetic justice is a character trait whose sphere has two main components: good fortune and bad fortune. That is, the spheres of poetic justice and general justice both concern the goods of fortune (1129b2–3). The person of poetic justice desires that other people get what they deserve. So he or she is pained by undeserved good and bad fortune and pleased by deserved good and bad fortune of others.46 Corresponding to these four components of poetic justice are four basic failure modes which are excesses and defects. (1) Aristotle describes envy (pthonos) as the disposition to be pained, not merely at undeserved good fortune, but rather at all good fortune. In order to bring the account of poetic justice into harmony with Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean, I shall take the liberty of broadening this description of envy somewhat. I shall describe envy as the disposition to be excessive with respect to pain at the good fortune of others. The envious person is pained not only too often, but also too severely (even for undeserved good fortune), stays pained for too long a time, etc. (2) Envy is opposed, at EE 1221a33–b3, to a nameless disposition to be insufficiently pained (or excessively pleased) at good fortune. The person with this nameless trait is pained too seldom, too mildly, stays pained for too short a time, etc. (3) At EE 1233b19–25, envy is contrasted with the disposition to be pleased at undeserved bad fortune. At 1108b1–6, Aristotle calls this disposition spite (epichairekakia). I presume that, parallel to envy, spite is the disposition to be excessive with respect to pleasure at bad fortune. (4) Finally, symmetry demands that spite be contrasted with a nameless disposition to be insufficiently pleased (or excessively pained) at bad fortune. Notice that envy and spite do not turn out to be the excess and defect of a single parameter. Indeed, envy and spite are often combined in the same person (Rhet. 1387a1–2), just as cowardice and rashness often occur together (1115b31). Similarly, the two nameless

46 The four dispositions to feel these feelings tend to cluster together. Aristotle says, for example, “If you are pained by the unmerited distress of others, you will be pleased, or at least not pained, by their merited distress” (Rhet. 1386b26–7). Sometimes Aristotle uses the term nemesis more narrowly to mean the trait of feeling pain at the good fortune of the bad, and pity to mean the trait of feeling pain at the bad fortune of the good (1108b1–6, Rhet. 1386b9–12). Aristotle also uses the term nemesis to mean the trait of feeling pain at undeserved good and bad fortune (MM 1192b17–29). See J. Coker, “On Being Nemesetikos as a Mean,” Journal of Philosophical Research 17 (1992): 61–91, for an excruciatingly detailed analysis of Aristotle’s different uses of the term nemesis. See also R. Burger, “Ethical Reflection and Righteous Indignation: Nemesis in the Nicomachean Ethics.” In Essays in Ancient Greek Philosophy IV: Aristotle’s Ethics, ed. J. Anton and A. Preus (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1991) 127–39; K. Kristjańsson, “Fortunes-of-Others Emotions and Justice,” Journal of Philosophical Research 28 (2003): 107–31; M. Mills, “Phthonos and its Related Pathe in Plato and Aristotle,” Phronesis 30 (1985): 1–12.


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traits tend to occur together. Notice that on my interpretation, poetic justice fits the doctrine of the mean. Poetic justice is the disposition to be pleased and pained on the right occasions, while its associated vices are dispositions to be pleased and pained on too many or two few occasions, at too many or too few objects, for too long or too short a time, etc. Deserved Good Fortune

Undeserved Good Fortune

Deserved Bad Fortune

Undeserved Bad Fortune

Poetic Justice

pleased

pained

pleased

pained

Envy

pained

pained

Opposite of Envy

pleased

pleased

Spite

pleased

pleased

Opposite of Spite

pained

pained

If I have fleshed out Aristotle’s treatment of poetic justice correctly, then poetic justice fills the gaps left by Aristotle’s account of general and particular justice. The person of poetic justice is pained by undeserved good and bad fortune and pleased by deserved good and bad fortune. In other words, the person of poetic justice is pained by unjust distributions and pleased by just distributions, even when uninvolved in the distribution process (Rhet. 1386b12–15; 1387b6–9). Poetic justice thus provides the overall commitment to justice, the incentive “to promote just distributions, look for them, stand by them, and so on, because that is what they are.”47 The person of poetic justice performs disinterested just actions. For example, poetic justice provides an incentive to enact just laws.48 While particular justice includes a desire for a just share of goods for oneself, poetic justice includes a desire that everyone get his or her due. Thus, the combination of poetic justice and particular justice is not vulnerable to the mismatch objection. The actions which accord with common sense and the right rule match those which are motivated by particular justice plus poetic justice. For example, poetic justice motivates the birthday cake distributor. Actions which violate the right rule are motivated by general injustice, the various vices including pleonexia and meionexia. However, general injustice motivates these actions only in the absence of poetic justice. For example, lack of poetic justice allows general injustice to motivate the maldistributing judge. Aristotle’s account of the virtues might have been better if he had explicitly combined particular justice and poetic justice49 but he is not guilty of ignoring the delight at just distributions and the revulsion at unjust distributions felt by the virtuous person. Nor does he ignore the actions motivated by these pleasures Williams, “Justice as a Virtue,” 197–8. It is not the sole incentive. Just laws are also generally in the interests of the polis, so someone concerned to forward those interests, but unconcerned with justice would also end up generally enacting just laws. 49 Aristotle does say, “Envy tends to injustice (for the acts arising from it affect another), poetic justice [tends] to justice” (EE 1234a30–2). 47 48

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and pains, the disinterested establishment of justice and righting of injustice. Aristotle’s overall theory includes the positive commitment to just distribution and exchange, even when one is not a distributor, recipient, or exchanger.50

Conclusion I have made three major interpretive moves. First, I distinguished general and particular justice by describing general justice as an appropriate desire for the goods of fortune and describing particular justice as an appropriate desire for what one deserves (qua deserved). General injustice turns out to be simply all of the first order vices with respect to distribution and exchange with other people, while particular injustice is a desire for more (or less) than one deserves (qua deserved). Second, I brought Aristotle’s account of particular justice into harmony with both parts of his doctrine of the mean. I described particular justice as a mean of several parameters. And I introduced meionexia, a desire for less than one deserves, so that particular justice would be bracketed by two vices. Third, I reconciled Aristotle’s account of particular justice with his definition of particularly just action by interpreting poetic justice as a desire that others get the goods of fortune that they deserve, and by combining poetic justice with particular justice. When fleshed out in the ways that I have suggested, Aristotle’s accounts of general justice, particular justice, and poetic justice are internally consistent and compatible with the core of Aristotle’s architectonic, the parameter doctrine, and the doctrine of the mean. Is Aristotle right about the virtue of justice? Common sense holds that just people (a) desire the goods of fortune appropriately, (b) desire that their own share be fair, and (c) desire that other people get their fair share. Just people are pleased insofar as these desires are satisfied, and pained insofar as they are not satisfied. Aristotle’s virtuous person has all of these desires. Aristotle calls these desires (a) general justice, (b) particular justice, and (c) poetic justice respectively. Common sense says that unjust people (d) desire the goods of fortune more or less than they should, and/or (e) desire gain or loss, and/or (f ) desire that others get more or less of the goods of fortune than they deserve. Aristotle’s theory can accommodate all of these failure modes. These desires are (d) general injustice, (e) pleonexia and meionexia, and (f ) envy, spite, and their opposites. Thus, Aristotle’s account differs from common sense organizationally, but not substantively. On my interpretation, Aristotle’s accounts of general justice, particular justice, and poetic justice are plausible as well as consistent and Aristotelian.

50 Drefcinski says, “the characteristic desire of general justice is a wish for what is lawful and the characteristic desire of particular justice is a wish for what is fair. . . . The characteristic desires of general and particular injustice are a wish for what is unlawful and unfair, respectively” (Drefcinski, “Justice,” 119, 122). So Drefcinski considers a desire that others be treated justly to be part of the characteristic desire of particular justice, whereas I consider this disinterested desire to be the characteristic desire of poetic justice.

12 Varieties of Friendship (NE VIII–IX)

Introduction Much has been written about Aristotle’s account of friendship (philia), but most of it has focused on just two questions: Are pleasure and utility friendships really friendships? Is Aristotle ultimately an egoist? These are important questions, and like everyone else I shall advance my own answers to them. However, the commentators’ preoccupation with these two issues has left much of Aristotle’s account of friendship relatively overlooked. I shall begin to remedy this neglect by describing Aristotle’s surprisingly large taxonomy of friendships. All commentators agree that Aristotle classifies friendships according to goal (nobility, utility, pleasure) and according to decision-maker (one person, several people, everyone). I shall show that in addition, Aristotle’s distinction between equal and unequal friendships is not just a partial repeat of the decision-making distinction, but is instead a third independent parameter of classification. In some friendships, the members contribute equally to the common good; in other friendships, the members contribute unequally. I shall also explain that Aristotle deploys two criteria for evaluation of friendships. Friendships should be both aimed at the common good and arranged so that the contribution and benefits of each friend are proportional. The further a friendship is from meeting either of these conditions, the worse it is. Aristotle is typically thought to focus on the ideal or best example of whatever he examines, and to use this exemplar as a guide to the field of study and as a target at which to aim. There is a sense in which this is clearly right. But the extent to which Aristotle describes and classifies the failure modes or imperfect versions of things throughout the NE is striking. These failure modes often substantially illuminate the field of study, too. So it will turn out with friendship. Aristotle speaks often of “perfect friendships” (1156b7–8; 1157b7) or “friendship of good people” (1157a20). However, he also develops a detailed taxonomy of imperfect friendships. Aristotle’s discussions of imperfect versions of character and relationships are not merely academic. In order to improve a character or a friendship it is useful to know not only the direction of the

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improvement process (the ideal), but also the present character or friendship (the nature of the imperfect character or friendship). Aristotle defines friendship, or at least lists several essential characteristics of friendship, in the following passages: [A] To a friend we say we ought to wish what is good for his sake. But to those who thus wish good we ascribe only goodwill (eunoia), if the wish is not reciprocated; goodwill when it is reciprocal being friendship. Or must we add ‘when it is recognized’? . . . [H]ow could one call them friends when they do not know their mutual feelings? To be friends, then, they must be mutually recognized as bearing goodwill and wishing well to each other for one of the aforesaid reasons [nobility, pleasure, utility]. (1155b31–1156a5) Men think a friend is one who wishes and does what is good, or seems so, for the sake of his friend, or one who wishes his friend to exist and live, for his sake. . . . And others think a friend is one who lives with and has the same tastes as another, or one who grieves and rejoices with his friend. (1166a3–8; see also Rhet. 1380b33ff; Rhet. 1381b37; Rhet. 1385a18–19)

These definitions quite clearly stipulate that friends (a) are mutually aware of the fact that (b) they wish each other well (c) for each other’s sake. Friends (d) are glad of each other, and (e) try to do good things for each other. They share (f) tastes and values, (g) time and activities, and (h) joys and sorrows with each other. However, passages [A] are misleading or at least incomplete in several ways. Aristotle’s descriptions of the types of friendship constitute a useful addition and corrective.

Goals of friendship In the following sections I shall work through numerous distinctions in order to clarify Aristotle’s different parameters for the evaluation of friendships. I shall move from more familiar distinctions to less familiar ones, although some of what I have to say about familiar distinctions will be unfamiliar. Aristotle lists three broad types of goals or objects of choice, “the noble (kalon) the advantageous (sumpheron), and the pleasant (he¯du)” (1104b30–2). Alternatively, these are described as the “good (agathon), pleasant (he¯du), or useful (chre¯simon)” (1155b18–19). Since friendships aim at goals, they may be classified according to the goods that they take as goals. One cornerstone of Aristotle’s account of friendship is that friendships fall into three classes corresponding to these three sorts of goods (1156a7–8). This broad, three-way classification of friendships is only a first pass at listing the possible ends. Although he does not do so, Aristotle could go on to subdivide each of these three objects of choice in order to produce a more fine-grained set of goods, and thus a more fine-grained classification of friendships. Pleasure may be sensual or intellectual, for example, so some pleasure friendships aim at sensual pleasure while others aim at intellectual pleasure. Sensual pleasure friendship may be further divided into sexual liaisons, drinking buddies, and dinner clubs, depending upon whether the basis of the friendship is sex, drink, or food. Each of these may, in turn, be further and further partitioned. Furthermore, combinations are common.

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People participate in some friendships merely as a means to their various other goals. Thus, utility friendships may be subdivided according to the different sorts of goods that are merely instrumentally desirable. Friendships that aim at money are business partnerships; friendships that aim at power are political alliances; and so on. What Aristotle means by friendships that aim at “the noble” or “the good” is less clear. Aristotle means different things by these terms in different contexts. Here I take him to mean that the goal of these friendships is to engage in virtuous activities (activities of the sort that typically flows from virtues) along with people of good character, to share a good life with good people. Like other commentators, I take him to be referring to friendships in which friends value each other for their various virtues of character. So friendships aimed at the noble may be called character friendships. Now the class of character friendships is not immune from subdivision. If they are fully virtuous, then character friends may value each other for their whole characters. These are what Aristotle refers to as “perfect friendships.” But often people value each other for only certain aspects of their character. One friend may value another only for his or her courage, or sense of humor, or intellect, or temperance, for example (1167a18–20).1 Members of a book club may value each other for certain intellectual qualities while members of a skydiving club may value each other for a very different set of character traits. So the class of character friendships may be subdivided according to the activities aimed at and the traits valued. Types of friendship

Goods aimed at

Character friendship

The noble

Pleasure friendship

The pleasant

Utility friendship

The advantageous

The differences among these three types of friendship do not lie in their results, but in their goals. Character friends are pleasant and useful to each other. Pleasure and utility friends may perform virtuous activities with each other. The difference is that pleasure and utility friends are friends because they are pleasant or useful to each other, while character friends are pleasant and useful to each other because they are friends. Similarly, character friends are friends in order to share virtuous acts while pleasure and utility friends share virtuous acts only in order to gain pleasure and utility.

Decision-making within friendship Friendships can be divided along a different axis, too. Aristotle does not explicitly state this second principle of division; instead he expresses it through two trios of paradigm examples. 1 J. Cooper, “Aristotle on Friendship.” In Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, ed. A. O. Rorty (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980) 306–8.

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Since Aristotle considers polis membership to be a sort of extended friendship called civic friendship (philia te politeia), he can use different sorts of states to illustrate three decision-making2 arrangements within friendships. Like the goal (hupothesis) of the state, the decision-making arrangement within a state is set out in its constitution. Decision-making, says Aristotle, is shared equally in a Polity, done by one party in Monarchy, and allocated to different groups according to their different sorts and levels of expertise in an Aristocracy.3 Aristotle also illustrates these three decision-making arrangements by using stereotypical relationships within the household.4 Children (presumably young children) should share decision-making equally when they have decisions to make among themselves, and parents should make all of the decisions within Parent/Children relationships, he says (1160b22ff ). Is he just echoing his society’s standard practices, or does Aristotle have a justification for these claims? When Aristotle gets to the third sort of friendship within the household, he reveals his reasoning. Aristotle offers the following explanation of the appropriate decision-making arrangement within marriages. [B] The association of man and wife seems to be aristocratic; for the man rules in accordance with merit, and in those matters in which a man should rule, but the matters that befit a woman he hands over to her. If the man rules in everything the relation passes over into oligarchy; for he does this contrary to merit and not qua better. (1160b32–1161a1)

Aristotle’s view is that wives have some non-trivial expertise to contribute to the family. Father does not always know best. Indeed, Aristotle builds his account of the natural origins of the family upon this fact. He says, [C] The functions . . . of man and woman are different; so they help each other by throwing their peculiar gifts into the common stock. (1162a22–24; see also 1160b22ff )

Since women have “peculiar gifts” to contribute to the marriage, Aristotle can claim in passage [B] that husbands and wives should each make decisions with respect to their respective areas of expertise.5 Extrapolating this line of thought to the other two familial

2 When speaking of states, Aristotle uses the term, “ruling.” In order to emphasize the continuity among all sorts of friendships including civic friendships, I shall use the more neutral term, “decision-making.” 3 Sometimes a polis is rife with strife among factions (e.g. between rich and poor) so that it might be more accurate to describe it as two or more friendships than to insist that it is one friendship just because it is nominally one polis. But I shall ignore this complication in what follows. 4 The fact that Aristotle uses the Greek word philia to refer to the various relationships among members of the state and family is one reason why the English word “friendship” is an imperfect translation of philia. 5 An interesting implication of these household analogies is that Aristotle is not so sexist as is usually thought. The Husband/Wife friendship must not be understood as merely a friendship in which the husband rules since Aristotle distinguishes it from the Parent/Children friendship. The fact that Aristotle distinguishes these two is an interesting and somewhat overlooked plus for Aristotle. These passages do not acquit Aristotle of the charge of advocating patriarchy, of course, for the wife’s area of expertise might turn out to be merely cooking and childcare. But it mitigates the charge a bit. In particular, when Aristotle says that the woman’s reason “lacks authority” (Politics 1260a13) he cannot mean that she should not participate in decision-making at all.


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friendships explains why children (of similar ages) should share decision-making equally among themselves. They are approximately equally competent. Similarly, parents (of young children) should make all of the decisions within Parent/Children relationships because parents are significantly more competent than children in every respect. In general, Aristotle’s view is that in all friendships, from nuclear, two-person, familial friendships to huge, civic friendships, decision-making is ideally allocated according to expertise. Each decision should be made by the person or persons best qualified to make that decision. Since expertise is distributed in different ways in different friendships, decision-making should also be differently distributed. Aristotle’s analogy between an Aristocracy and a Husband/Wife friendship supports this interpretation. An Aristocracy is not merely a state ruled by a subgroup. Instead, the essence of Aristocracy is that decisions within each sphere of human life are made by the subgroup within the Aristocracy that is most competent to make those decisions. Similarly, in a marriage, the husband and wife should each be in charge of their respective areas of expertise. Like the previous division of friendships into three categories, the three-way categorization of friendships according to whether decision-making is done exclusively by one of the parties, shared equally, or allocated to different people with different expertise is just a first pass. Aristotle deploys a more sophisticated, complex, and finegrained set of distinctions in Politics IV–VI. Naturally, friendships aimed at any of the three types of goals might be structured by any one of the three types of decision-making arrangements.6 The following chart illustrates the nine possible sorts of friendship described so far. Decisions shared equally One party decides all Decision-maker varies by sphere Polity

Monarchy

Aristocracy

Children/Children

Parent/Children

Husband/Wife

Character

1

2

3

Pleasure

4

5

6

Utility

7

8

9

The civic and household paradigms of friendships can deflect possible misimpressions created by Aristotle’s lists of essential characteristics of friendship. First, passages [A] speak of friends feeling and doing things toward and with each other. This may suggest that friendship is a bilateral relationship. But all of Aristotle’s paradigms of friendship except for the Husband/Wife friendship are multilateral.7 In the real world, too, some friendships—perhaps most friendships—are groups of several people rather 6 7

Civic friendships, themselves, are always utility friendships (EE 1242a6–7; 1242b31–2; 1243b4). Aristotle speaks of the relationships of master and slaves (plural) and father and sons (plural).

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than pairs of people. The fact that Aristotle thinks of friendships as multilateral may explain why Aristotle’s focus is on issues of decision-making rather than on issues of intimacy. For the structure of decision-making is more of an issue, and intimacy is less of an option, among a group of friends than between a pair of friends.8 Second, passages [A] suggest that friends seek to benefit each other. But Aristotle’s paradigms of friendship (especially the civic friendships) show that friends should aim at their common good. There is a big difference between aiming at the good of all of one’s friends and aiming at the common good. The common good includes the good of the agent. Suppose that Archibald has two friends. If Archibald aims at the common good, then he aims at the good of three people, but if Archibald seeks the good of the others, then he aims at the good of only two people. Since the common good includes the good of the agent, friendships are not intrinsically self-sacrificing.9 Third, passages [A] may incline readers to think of nobility, pleasure, utility as the motives that individual people have for forming and maintaining friendships. This leaves open the possibility that friends might benefit in completely different ways from the same friendship. For example, one might conclude that the relationship of businessman to customer is a utility friendship.10 As Aristotle’s paradigms of friendship show, however, Aristotle views friendships as relationships of mutual cooperation created for the sake of gaining and maintaining a common goal. Aristotle says, [D] Now all forms of community are like parts of the political community; for men journey together with a view to some particular advantage . . . Now the other communities aim at some particular advantage, e.g. sailors at what is advantageous on a voyage with a view to making money or something of the kind, fellow-soldiers at what is advantageous in war, whether it is wealth or victory or the taking of a city that they seek, and members of tribes and demes act similarly. Some communities seem to arise for the sake of pleasure, viz. religious guilds and social clubs; for these exist respectively for the sake of offering sacrifice and of companionship . . . the particular kinds of friendship will correspond to the particular kinds of community. (1160a8–30)

In each of the friendships mentioned in passage [D] the friends share a common goal. Friends need not share all of their goals, of course. Each party may want to gain a somewhat different set of things from a relationship. So long as there is something that all of the parties seek to achieve, the relationship has a common goal. At least one item must appear on everyone’s wish list. Since businessmen and customers lack a common goal, their relationship is not a friendship. If Casper wants good food, for example,

8 For a somewhat different view of why intimacy is not a significant aspect of Aristotelian friendship, see D. O’Connor, “Two Ideals of Friendship,” History of Philosophy Quarterly 7 (1990): 109–22. 9 This does not simply resolve the egoism question in IX.8. There still remains the question of whether friends are occasionally self-sacrificing, and the extent to which friends are unselfishly motivated. See below. 10 Aristotle seems to suggest this at 1163a32–5. However, in this passage the weaver and the shoemaker, etc., are in a civic friendship. Theirs is the friendship of the polis: it is not the businessman–customer relationship.


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while Bella, owner of Casper’s favorite restaurant, wants money, they may help each other, but that does not make them friends.11 Conflating common goal and common good can lead to confusions. Cooperative relationships such as the relationship between Casper and Bella lack a common goal, but Casper and Bella may aim at the common good. The conflation suggests that such relationships are flawed friendships, but Aristotle sees nothing wrong with them. They are not flawed friendships: they are simply not friendships.12

Deviant friendships Not content with describing good friendships, Aristotle goes on to describe flawed friendships as well. He observes that decision-makers may strive either (a) for the common good, or (b) for the good of the decision-makers, themselves, at the expense of the common good when they conflict. I shall call the former wholesome friendships; Aristotle calls the latter deviant (parekbasis) friendships. [E] The deviation from monarchy is tyranny; for both are forms of one-man rule, but there is the greatest difference between them; the tyrant looks to his own advantage, the king to that of his subjects . . . [Similarly,] Aristocracy passes over into oligarchy by the badness of the rulers, who distribute contrary to merit what belongs to the city – all or most of the good things to themselves . . . Polity passes over into democracy. (1160a36–b17; see also 1279a17–20; EE 1241b27–32)

Deviant sphere-by-sphere friendships are modeled by Oligarchies and Patriarchal households. Deviant versions of one-party-decides-all friendships are modeled by Tyrannies or Master/Slave relationships. In these friendships, the decision-makers seek their own good, exploiting the rest of the friends if necessary.13 Deviant versions of decisionsshared-equally friendships are Democracies or Masterless households. Decisions-sharedequally friendships deviate differently than the other two sorts of friendships. In deviant, decisions-shared-equally friendships the friends act selfishly, but individualistically. Rather than using the machinery of the household or state to advance their own interests, the friends ignore that machinery. No one makes decisions for the group because everyone is too busy looking out for himself or herself (1161a6–9). Neglect rather than exploitation is the problem. Common resources are ignored rather than abused.14

11

Commentators need not struggle to explain how businessmen and customers are mutually wellwishing. See Cooper, “Friendship,” 314; Bostock 168–9. 12 I shall argue below that friends must share a common good as well as a common goal. Thus deviant friendships will also turn out to be non-friendships. 13 Tyrannies may benefit the ruled, so not all tyrannies are exploitive. Indeed, Aristotle maintains that natural slaves benefit from their slavery (1254b19–20; 1255b6–7; 1255b12–14). Tyrannies are deviant friendships, however, because the rulers do not aim at the common good. The ruled benefit only incidentally. 14 Some friendships may be governed by decision-makers who aim neither for the common good nor for their own advantage, but rather for some other goal. For example, decision-makers might aim at the good of some other party or parties within the friendship, or some principle that benefits no one. Following Aristotle, I shall ignore such friendships here.

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Since utility and pleasure friends are self-interested, one might wonder if wholesome versions of such friendships are possible. They are. Although utility and pleasure friends use the friendships to forward their own interests, in the wholesome versions of utility and pleasure friendships decision-makers forward their own interests by forwarding the common good. By contrast, in the deviant versions of utility and pleasure friendships, the decision-makers sometimes forward their own interests in ways that detract from the common good.15 Since character friends are committed to working for the good of their friends, one might wonder if deviant versions of such friendships are possible. They are. Character friends value each other by valuing each other’s character traits. But although Aristotle does not mention it, character friends may value themselves more than they value each other. In deviant versions of character friendships they make decisions that benefit themselves at the expense of the common good. In summary, each of the nine types of friendship listed earlier has both a wholesome, benign, cooperative, mutually respectful version in which the decision-makers aim for the common good, and also a deviant, malignant, selfish, exploitive (or negligent) version in which the decision-makers aim at their own interests even to the detriment of the others in the friendship. This possibility of deviation doubles the number of different types of friendship.

Wholesome decision-making Aiming for the common good

Deviant decision-making Aiming for self-interest Decisions shared equally

One party decides all

Decisionmaker varies by sphere

Decisions shared equally

One party Decisiondecides all maker varies by sphere

Polity

Monarchy Aristocracy Democracy Tyranny Oligarchy

Children/ Children

Parent/ Children

Husband/ Wife

Masterless Household

Master/ Slave

Character

1

2

3

10

11

12

Pleasure

4

5

6

13

14

15

Utility

7

8

9

16

17

18

Patriarchal Household

Equal and unequal friendships So much is more-or-less uncontroversial. But is Aristotle satisfied with a mere eighteen pigeonholes? Oh no! Aristotle turns from a remark about equality in friendships to the following statement: 15 I shall take up the deeper question of whether pleasure and utility friendships are actually friendships below.


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[F] But there is another kind of friendship, viz. that which involves an inequality e.g. that of father to son and in general of elder to younger, that of man to wife and in general that of ruler to subject. (1158b11–14; see EE 1242b1ff.)

Here Aristotle is saying that each of the eighteen types of friendship may be equal or non-equal. Aristotle is introducing a new parameter. It might seem at first glance that the categories of equal and unequal are not really new categories. After all, Aristotle’s choice of examples in passage [F] seems to indicate that equal friendships are those in which the decision-making is shared equally, and unequal friendships are those in which the decision-making is shared unequally.16 But a closer look shows that this way of understanding the distinction between equal and unequal friendships conflates two very different notions. Aristotle is admittedly not perfectly clear or consistent about keeping these distinctions separate, but at least some of the time, rather than describing equal and unequal friendships in terms of how decision-making is distributed, Aristotle defines equal friendships as those in which all of the friends contribute to the relationship equally. Unequal friendships are those in which some friends contribute substantially more than others. Consider the following passage: [G] For not only can equally good men become friends but a better man can make friends with a worse, and similarly in friendships of pleasure or utility the friends may be equal or unequal in the benefits they confer. (1162a36–b2, emphasis mine)

Here Aristotle says that friendships aimed at each of the three general sorts of goals (pleasure, utility, nobility) might exist between people who contribute equally or unequally. But he defines equality and inequality in terms of the “benefits they confer” (i.e. contributions to the friendship), rather than in terms of who makes the decisions. Equal friendships are those in which the friends make equal contributions to the friendship. Unequal friendships are those in which the friends make unequal contributions to the friendship. Thus, by distinguishing between equal and unequal friendships Aristotle is deploying a new distinction, a third parameter alongside the parameters of goal and decision-maker. Aristotle may be forgiven for not reliably separating (a) the parameter of equal and unequal distribution of decision-making within the friendship, and (b) the parameter of equal and unequal distribution of contribution to the friendship. These two parameters are easily conflated for several reasons. First, good decision-making is, itself, a contribution to the friendships. If we focus exclusively upon decision-making as a contribution,17 then the friendships in which decision-making is equally shared will turn out to be equal friendships in terms of contribution. Similarly, friendships in which decision-making is not equally shared will turn out to be unequal friendships in terms of contribution.

16

Bostock 170. Managers and administrators sometimes think of their organizations in this way. “Of course I deserve a much higher salary than the workers; I do all of the important stuff around here; the workers just follow my orders.” 17

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But of course decision-making is not the only way to contribute to a friendship. Many people contribute in other ways. A friendship in which one friend makes all of the decisions and another friend contributes an equivalent amount of other goods would be an equal, monarchic friendship. Labor and management might contribute equally to a company, for example. Similarly, friendships in which all of the decisions are equally shared, but the contributions are unequal are also common. Two good buddies, one rich the other poor, might pool their unequal resources and share decisions equally, for example. Finally, in some friendships, decision-making and contribution are both unequal, but disproportional. For example, in some traditional families the wife contributes much more toward the shared goal of the family, yet the husband makes the bulk of the significant decisions. In friendships ranging in size from pairs to families to clubs to countries, the contributions and decision-making do not necessarily (or even typically) line up. A second reason why the decision-making and contribution parameters are easily conflated is this. People being what they are, many people who contribute more to a friendship than others demand the lion’s share of the decision-making as a benefit. Some parents, for example, say to their children, “As long as we are supporting you, you must follow our rules.” Indeed, perhaps Aristotle uses the examples that he does in passage [F] because inequality of decision-making and inequality of contribution to the friendship are typically conjoined even in wholesome friendships. But of course decision-making is not the only way to benefit from a friendship. Many people benefit in other ways. For example, a partner in a company might contribute enough start-up capital to balance the other partners’ decision-making contributions, yet prefer to be a silent partner and take his or her benefits in cash. Such a friendship would be an equal, monarchic or aristocratic friendship. Perhaps the most important reason for conflating the decision-making and contribution parameters is this. Decision-makers who make more decisions than they should, often do so in order to get away with making less of a contribution than they should. They exploit the other friends. Inequality of decision-making and inequality of contribution are typically conjoined in deviant friendships. But of course some decision-hogs are not exploiters. Well-meaning friends sometimes make more decisions than they are qualified to make because they are overconfident, for example. They go wrong with respect to the parameter of decision-making, but not the parameter of contribution. They grab a large share of the decision-making, but contribute an equal share of goods to the friendship. Anyway, the parameter of distribution of decision-making within friendships and the parameter of distribution of contributions to friendships are certainly separate in real life. We are all familiar with friendships in which the friends contribute equally, yet do not share equally in decision-making. Some of these are wholesome; others are deviant. Similarly, for friendships in which the friends contribute unequally. Adding to the previous chart the parameters of equal and unequal contributions yields thirty-six types of friendship.


Deviant decision-making Aiming for self-interest Decisions shared equally


Aristocracy

Democracy

Tyranny

Oligarchy

Husband/ Wife


Master/ Slave




Decision-maker varies by sphere

Polity

Monarchy

Children/ Children

Parent/ Children


Character

1

2

3

10

11

12

Equal

Pleasure

4

5

6

13

14

15

Equal

Utility

7

8

9

16

17

18

Unequal

Character

19

20

21

22

23

24

Unequal

Pleasure

25

26

27

28

29

30

Unequal

Utility

31

32

33

34

35

36

Equal

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Equalizing friendships One might think that equal friendships automatically satisfy the requirements of justice, and that unequal friendships automatically fail to satisfy these requirements. However, both of these claims turn out to be false. Aristotle thinks that unequal friendships (i.e. friendships where some friends contribute more than others) can be just.18 The unequal contributions may be compensated for. “It is in this way more than any other that unequals can be friends; they can be equalized” (1159b1–2). Equalizing makes unequal friendships possible. But what is equalizing? Equalizing does not require the lesser contributors to kick in more, so as to match the greater contributors or vice versa. It does not mean insuring that the friends contribute the same amount. Aristotle’s view is not that people who make unequal contributions to the friendship cannot remain friends. He says that in unequal friendships, “each party neither gets the same from the other, nor ought to seek it” (1158b20–1). Aristotle’s assumption that friends need not always provide equal benefits to each other shows that “equalizing” does not mean insuring that each friend gives what the others give. Instead, equalizing means insuring that the benefits a person receives from the friendship are proportionate to his or her contributions to the friendship. Talking of the best sort of friendship Aristotle says, [H] This kind of friendship, then is complete both in respect of duration and in all other respects, and in it each gets from each in all respects the same as, or something like what he gives; which is what ought to happen between friends. (1156b33–5)

Notice that passage [H] does not say that each friend should get what the other friends get. Instead, “Each gets . . . what he gives,” so the more one gives the more one is entitled to get (other things being equal). Justice consists in proportional equality. Aristotle gives the following examples. [I] In all friendships between dissimilars it is, as we have said, proportion that equalizes the parties and preserves the friendship; e.g. in the political form of friendship the shoemaker gets a return for his shoes in proportion to his worth, and the weaver and the rest do the same. (1163b29–35) In the case also in which the distribution is made from common funds [of a partnership] it will be according to the same ratio which the funds put into the business [by the partners] bear to one another. (1131b29–31)

So if the shoemaker contributes lots and receives lots while the weaver contributes little and receives little, and so on for the other friends, then the friendship is just. Justice concerns the relationship between what each friend contributes to the friendship, and what that friend receives from the friendship. Friends are to receive benefits from their friendship in the same proportion that they make contributions to their friendship. To each according to his or her “from each”! More precisely, the ratio of a person’s

18 Here and throughout I shall be concerned primarily with distributive justice rather than corrective justice or justice in exchange.


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contribution to the total contribution of all of the friends, should be equal to the ratio of that person’s benefit to the total benefits of all of the friends. Shoemaker’s contributions = Shoemaker’s benefits Total contributions Total benefits

Similarly for the weaver, and for everyone else. Or equivalently: Shoemaker’s contributions = Weaver’s contributions Shoemaker’s benefits Weaver’s benefits

Equalizing is adjusting the distribution of benefits so that each person’s share of the benefits matches his or her share of the overall contributions. Although it sounds odd, unequal friendships remain unequal after they are equalized. In this context “equal” and “unequal” refer to the comparison of the contributions of the friends, while “equalized” and “unequalized” refer to the match between each person’s own contribution and benefits. Aristotle’s suggestion about equalizing friendships provides a mechanism for making unequal friendships just, not for transforming unequal friendships into equal friendships. What if a friendship simply cannot be equalized? What if a person can contribute so little that his or her share of the benefits cannot be small enough to match his or her contribution? Unfortunately, at two points Aristotle says that friendships are equalized by low contributors adding extra love or affection (phile¯sis) (1158b23–8; 1162b2–4). Some commentators have attributed this view to Aristotle.19 But this is surely an ancient typo. Those who stand to benefit far out of proportion to their contribution cannot reasonably be required to love everyone greatly who contributes a great deal. The principle of charity urges us not to attribute such a repugnant view to Aristotle if we can avoid it. Moreover, these passages are merely asides. When Aristotle turns his full attention to the question of how to substitute for equalization, he takes the fudge factor to be honor rather than love. When one friend cannot contribute enough utility or pleasure or virtuous activity to equalize the friendship, then he or she must add honor to narrow the difference: [ J] This then is also the way in which we should associate with unequals; the man who is benefited in respect of wealth or virtue must give honor in return, repaying what he can. For friendship asks a man to do what he can, not what is proportional to the merits of the case; since that cannot always be done, e.g. in honors paid to the gods or to parents; for no one could ever return to them the equivalent of what he gets. (1163b12–17; see 1163a24–b14; EE 1242b16–19)

Some unequal friendships are not appropriately equalized. In these friendships, some contributors gain a larger percentage of benefits than they contribute; others gain a smaller percentage. These friendships are unjust. The last part of passage [ J], for example, indicates that Parent/Children friendships are inevitably unjust. Thus (rather awkwardly) we have equalized unequal friendships and unequalized unequal friendships. 19

Bostock 170; Joachim 243.

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Aristotle does not mention another obvious pair of possibilities. Friends who contribute equally to a friendship might receive either equal or unequal benefits. If they receive equal benefits, then of course the friendship is just. We might call it an equalized equal friendship. On the other hand, if the friends contribute equally, but receive unequal benefits, then the friendship will be unjust, though equal. We might call such relationships unequalized equal friendships (not to be confused with equalized unequal friendships). To recapitulate a bit, Aristotle’s taxonomy of friendship incorporates two failure modes. Some friendships are unequalized or unjust. The contributions and benefits of the friends are disproportional. Some friendships are deviant or (as we might say) uncaring. The decision-makers forward their own interests rather than the common good. Many friendships are both uncaring and unjust, but some friendships are uncaring, just friendships and others are caring, unjust friendships. Aristotle implicitly recognizes such friendships. Presumably, some Parent/Children friendships are caring, but passage [I] implies that all Parent/Children friendships are unjust. So some Parent/ Children friendships are caring, unjust friendships. Conversely, in passage [B] Aristotle mentions marriages in which the husband makes all decisions rather than only those that fall within his spheres of expertise. Aristotle says that such marriages are deviant: the husband seeks his own good rather than the common good. In some of these marriages, it may behoove the husband to distribute benefits in accord with contributions. Justice may be required by the laws or by the in-laws, for example. Such a marriage would be an uncaring, just friendship. Thus, we now have seventy-two different sorts of friendships.

Transition Alas, even seventy-two pigeon holes are insufficient for Aristotle. Some friendships are mixtures. The parties in a friendship may be aiming at a compound goal. In many friendships, for example, the friends aim at both pleasure and utility.20 Friendships may be mixed in other ways. The parties in a friendship may be fundamentally confused or deceived about the goal (1164a2ff ). For example, Ethel thinks that her relationship with Dwayne is a character friendship: she thinks that she is loved for her self. Dwayne, however, thinks that it is a pleasure friendship: he is really just in it for the sex. Overall, to say that Aristotle recognizes many different sorts of friendships is a significant understatement. Aristotle’s account of friendship is sometimes read as a description of an ideal sort of friendship. Alongside that description, however, is a relatively neglected taxonomy of imperfect versions of friendship. This taxonomy provides many of Aristotle’s interesting insights about friendship. The myriad distinctions and 20 Mixed friendships are parallel to mixed constitutions. See F. Miller, Nature, Justice, and Rights in Aristotle’s Politics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995) 164–5.


Deviant decision-making Aiming for self-interest






Decisionmaker varies by sphere

Polity

Monarchy

Aristocracy

Democracy

Tyranny

Oligarchy

Children/ Children

Parent/ Children

Husband/ Wife


Master/ Slave


Equalized

Equal

Character

1

2

3

10

11

12

Equalized

Equal

Pleasure

4

5

6

13

14

15

Equalized

Equal

Utility

7

8

9

16

17

18

Equalized

Unequal

Character

19

20

21

22

23

24

Equalized

Unequal

Pleasure

25

26

27

28

29

30

Equalized

Unequal

Utility

31

32

33

34

35

36

Unequalized

Equal

Character

37

38

39

40

41

42

Unequalized

Equal

Pleasure

43

44

45

46

47

48

Unequalized

Equal

Utility

49

50

51

52

53

54

Unequalized

Unequal

Character

55

56

57

58

59

60

Unequalized

Unequal

Pleasure

61

62

63

64

65

66

Unequalized

Unequal

Utility

67

68

69

70

71

72

262


pigeonholes are useful, too. To improve a character (one’s self, one’s child, one’s friend, one’s student, etc.), one must know not only the ideal character, but also the way in which the non-ideal character falls short. Otherwise, one will end up fixing what is not broken while ignoring real defects. Similarly, to improve a relationship one must identify its imperfections. Thus, it is important to be able to classify relationships by flaw. However, there is some doubt about whether the imperfect versions or even the best version of friendship are actually friendships at all! Aristotle’s formal definition of friendship in passage [A] requires that friends wish their friends well (and act on that wish) for the sake of the friends. But neither pleasure friendships, nor utility friendships, nor deviant character friendships, nor even wholesome character friendships seem to meet this high standard. In the following sections, I shall try to determine which of the seventy-two forms of friendship actually conform to Aristotle’s formal definition of friendship. In the process, I shall clarify what Aristotle means by “wishing someone well for his or her sake.”

Are pleasure and utility friendships really friendships? A much-discussed interpretive problem arises from two sets of seemingly conflicting passages. On the one hand, Aristotle’s formal definition of friendship in passages [A] says that friends wish each other well for each other’s sake. Aristotle also indicates that there are three sorts of friendship: character, pleasure, and utility. It seems to follow that each of these three sorts of friends wish each other well for each other’s sake. A few sentences later, however, Aristotle says that only character friends, not pleasure or utility friends, engage in mutual, unselfish well-wishing: [K] Those who love each other for utility do not love each other for themselves but in virtue of some good which they get from each other. So too with those who love for the sake of pleasure . . . And thus these friendships are only incidental (kata sumbebekos); for it is not as being the man he is that the loved person is loved, but as providing some good or pleasure. (1156a11–16; see also 1158b4; 1164a10–12; 1165b3–4; 1167a13–18; EE 1237b31–4; EE 1241a4–10)

Do pleasure friendships and utility friendships meet Aristotle’s definition of friendship, or is each pleasure or utility friend concerned solely with his or her own good? That is, do pleasure or utility friends wish each other well merely as a means to something else? Or do they actually wish each other well for the sake of the other? And what does Aristotle mean by saying that character friends love each other for themselves, but pleasure and utility friends love each other only incidentally? Cooper’s Interpretation Cooper tries valiantly to enable pleasure and utility friendships to meet Aristotle’s definition of friendship. He attributes to Aristotle the following controversial claim about human nature. People who gain pleasure or utility from others tend to promote


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the happiness of these other people unselfishly in various ways—maybe even in large ways—although not in ways that would compromise their own pleasure or utility. Suppose that Fenton is a member of a pleasure friendship devoted to tennis and a utility friendship aimed at making money. According to Cooper, Fenton does tend to wish his tennis and business partners well for their sake, but only insofar as their prosperity does not compromise his pleasure and utility. These, after all, are Fenton’s reason for joining and remaining in the tennis and business partnerships. So pleasure and utility are limiting conditions on what pleasure and utility friends wish for their friends, but within those boundary constraints, pleasure and utility friendships involve mutual unselfish well-wishing. According to Cooper, what Aristotle means by saying that character friends “love each other for themselves,” but pleasure and utility friendships “are only incidental” is this. While character friends appreciate each other for virtuous traits of character, pleasure and utility friends appreciate each other because of the purely contingent factors that make them pleasant and useful to each other. The virtues are linked to human nature, so they are essential traits, but pleasure and utility-producing traits are unrelated to human nature, so they are incidental traits. Thus, character friends love each other for what is essential, while pleasure and utility friends love each other for what is incidental.21 Cooper’s solution has several drawbacks. Cooper takes Aristotle to be saying that people who gain pleasure or utility from others wish each other well for the sake of the other, and that this well-wishing is limited by boundary conditions. However, Aristotle does not say that pleasure and utility friends tend to wish each other well for each other’s sake. Nor does Aristotle say anything about boundary conditions. Moreover, passage [K] says quite clearly that pleasure and utility friends do not love each other for themselves. So Cooper’s position is that Fenton wants to benefit his partners for their sake, but not because of their characters. Though this pair of claims is not a contradiction, it requires a pretty fine distinction. Second, in the real world pleasure and utility friends often do not even wish each other well. Fenton might have some warm feelings for his tennis partners and his business partners, but then again he might not. He might merely tolerate them only because he gains lots of exercise and money from them. Cooper’s claim that pleasure and utility friends come to wish each other well has numerous counterexamples. Thus, Cooper’s solution is an uncharitable interpretation of passage [K]. Of course, pleasure and utility friends do sometimes come to wish each other well unselfishly, and this lends plausibility to Cooper’s claim. But rather than calling these pleasure and utility Cooper, “Friendship,” 301–17. See also Konstan 179. Nehamas also takes Aristotle to be saying that character friends appreciate each other for their virtues, and then criticizes Aristotle because a person can be befriended because of non-virtuous traits. I think that Aristotle realizes that a person’s self, and thus the range of traits upon which a character friendship may be based, includes his or her whole character rather than merely his or her virtues. See A. Nehamas, “Aristotelian Philia, Modern Friendship,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 39 (2010): 225–6, 242–3. 21

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friendships in which the friends wish each other well for their own sakes, it seems more straightforward to say that these start out as pleasure and utility friendships and evolve into character friendships. A friendship in which the friends wish each other well unselfishly, but with boundary conditions is better described as a deviant character friendship, rather than a pleasure and utility friendship.22 Third, virtues are often the basis for a person’s ability to provide pleasure and/or utility. For example, Fenton may value his tennis partner and business partner for their good temper and liberality, respectively. When friends please each other and are useful because of their virtues, Cooper’s claim that pleasure and utility friends value each other for character traits other than virtues turns out to be false. Fourth, Cooper’s claim that virtues are essential (i.e. linked to human nature), while the character traits that provide pleasure and/or utility are incidental, violates the Aristotelian doctrine that we are neither good nor bad by nature (1103a19–20). The presence of virtues distinguishes good people from bad people; it does not distinguish humans from non-humans. Fifth, pleasure and utility friendships not only lack mutual unselfish well-wishing, they do not meet the other criteria of friendship, either. Passages [A] require that friends share tastes, activities, etc., but pleasure and utility friends do not necessarily share these things. So even if Cooper successfully demonstrates that pleasure and utility friends wish each other well for each other’s sake, he will not yet have shown that their relationships are friendships. Cooper’s defense of pleasure and utility friendships is incomplete. Sixth, Aristotle begins his discussion of friendship in VIII.1 by praising friendship extraordinarily highly, and in IX.9, near the end of his discussion of friendship, Aristotle explains why a good person needs friends. This makes sense if friendship is restricted to character friendship, but not if it includes pleasure and utility friendships. “No man would choose to live without character friends” is a reasonable claim. “No man would choose to live without pleasure and utility friends” is ridiculous. Indeed, Aristotle says that the good person does not need pleasure and utility friends (1169b22–7). One may get all of the pleasure and utility that one needs from one’s character friendships.23 My interpretation On my interpretation, Fenton does wish his tennis and business partners to prosper, but only insofar as their prosperity will enhance his own pursuit of pleasure and money. Fenton’s desire for pleasure and money is not merely a boundary constraint on his wishing his partners well; it is the sole motive for his well-wishing. In general, pleasure 22

See below. For additional critiques of Cooper’s interpretation, see K. Alpern, “Aristotle on the Friendships of Utility and Pleasure,” Journal of the History of Philosophy (1983): 303–15; T. Brewer, “Virtues We Can Share: Friendship and Aristotelian Ethical Theory,” Ethics 115 (2005): 730–1; A. Payne, “Character and the Forms of Friendship in Aristotle,” Apeiron 33 (2000): 53–74. For a defense of some of Cooper’s conclusions, see J. Whiting, “The Nicomachean Account of Philia.” In Blackwell’s Guide to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, ed. R. Kraut (Malden: Blackwell, 2006) 281–7. 23


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and utility friends wish their friends well only instrumentally as means to the acquisition of pleasure or utility.24 What Aristotle means by the claim that character friends “love each other for themselves” is that they appreciate each other for who they are, their identities, their selves. Each wishes the others well because each likes the others.25 Now as I said above, each friend does not necessarily appreciate everything about the others: this happens only in perfect friendships. But each friend appreciates the others because of some of their character traits. They help each other because they like each other. By contrast, pleasure and utility friends “do not love each other for themselves,” as Aristotle says in passage [K]. That is, they do not like each other, but rather each values as mere means those things about the others that advance his or her own interests. Thus, pleasure and utility friendships “are only incidental.” Aristotle is distinguishing two sorts of cases. Suppose that Grover values Hilda’s gregariousness and generosity because he gains pleasure and money from these character traits, while on the other hand Ichabod values Hilda for her gregariousness and generosity. Assuming that these friendships are mutual, the former is a friendship of pleasure or utility; the latter a friendship of character. By distinguishing between character friendship and the other two sorts of friendship Aristotle is attempting to separate cooperation stemming from people liking each other from other sorts of relationships of mutual cooperation. On my interpretation, pleasure and utility friendships do not meet Aristotle’s definition of friendship, so they are not friendships.26 They resemble friendships in certain ways, but Aristotle is speaking loosely when he calls them friendships. Friendships are relationships in which people like each other (or they experience liking’s higher-voltage cousin, love; 1158a12; 1171a11–12). Thus for Aristotle, “philia” is not so far from the sort of relationship covered by the contemporary term “friendship.” My interpretation has the advantages that Cooper’s interpretation lacks. I read passage [K] straightforwardly. I do not violate the principle of charity by attributing to Aristotle a false thesis. Nor does my interpretation cause passage [K] to conflict with important Aristotelian doctrines. Finally, my interpretation is supported by the fact that when Aristotle, himself, directly addresses the question of whether pleasure and utility friendships meet the definition of friendship, he says, [L] Those who are friends for the sake of utility part when the advantage is at an end; for they were lovers not of each other but of profit. . . . Men apply the name of friends even to those whose motive is utility . . . and to those who love each other for the sake of pleasure . . . Therefore

24

Bostock 169. T. Irwin, “Notes,” Nicomachean Ethics 2nd ed., trans. T. Irwin (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1999) 275–6. 26 Pakaluk suggests that Aristotle’s definition of friendship is schematic rather than strict. So pleasure and utility friendships are friendships despite not meeting the definition. See M. Pakaluk, “Commentary,” Aristotle: Nicomachean Ethics Books VIII and IX, trans. M. Pakaluk (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998): 61–3. 25

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we too ought to call such people friends, and say that there are several kinds of friendship— first and in the proper sense that of good men qua good, and by similarity the other kinds . . . [Character friends] are friends without qualification; the others are friends incidentally and through a resemblance to these. (1157a14–b5; see also 1156b33; 1158b5–11)

Here Aristotle acknowledges that pleasure and utility friendships do not meet the definition of friendship, but urges that we call them friendships anyway in order to conform to common usage and because they resemble (proper) friendships. Similarly, in the Eudemian Ethics Aristotle says, [M] All the senses [of friendship] are related to one which is the primary, just as is the case with the word “medical,” and just as we speak of a medical soul, body, instrument, or act, but properly the name belongs to that primarily so called. . . . [Some people] are not able to do justice to all the phenomena of friendship, for since one definition will not suit all, they think there are no other friendships; but the others are friendships, only not similarly so. But they . . . deny the other friendships even are friendships; whereas there are many species of friendship. . . . We have distinguished the three senses of friendship—one due to virtue, another to usefulness, a third to pleasantness. (EE 1236a18–32; see also EE 1236b17–27)

In both passages [L] and [M], Aristotle’s view is that character friendship is (approximately) the focal meaning of “friendship,” while utility and pleasure friendships are peripheral.27 Because they are closely related to character friendships, utility and pleasure friendships may also be called “friendships” so long as we remember that we are using the word “friendship” in a different and derivative way. Again, when Aristotle addresses the question of whether pleasure and utility friendships involve mutual goodwill in passage [K] and in the following passage, he explicitly says, “no.” [N] When [goodwill] is prolonged and reaches the point of intimacy it becomes friendship—not the friendship based on utility nor that based on pleasure; for goodwill does not arise on those terms . . . He who wishes someone to prosper because he hopes for enrichment through him seems to have goodwill not to him but rather to himself, just as a man is not a friend to another if he cherishes him for the sake of some use to be made of him. (1167a11–18)

To summarize, Cooper attributes to Aristotle the view that we tend to like and help those with whom we cooperate. The difference between character friendships, on the one hand, and pleasure and utility friendships, on the other, is that character friends like each other for their virtues and help each other without self-interested boundary

27 This relationship may not fit the precise criteria of a focal meaning relationship. The important thing is that there are several senses of the word, “friendship,” a central sense and several related senses. For detailed discussions of friendship and focal meaning, see J. Annas, “Plato and Aristotle on Friendship and Altruism,” Mind 86 (1977): 547–50; W. Fortenbaugh, “Aristotle’s Analysis of Friendship: Function and Analogy, Resemblance and Focal Meaning,” Phronesis 20 (1975): 51–62; A. W. Price, Love and Friendship in Plato and Aristotle (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989) 138–48; A. Walker, “Aristotle’s Account of Friendship in the Nicomachean Ethics,” Phronesis 24 (1979): 180–96.


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constraints, while pleasure and utility friends like each other for non-virtues and help each other only when doing so will not interfere with their own pleasure and utility. On my view, Aristotle’s distinction between character friendships, on the one hand, and utility and pleasure friendships, on the other, is his way of distinguishing between those with whom we merely cooperate because they are pleasant and useful, and those who we actually like and help because of who they are.

Are democratic, oligarchic, and tyrannical friendships really friendships? The question of whether pleasure and utility friendships are really friendships has received a fair amount of attention from commentators. But other sorts of friendships also seem to fail to meet the definition of friendship. Like pleasure and utility friendships, democratic, oligarchic, and tyrannical friendships do not seem to involve mutual unselfish well-wishing, even when they are deviations of character friendships, let alone when they are deviations of pleasure and utility friendships. In wholesome character friendships, decision-makers seek the common good for its own sake. By contrast, wholesome pleasure and utility friendships are not technically friendship, because in these relationships decision-makers seek the common good only in order to advance their own interests. Democratic, oligarchic, and tyrannical character friendships seem even further from qualifying as friendships because it seems that in these deviant relationships decision-makers do not seek the common good at all. They seek their own good, even when doing so thwarts the common good. On the other hand, Aristotle says that character friendships do involve mutual unselfish well-wishing, and this implies that the deviations involve mutual unselfish well-wishing when they are character friendships. Aristotle does not handle democratic, oligarchic, and tyrannical character friendships in the same way that he handles utility and pleasure friendships. He does not say that democratic, oligarchic, and tyrannical friendships are merely analogous to friendships. Rather Aristotle indicates that they are friendships, but to lesser degrees. [O] In the deviation-forms, as justice hardly exists, so too does friendship. It exists least in the worst form . . . Therefore while in tyrannies friendship and justice hardly exist, in democracies they exist more fully; for where the citizens are equal they have much in common. (1161a30–b10; see also 1159b33–4)

In passage [O] Aristotle’s focus is the claim that friendship and justice are constantly conjoined, a claim I shall discuss in the next chapter. Here I call attention to his claim that both friendship and justice exist just a bit in tyrannical friendships, somewhat more in oligarchic friendships, even more in democratic friendships, and most fully in wholesome friendships.28 Presumably, Aristotle believes that in all three of the 28 In passage [O] I take Aristotle to be speaking of deviant character friendships, for as I said above, utility and pleasure friendships do not involve unselfish concern for the common good.

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deviation forms of character friendship the decision-makers exhibit some selfless concern for the common good. Otherwise, they would not meet Aristotle’s definition of friendship. No matter how deviant a character friendship becomes, the friends engage in mutual, unselfish well-wishing. (When the friends no longer wish each other well for their own sakes, then the friendship has morphed into a utility or pleasure friendship.) But in deviant friendships this unselfish motive is, to different degrees, compromised by a selfish motive on the part of the decision-makers to seek their own good. A bad human and a good dog are both inferior to a good human. The bad human is a flawed version of a human being, while the good dog is good for its kind, although its kind is inferior to humankind. Similarly, democratic, oligarchic, and tyrannical character friendships are flawed versions of friendship, but wholesome pleasure and utility friendships are not flawed friendships. They are not friendships at all. Instead, they are good versions of relationships that are inferior to friendship, and are called “friendships” only to conform to common usage.

Are any friendships really friendships? So pleasure and utility friends are not friends, because they do not wish each other well for the other’s sake. And tyrannic, oligarchic, and democratic character friends wish each other well less than they should. But Aristotle’s endorsement of self-love ( philautia) threatens to derail even the thesis that wholesome character friends mutually wish each other well for the other’s sake. Character friends will do all sorts of nice things for each other, of course. Indeed, Aristotle waxes lyrical about the way in which friends sacrifice wealth, honor, and even life for each other. [P] It is true of the good man too that he does many acts for the sake of his friends and his country, and if necessary dies for them; for he will throw away both wealth and honors and in general the goods that are objects of competition, gaining for himself nobility. . . . He is therefore assigning the greater good to himself. (1169a18–29)

Passage [P] makes quite clear that Aristotle expects people to make great sacrifices for their character friends. On the other hand, in passage [P] and elsewhere Aristotle also asserts that by making sacrifices for their friends, people reserve to themselves an even more valuable good, namely nobility or virtuous activity. So what seem to be sacrifices for the sake of the friends turn out to be self-interested gambits. They give up good things in order to gain even better things. Aristotle seems to be saying that people never really sacrifice their own perceived best interest or act from any other motive. At bottom, even character friends forward the interests of their friends as a way of advancing their own interests. The fact that friends are described as external goods that are necessary for happiness lends weight to this view (1099a31–1099b8; 1170b17–19). Moreover, Aristotle explicitly says that we should place ourselves first. He even seems to say that we love others somehow because of our self-love.


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[Q] [A person] is his own best friend and ought to love himself best. (1168b9–10) Friendly relations with one’s neighbors, and the marks by which friendships are defined, seem to have proceeded from (ele¯luthenai) a man’s relations to himself. (1166a1–2)

Aristotle seems to be committed to incompatible theses. On the one hand, he says that character friends act on mutual, unselfish well-wishing. On the other hand, he says that whatever people do, they do for their own perceived best interest. Do we help our friends for their sake or for our own sake? I shall rebut three alternative attempts to harmonize Aristotle’s two theses before advancing my own resolution to the tension between selfish and unselfish motivation. Extended self Sherman maintains that if Jorella is a good person, then her happiness comes to include the happiness of her friends because Jorella, herself, comes to include her friends. Happiness is ascribable to Jorella not as an isolated individual, but rather as an extended self, “a self enlarged through attachments,”29 a unity consisting of herself and her friends. Thus, giving external goods and even opportunities for virtuous action to a friend is not self-sacrifice, but rather it is acting in the interests of one’s own extended self. People need never choose between acting for one’s own sake and acting for the sake of a friend. Sherman quite rightly emphasizes the various ways in which a person’s happiness is intertwined with, and depends upon, the fortunes of his or her friends. According to Aristotle, the happiness (or unhappiness) of one friend increases the happiness (or unhappiness) of the other friends. Friends also share many goals, values, activities, tastes, beliefs, etc. If Sherman stopped here, if the extended self were merely a metaphor expressing the fact that friends share many things, then it would be insufficient to resolve the tension between selfish and unselfish motivation. Friends cannot possibly share all happiness, goals, activities, tastes, beliefs, etc. Choices that enhance the happiness of her friends sometimes lead to a foreseeable net loss of happiness for Jorella. Jorella’s gains, even including the warm glow of seeing her friends happy plus the consolations of having acted nobly, are sometimes obviously outweighed by her losses. In such situations what would Aristotle tell Jorella to do? On the other hand, if the extended self is more than merely a metaphor, if Sherman really is attributing to Aristotle the claim that each friendship brings into being a group entity called an extended self, then Sherman’s interpretation would resolve the selfishness/unselfishness tension. However, textual evidence for such a strong interpretation is lacking. In particular, the fact that the happiness of one friend enhances the happiness of the other friends does not presuppose or imply some further notion of an extended self. Nor do the partially shared goals, values, activities, tastes, beliefs, etc. Aristotle does

29 N. Sherman, “Aristotle on Friendship and the Shared Life,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, 47 (1987): 595–602. See also Ross 231.

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consider a friendship to be deviant insofar as the decision-maker within a friendship strives for his or her own good rather than for the common good. But there is no reason to take the common good to be the good of a single entity, a self different from, and somehow including, the separate selves of the individual friends.30 Indeed, the whole discussion of IX.8 is premised upon the thesis developed in IX.4 that friendship with oneself and friendship with another are analogous, that is, similar, but different. Aristotle’s view is that we love friends like we love ourselves, not that we love our friends as parts of ourselves or because we love ourselves. Indeed, Aristotle does not typically describe a friend as “a part of his or her friend’s (extended) self,” but rather as “another self ” (allos autos) or a “second self ” or a “separate self ” (autos diairetos) (1166a31–2; 1170b6–7; EE 1245a30; 1245a35; but see EE 1240b2–10). Altruism Kraut maintains that according to Aristotle the good of others is a fundamental aim for good people alongside their own good. On this view, Jorella is interested in both her friends’ happiness and her own happiness. Sometimes she acts in her own self-interest; at other times she aims to advance her friends’ happiness and may even sacrifice her interests to those of her friends. Aristotle offers no formula for deciding when to do one rather than the other, but instead observes that choosing among competing interests is quite difficult. Moreover, it often happens that when she acts generously toward a friend, Jorella does so partially for her own sake and partially for her friend’s sake. She has mixed motives.31 Kraut is quite right to call attention to the fact that Aristotle offers no simple formula for resolving conflict-of-duty cases, even when one of the interests involved is one’s own. Kraut is also right to observe that people often act, and should act from mixed motives. In a wholesome friendship, Jorella aims to foster the common good, which includes both her own good and the good of her friends. Finally, I agree with Kraut that in passage [Q] Aristotle is not saying that our friendships with others proceed from, or are lower priority than, or are somehow modeled upon our self-love. Instead, Aristotle is merely observing that the criteria of friendship are also met by the relationship that each person has with himself or herself (1168b1–6). One problem with Kraut’s altruism solution is this. In IX.8 Aristotle is reconciling the belief that people should be self-lovers and act in their own interests with the belief that people should act virtuously, sometimes sacrificing their own interests. Now Aristotle does say that people should not always act in their own interests, as the world understands “interests.” People should sometimes sacrifice money, pleasure, etc., in

30 Applied to political friendships, Sherman’s Extended Self solution becomes the thesis that the common good is the good of the whole polis, rather than the goods of its many members. Miller argues well against that holistic thesis. See Miller 53–6, 194–8, 205–10. 31 Kraut, Aristotle on the Human Good 115–42. See also D. McKerlie, “Friendship, Self-Love, and Concern for Others in Aristotle’s Ethics,” Ancient Philosophy 11 (1991): 85–101.


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order to help others. But Aristotle does not say, as Kraut’s solution demands, that when there is a conflict between Jorella’s interests and those of her friends she should sometimes be motivated and act selfishly, other times unselfishly, yet other times from a mixture of the two. He does not say that we should sometimes be self-lovers and sometimes not. Instead, Aristotle reconciles the belief that people should be self-lovers and the belief that people should be virtuous by maintaining that people should be self-lovers by being virtuous. When fleshed out correctly, each belief is wholly right. The right motive and action may be described as either self-interested or virtuous. Indeed, Aristotle’s rationale for having and helping friends is framed in terms of self-love.32 Agent and observer perspectives Annas defuses the tension between passages that seem to endorse selfish motivation and other passages that seem to endorse unselfish motivation by denying that the former passages really endorse selfish motivation. When Jorella acts generously toward her friends, what moves her is undiluted affection for her friends. She aims to forward her friends’ interests for her friends’ sakes, even at the expense of her own, if necessary. When Aristotle observes that such acts actually benefit Jorella, he is merely saying that they look self-interested from the outside. An observer might note that Jorella benefits from everything she does in the friendship. Even when she sacrifices something, the observer may notice that she actually gains nobility, which is more valuable than money, fame, etc. For that matter Jorella, herself, may be aware of this. But her awareness does not motivate her. Jorella’s gain of nobility is merely a byproduct of her act rather than its motive.33 Annas is right to reject the idea that when Jorella gives up something for the sake of her friends Jorella is thinking both that she has made a net sacrifice and that she has made a net gain. These are incompatible thoughts. Instead, Annas correctly takes these to exemplify two different perspectives. Aristotle must be saying that from one perspective Jorella seems selfishly motivated, but from another perspective she seems unselfish. Unfortunately for Annas, Aristotle does not describe these two perspectives as agent and observer perspectives. Instead, at some points Aristotle suggests that the agent adopts and acts upon the self-interested perspective, and at other points he suggests the unselfish perspective. Both perspectives are adopted by the agent. Indeed, Aristotle not only thinks of self-interest as a motive, he argues that the self-love advocates are right. Self-love, correctly understood, is the right motive for agents to adopt. Before and after perspectives I shall develop my own view in a somewhat roundabout way, beginning with Aristotle’s remarks that, “Friendship . . . is a virtue or implies virtue” (1155s3–4), and For an additional critique of Kraut’s solution, see J. Annas, “Self-Love in Aristotle,” Southern Journal of Philosophy 27, supp. (1988): 7–10. 33 Annas, “Self-Love in Aristotle,” 11–13. See also Pakaluk 196–202. 32

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“Loving (to philein) is the characteristic virtue of friends” (1159a34–5). These statements are somewhat surprising because Aristotle considers friendship to be a relationship rather than a virtue. He could have defined a virtue of friendship as the disposition to make and maintain the right sort of friendships with the right people in the right way, etc. But Aristotle says nothing of the sort. So in what sense does Aristotle take friendship to be a virtue? First, a person possessing a virtue reliably chooses, acts, feels, desires, perceives, and thinks in certain appropriate ways in situations governed by that virtue. Courageous people, for example, choose, act, feel, desire, perceive, and think well in situations involving risk. Similarly, friends reliably choose, act, feel, desire, perceive, and think well with respect to situations involving each other. As Sherman stresses, friends strive to further each other’s interests. They reliably feel happy when their friends experience good fortune, and sad when their friends are unlucky. They share many beliefs with their friends. And so on. Second, virtuous people are willing to perform acts that are not in their own interests when such acts are the virtuous thing to do. Courage, for example may require a person to risk death, injury, and/or pain for some worthy cause, even if doing so is not in the interests of the courageous person. Similarly, I take passage [P] to show that friends are sometimes willing to perform acts that are not in their own interests when such acts would help their friends. Kraut is right to emphasize that according to Aristotle we sometimes forward the interests of other people even when doing so harms our own interests. Passage [P] does say that by doing so the friend is “gaining for himself nobility. . . . He is therefore assigning the greater good to himself.” But surely Aristotle is not suggesting, for example, that when Jorella gives her friend a large check, she is thinking, “I am getting the better of this deal because my friend is only getting money while I am getting nobility points.” As Annas and Kraut observe, people do not think like this. Rather than reading the last part of passage [P] as a contorted egoistic thought, it is more plausible to read it as an observation of a fringe benefit, an unsought bonus. Indeed, Aristotle inoculates against this misunderstanding by observing that, “He may even give up actions to his friend; it may be nobler to become the cause of his friend’s acting than to act himself ” (1169a32–4). That is, when Jorella focuses on the fact that virtuous activity is the most important good, she is willing to cede even opportunities to perform virtuous acts to her friends for their sakes. Third, although virtuous people act from their virtues even when doing so is not in their own interest, they strive to acquire virtues (at least when they are reasonably far along the moral development path) because they think that possession of the virtues is overall conducive to their own happiness. For example, people opt to acquire the character trait of courage because it is more likely to enhance their happiness overall than cowardice, rashness, or any other alternative character traits governing the sphere of physical risk. Similarly, although people are willing, even eager, to do things that are not in their own interest out of fondness for their friends, people make friends because they recognize that friendships are generally in their overall interest. For example,


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when Jorella decides to have a baby, she does it for her own sake. She wants to enjoy sharing things with children; she wants an excuse to buy cute toys and clothes; she wants someone to provide for her in her old age; and so on. But once the baby is born, Jorella is willing, even eager to do things that are not in her own interest out of love for the child. Her original self-interested motives are eventually overlaid, though not replaced, by unselfish ones. On frustrating days when she steps back and asks herself why she is doing all of this, she reprises her original, self-interested line of thought. Indeed, she may recognize that she would have been better off not to have the baby! But if she is a good friend to her child, she still changes diapers out of love for her child. Other friendships besides the Parent/Children friendship are like this, too. When people move to new locations, they typically set out to make friends (not literally this time) because they recognize that friendships are generally in their interest. But once they have friends, they are willing to sacrifice for their friends. Again, the initial self-interested motive is overlaid by an unselfish one.34 To summarize, Aristotle speaks about friendships in both self-interested and selfsacrificing terms, attributing both selfish and unselfish motives to the good agent. I defuse this tension between selfish and unselfish motivation by attributing to Aristotle a two-perspective view. People seek friendships for selfish motives, but act from selfless motives and even in self-sacrificing ways once friendships are formed. Contra Sherman, Aristotle recognizes a difference between selfish and unselfish motives. Contra Annas, Aristotle maintains that good agents are selfishly motivated. Ultimately contra Kraut, Aristotle is an egoist. But Aristotle’s egoism is a second order motive. Just as Rule Utilitarians sometimes find themselves acting in ways that hinder overall happiness because rules that forward overall happiness demand such actions in rare cases, so Aristotelians find themselves acting in ways that hinder their own happiness because participating in friendships that generally forward overall happiness demand such actions in rare cases.

Conclusion: The four causes of friendship Friendships are relationships of mutual cooperation entered into for the sake of gaining and maintaining certain goods. So one defining characteristic of a friendship is the type of good at which it aims. This, Aristotle might say, is the final cause of the friendship. At the most coarse-grained level, the goods are pleasure, utility, and nobility (i.e. shared virtuous activity), although each of these three may be subdivided. Friendships aimed at nobility are best. The others are not bad friendships. Technically, pleasure and utility friendships are not friendships at all. Although Aristotle conforms to ordinary language by calling them friendships, pleasure and utility friendships do not meet the definition

34 Kraut proposes this two level account of motivation, but it does not seem consistent with his overall denial that Aristotle is an egoist. See Kraut, Aristotle on the Human Good, 138.

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of friendship because they do not involve mutual, unselfish well-wishing. Only character friendships are actually friendships. Joint pursuit of a goal requires decision-making, so another defining characteristic of a friendship is the mechanism for sharing decisions within the friendship. This is the formal cause of the friendship.35 Decision-making should be allocated according to expertise. Since expertise clusters differently in different friendships, decision-making may be legitimately allocated in three ways: one-party-decides, decisions-shared-equally, and sphere-by-sphere. Again, variations exist within each of the three types. But the morally important factor vis-a`-vis decision-making is the extent to which decisions are made for the sake of the common good. Friendships are flawed insofar as the decision-makers aim at their own interests instead of aiming at the interests of all. Aristotle calls this failure mode deviance; we might call it selfishness or lack of care for others. The less decisionmakers aim at the common good, the less of a friendship the relationship is. Polity, Monarchy, and Aristocracy exemplify wholesome versions of these three decisionmaking options; Democracy, Oligarchy, and Tyranny are deviant to different degrees. Even deviant character friendships involve some mutual, unselfish well-wishing, so they are friendships. Thus, all and only character friendships are friendships. The decisions of people to enter into, remain in, and contribute to, a friendship constitute the efficient causes of the friendship, of course. Aristotle remarks that people gain nobility by sacrificing lesser goods in order to help their friends. This seems to suggest that even the best sort of character friends aim at their own good rather than wishing the other friends well for their own sakes. Are all relationships deviant, selfish, uncaring? Are there no relationships that meet Aristotle’s criterion for friendship? I argue that character friendships are indeed friendships. Although they are entered into for self-interested reasons, once in place character friendships dispose friends to seek each other’s good unselfishly, and even sacrifice for each other when necessary. The friends, themselves, plus their contributions toward the friendship’s shared goal, constitute the material causes of the friendship. In some friendships the contributions of the friends are equal; in others they are unequal. The morally important aspect of the friendship vis-a`-vis contribution is the extent to which the benefit each friend receives from the friendship is proportionate to the contribution of each friend to the friendship. Friendships are flawed when the contributions and benefits of the friends are disproportionate. This second failure mode of friendship is injustice. The two friendship failure modes specify the duties of friends toward each other. First, friends should avoid selfishness; they should advance the interests of all of the parties in the friendship (including themselves) for their own sakes; they should care for each other. Second, friends should try to make their contributions to the friendship proportionate to their share of the benefits from the friendship: they should be just to each other.

35 Aristotle says that since the constitution specifies the decision-making, it is the form of the polis (Pol. 1276b1–11).

13 Justice in Friendship (NE VIII–IX)

Introduction In the contemporary world, justice and friendship seem uncomfortable with each other. Justice demands a sort of impartiality, while partiality is intrinsic to friendship.1 By contrast, Aristotle takes justice and friendship to be not only compatible, but essentially intertwined. Aristotle has a fair amount to say about the relationship between justice and friendship.2 Unfortunately, he is not as clear about these matters as one might wish. Nevertheless, Aristotle’s thoughts about the relationship between justice and friendship are promising enough to be worth some interpretive risks. I shall argue that Aristotle considers justice to be defined only with respect to friendship. Because justice does not exist apart from friendship for Aristotle, he does not recognize human rights to a fair compensation for injury, or a fair price for goods, or a fair share of resources. That is, Aristotle thinks that people’s deserts do not derive from their bare humanity, but only from their friendships. This is bad news, although it is not quite as bad as one might think at first. Although we have no duties of justice toward people who are not friends, Aristotelian friendship networks are extensive, especially since membership in a polis constitutes a sort of friendship. So we have duties of justice to lots of people. Second, we have other duties besides our duties of justice, and these may improve our treatment of non-friends. The really good news is that the intimate connection between friendship and justice forged by Aristotle enables him to specify the right rules of justice more precisely than is usually supposed. After exhorting us to treat equals equally and unequals proportionately unequally, Aristotle does not simply leave the determination of who are equals and what counts as equal treatment as exercises for the hapless reader. Instead, he uses his account of friendship to flesh out what is meant by “equals” and “unequals.”

This may be mostly illusion. See M. Baron, “Impartiality and Friendship,” Ethics 101 (1991): 836–57. See C. Baracchi, Aristotle’s Ethics as First Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008) 260–95. 1 2

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A fringe benefit of defining justice with respect to friendships is an explanation of certain sorts of conflicts of duty. Incompatible duties of justice arise from different friendships. Since “justice” means different things within different friendships, parties to several different friendships thus often find themselves in irresolvable moral dilemmas. Conflicts between duties of justice and duties of care can also create irresolvable moral dilemmas. Conflict of duty situations of various sorts are common, yet comparatively neglected by moral theorists. The explanations offered by those moral theories that even offer explanations do not fit the moral phenomenology of the conflict-of-duty experience. A virtue of Aristotle’s virtue theory, and particularly its way of relating justice and friendship, is its ability to offer a nuanced, plausible account of conflict–of-duty situations.

Justice within friendship One contemporary caricature of the sphere of justice is that justice concerns impartial decision-making in the public realm. It cannot apply within families or close friendships because these are partial and private. Aristotle seems to nod to the view that justice is relevant merely between non-friends when he says, “When men are friends they have no need of justice” (1155a26–7). But this remark is anomalous. Probably this passage is (rather clumsily) observing that character friends automatically provide each other with their due. Good people do not need to be forced by some external agency to act justly toward their friends (1162b6–11). Aristotle does think that friends have duties of justice to each other. Indeed, he goes to the other extreme when he says, [R] How man and wife and in general friend and friend ought mutually to behave seems to be the same question as how it is just for them to behave. (1162a29–31; see also 1159b25–6)

Passage [R] is quite a strong claim. It is the claim that justice, and nothing but justice, governs all of the actions of friends toward each other, from who pays the check at a business lunch to who plays right field in a sandlot softball game. If liberality consists in giving people more than justice requires, then passage [R]’s claim is too strong.3 I shall return to this point below. Now Aristotle distinguishes two sorts of justice which he calls general justice (hole dikaiosune¯ ) and particular justice (kata meros dikaiosune¯ ). General justice is the character trait that, “is complete excellence—not absolutely, but in relation to others” (1129b25–7; 1130a32–b2).4 That is, general justice is a second order virtue consisting 3

See ch.4. Aristotle also states that general justice is obedience to law. But taking this as a definition of justice creates two huge problems, for some laws are unjust and some injustice should not be illegal. So when Aristotle defines general justice as obedience to law, I shall take him to be saying that (a) justice is all virtues insofar as they involve acting toward other people, and (b) obedience to good law approximates this. 4

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of those aspects of the first order virtues which pertain to other people. Particular justice is the first-order virtue whose opposite is graspingness (pleonexia) (1130a16–22). Passage [R] shows that by “justice,” Aristotle means general justice rather than particular justice within his account of friendship. Aristotle divides justice into three parts. Rectificatory justice concerns the righting of wrongs. Wrongdoers must be compelled to compensate their victims for losses. The right rule (orthos logos) for rectificatory justice is to restore things insofar as possible to the pre-injustice state (1132a6–10). The victim’s holdings before the injustice and after the rectification should be equal.5 Reciprocal justice concerns fair exchanges. The right rule for reciprocal justice is that when people trade, they should give as good as they get, according to the measure of money and demand for goods (1133b16–17). Goods should be bought and sold for a fair price; workers should be paid a fair wage; and so on. Equals for equals. The trickiest part of justice is distributive justice. It seeks to approximate the appropriate pattern of distribution of goods and burdens. The right rule for distributive justice is that equals should be treated equally, unequals proportionately unequally (1131a19–24). That is, people who are equal (or unequal) in the relevant respects should receive equal (or proportionately unequal) shares of whatever is being distributed. All three of these rules are quite vague. Who are the equals and the unequals? Are equal people those who have equal characters, or equal abilities, or equal needs, or what? What counts as equal or unequal treatment? Are people equally treated if they get equal benefits, or if their benefits match their contributions, or if their needs and desires are given equal concern and respect, or what? These are tough questions. Some commentators think that Aristotle provides no answers, and that his account of justice is, therefore, radically incomplete. If we accept the view that justice only exists within friendship, then the structure of Aristotelian friendship can provide the answers.6 As I mentioned in chapter 12, each friendship is a relationship of mutual cooperation aimed at a common goal of pleasure, utility, or nobility (or combinations or subdivisions of these). Often complex, often implicit, the goal of a friendship automatically generates a hierarchy of value. Within a friendship, among the friends, the goal functions as an ultimate or intrinsic good, and things that help achieve the goal are instrumental goods. Thus, whenever friends are dividing goods and/or burdens among themselves, they are not working in a vacuum about values. By their membership in the group of friends they already share a set of values. These values are available to serve as the basis for determining who counts as equal and unequal people, and what counts as equal and unequal treatment. Aristotle 5

This has nothing to do with punishment: it merely ensures that criminals do not profit from their crimes and victims do not lose. 6 Here my interpretation becomes somewhat speculative. The way in which Aristotle’s rules of justice are fleshed out by combination with the goals and values of friendship are paralleled by Aristotle’s account of justice in the polis (i.e. civic friendship). Unfortunately, exploring these parallels would take me beyond the scope of this book.

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maintains that friends who make equal contributions to the shared project of a friendship are equal people with respect to that friendship. They are therefore entitled to gain equal amounts of what is valuable within that friendship. Unequal contributors are unequal people and are entitled by justice to proportionately unequal benefits. Of course, these definitions of “equal” and “unequal,” are relative to the friendship. Each friendship has somewhat different goals, and therefore somewhat different values, and therefore somewhat different definitions of “equal” and “unequal.” Each friendship fleshes out Aristotle’s right rule for distributive justice in a different way. This explains why Aristotle takes our responsibilities toward different people to vary according to the nature of our friendships with them. He says, [S] The duties of parents to children and those of brothers to each other are not the same, nor those of comrades and those of fellow citizens, and so, too, with the other kinds of friendship. (1159b35–1160a2; see also 1165a14–33; 1162a31–3)

Under ordinary circumstances, we owe taxes and other civic duties to our fellow citizens (through the medium of the government); we owe a good upbringing and maybe college tuition to our children; we owe honor and respect to our parents; and so on. Now why do we owe different things to different people? Why do we owe different things to siblings and comrades, for example? It is not because groups of siblings and groups of comrades have inherently different decision-making structures or different needs. I suggest that we owe different things to siblings and to comrades because friendships among siblings and friendships among comrades typically have different goals. The former might aim partially at caring for aging parents; the latter typically aim at recreation or career advancement. Generalizing, people have different justice-duties in different friendships because different friendships have different goals. Therefore they have different values, different definitions of “equal,” and different rules for distributive justice. This view fits contemporary common sense nicely. For example, in friendships based upon the goal of moneymaking, equal people are those who contribute equal monetary resources (start-up capital, equipment, labor, etc.) to the business partnership. Equal shares of benefit are also measured by the common denominator of money. Unless equal contributors gain equal shares of the profits, the friendship is unjust. Similarly, unequal contributors must reap benefits proportional to their monetary contributions. Note that people who contribute lots of pleasure, but little of monetary worth, to such a friendship do not count as large contributors, because what they are contributing is of little value, as such friendships define value. Klondike, the shirker at the office, does not deserve a high salary or a large share of the profits because he contributes little to the shared project of the company. The fact that he tells lots of good jokes is irrelevant. His jokes are no part of his contribution, for they lack value within this utility friendship.7 On the other hand, Klondike’s jokes are much appreciated by the folks at the local bar. Since he is a major contributor to the pleasant mood, and since pleasure is what 7

I am assuming that the lift to office morale provided by Klondike’s jokes is insignificant.


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that fellowship seeks, Klondike is entitled to a large share of the fun. On the other hand, dour Lavonia might be a fitting object of benevolence/liberality. While cheering up Klondike would be no less than he deserves, cheering up Lavonia would be more than she deserves, but charitable. In general, friends in pleasure friendships are equal (or unequal) if they contribute equally (or unequally) to the total pleasure of the other members of the friendships. Of course, different sorts of pleasures are difficult, if not impossible, to weigh against each other. Nothing corresponds to the convenient common denominator of money. Nevertheless, members of friendship groups often have a sense of who is pulling his or her weight and who is shirking, who the equal and unequal contributors are. In character friendships, equal people are those who bring equal levels of virtue to the friendship. In an equal marriage based upon character, for example, the husband and the wife exercise the same level of virtue. They might do this in different ways, of course. One might contribute acts of temperance and courage, while the other contributes acts of liberality and good temper, and each profits by association with the other. Of course, virtue contributions are impossible to quantify with any precision, but gross inequalities are noticeable. We say things like, “He is such a sweetheart; she doesn’t deserve him,” or “She is the brains of the family; he is just the brawn.” Note that in a character friendship the more virtuous person does not deserve more benefits merely because he or she is more virtuous. Aristotle’s view is not that mere virtue should be rewarded. Rather the more virtuous person deserves more benefits insofar as he or she contributes more virtuous action to the friendship. “The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.”8 By using the values inherent within friendships Aristotle may flesh out his accounts of the three sorts of justice. This gives Aristotle a reasonable and tidy view. It is an important step forward. However, the significance of this step should not be overstated. By itself, Aristotle’s right rule of distributive justice will still not provide much guidance for individuals trying to make allocation decisions within friendships. Consider an example. Suppose Minnie’s parents, Ophelia and Nehemiah, contribute equally to the family which is a character friendship. They both want to spend time with Minnie when she returns home from college for a visit. Should she spend equal amounts of time with each of them? First, Aristotle’s right rule of distributive justice stipulates that Nehemiah and Ophelia deserve equal benefits from the family. But that does not imply that they deserve equal benefits from Minnie’s visit, or even equal benefits from Minnie. If Nehemiah is already getting more out of the family than Ophelia, perhaps Minnie should spend extra time with Ophelia to compensate, that is, to make the overall benefit distribution pattern more just. Second, if Nehemiah gets more benefit per minute from Minnie than does Ophelia because the activities Minnie shares with Nehemiah are more intense than the activities Minnie shares with Ophelia,

8

Ecclesiastes 9:11.

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then perhaps Minnie should spend more time with Ophelia to compensate. Third, the benefits that Nehemiah and Ophelia get from spending time with Minnie are likely to be incommensurable. If Minnie and Nehemiah are coauthoring a novel and Minnie and Ophelia are exercising together, these shared virtuous acts cannot be weighed against each other. And what if Nehemiah also gains money from the time spent with Minnie because their novel becomes a best-seller, while Ophelia gains by losing weight because swimming consumes more calories than typing? This is yet another sort of incommensurability. So there may be no clear way for Minnie to ensure that Nehemiah and Ophelia gain equal benefits. After all, many friendships do not have a single, simple goal like making money, where one value serves as a measure for everything. Fourth, what if Minnie has already promised Ophelia to participate in a project that will take up more than half of the visit? Does promise-keeping which is a matter of reciprocal justice, take priority over approximating a just pattern of distribution? Fifth, what if Ophelia has done a lot more for Minnie personally, while Nehemiah has contributed an equal amount to the family as a whole, but not to any particular member? Sixth, justice does not encompass all of virtue: it deals only with situations involving others. Indeed, it does not even include all of our duties to others, since liberality requires us to do things over and above the requirements of justice. Thus, even if Minnie can determine a just allocation, acting according to some other virtue might take priority. For example, if Ophelia is particularly psychologically fragile at the moment, benevolence might trump justice and require Minnie to spend much more time with Ophelia. Seventh, precision in such matters is for the gods, so perhaps Minnie should not bother trying to allocate her time justly. Overall, even when supplemented by the values specified within a friendship, Aristotle’s right rule of distributive justice is no more than a good start toward determining how to behave toward one’s friends. Plenty of room remains for the exercise of practical wisdom.

Justice in nested friendships The fact that different friendships have different standards of distributive justice is starkly manifest when a person cannot fulfill all of his or her justice-duties to friends in different friendships, and must, therefore, choose among them. Conflicts of justiceduties within a single friendship can be difficult to adjudicate for the reasons described above, but conflicts of justice-duties among multiple friendships are even harder for the reasons described below. Inter-friendship conflicts contain all of the difficulties of intrafriendship conflicts plus more. I shall begin with nested friendships, pairs of friendships in which all of the members of one friendship are also members of another, larger friendship.9 Are people who are 9 To be a separate, different friendship and not just part of the super-friendship, the sub-friendship must have a separate decision-making structure from the super-friendship, a different formal cause.


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equal (or unequal) within the sub-friendship also equal (or unequal) within the superfriendship? If the goals of the sub-friendship and super-friendship are the same, then the criterion of equality and inequality are the same. The justice-duties that members of the sub-friendship have to other members of the sub-friendship are the same as their justice-duties to members of the super-friendship. However, most sub-friendship and super-friendship pairs have somewhat different goals. For example, an army may have the goal of winning a war, while a platoon has the goal of winning the “platoon of the year” award as well as the war. If a sub-friendship and super-friendship have different goals, then members of these different friendships will owe each other different sorts of things (and/or different amounts of the same things). That is why Aristotle says in passage [S] that parents owe different things to their children and to their fellow citizens, even though the parents and their children may also be fellow citizens. Aristotle sketches two principles of justice governing nested friendships in the following passage. [T] Injustice increases by being exhibited towards those who are friends in a fuller sense; e.g. it is a more terrible thing to defraud a comrade than a fellow citizen, more terrible not to help a brother than a stranger, and more terrible to wound a father than anyone else. And the demands of justice also naturally increase with the friendship. (1160a4–8)10

Since the parties of a sub-friendship are friends in a fuller sense than the parties of a super-friendship, the first part of passage [T] says that it is more important to fulfill justice-duties to parties in a sub-friendship than to fulfill the same sorts of duties to parties in the super-friendship. If Porthos and his comrades are all citizens of the same polis, then it would be worse for Porthos to violate a civic duty toward his comrade than to violate the same civic duty toward a mere fellow citizen. For example, it is worse to defraud a comrade-citizen than to defraud a mere fellow citizen. Aristotle does not explain why. Perhaps the reason is this. Fraud violates both a civic duty and a comrade-duty. So if Porthos defrauds his comrade, Queenie, then he is violating a duty to her qua citizen and also a duty to her qua comrade. Defrauding a mere fellow citizen who is not a comrade violates only one duty, while defrauding Queenie violates that duty plus an additional duty. The fact that duties to members of a sub-friendship are more stringent than duties to members of a super-friendship resolves some questions, but leaves others open. If Porthos cannot satisfy both a duty to a fellow citizen and the same duty to a comrade, he should satisfy the duty to the comrade. But if he must choose between satisfying a duty to two fellow citizens and the same duty to one comrade, what should he do? Furthermore, should Porthos violate a civic duty to a mere citizen or violate a comradeduty that is not a civic duty to a comrade if he cannot fulfill both duties? For example,

10 This passage introduces a complication because it is mostly about refectory justice rather than distributive justice.

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suppose that Porthos discovers a schedule conflict at the last minute. Should Porthos obey the summons to jury duty or attend the surprise party thrown by the comrades for Queenie? The duties of justice within the sub-friendship and within the super-friendship pull Porthos in different directions. Aristotle offers no general answers to these questions. When Aristotle says that “demands of justice also naturally increase with the friendship” in the last sentence of passage [T], I take him to mean that members of a sub-friendship have certain justice-duties toward each other in addition to all of the justice-duties that they have toward other parties in the super-friendship. Qua citizens, comrades have civic duties to each other (as well as to other citizens) to pay taxes, serve on juries, and the like. In addition, qua comrades they have comrade-duties to each other to visit each other in hospitals, make loans in emergencies, and other such things. Thus, Queenie owes her comrades more than she owes mere fellow citizens. The fact that duties to members of a sub-friendship are more numerous than duties to members of a super-friendship resolves some questions, but leaves others open. If a person makes the same contribution to a sub-friendship and to a super-friendship, then he or she is entitled to fewer benefits from the sub-friendship because he or she has contributed a lesser percentage of the total contribution to the sub-friendship than to the super-friendship. For example, if Queenie spends a couple of hours each week visiting dying fellow citizens, she is entitled to significant compensation, perhaps in the form of a testimonial dinner, but if she spends only a couple of hours each week visiting dying fellow comrades, then she is a shirker. On the other hand, if she spends twice as many hours per week contributing to her comrades than to the community, the fact that her comrades and her community are nested friendships gives no guidance about how much compensation she deserves from either friendship.

Justice in overlapping friendships In a pair of overlapping friendships some people are members of both friendships, but others are members of only one or the other friendship. Neither friendship completely contains the other. Conflicts of duty arising from overlapping friendships are even more problematic than conflicts of duty arising from nested friendships. Rigel may owe one thing to the members of one friendship, and something incompatible to the members of another friendship. For example, suppose that she must either skip her weekly bridge game, sabotaging the evening for each of her three bridge buddies, or skip her young daughter’s birthday party, provoking her daughter to tears. She owes attendance at both functions; either skip is an injustice. When she calls her bridge buddies to tell them that she will not come, she offers an apology, not merely an explanation. While in nested friendships some conflicts of duty are resolvable, none are in overlapping friendships. We cannot say ahead of time that violating the duties of one friendship is worse than violating the duties of another. Aristotle does not say, for example, that violating the duties of friendship A is worse than violating the duties of


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friendship B if the first violation would cause a greater setback to the goals of friendship A than the second violation would cause to friendship B. Aristotle considers a certain sort of conflict of duties in the following passage: [U] We must for the most part return benefits rather than oblige friends as we must pay back a loan to a creditor rather than make one to a friend. But perhaps even this is not always true; e.g. should a man who has been ransomed out of the hands of brigands ransom his ransomer in return . . . or should he ransom his father? It would seem that he should ransom his father in preference even to himself. As we have said, then, generally the debt should be paid, but if the gift is exceedingly noble or exceedingly necessary, one should defer to these considerations. (1164b30–1165a4)

It is tempting to read passage [U] as a discussion of a conflict of justice-duties caused by overlapping friendships. Suppose that Theobald was earlier ransomed by his comrade, Svetlana, who now, along with Theobald’s father, stands in need of ransoming, herself. Theobald has only enough money to ransom one, so he is pulled by conflicting duties defined relative to two different friendships: his family and his comrades. Theobald’s duty qua family member to ransom his father clashes with his duty qua comrade to ransom Svetlana. No resolution within either friendship is possible. Justice simpliciter does not require one duty rather than the other. But practical wisdom adjudicates, and tells Theobald to ransom his father. While his debt to Svetlana is very great, his debt to his father is huge. “No one could ever return to [the gods or one’s parents] the equivalent of what he gets” (1163b16–17). This reading of passage [U] concludes that repaying his debt to his parents is a higher priority justice-duty than repaying his debt to Svetlana. However, I do not think that passage [U] is best read as a conflict of justice-duties. If the interpretation above were right, then in any conflict of duty involving one’s father, the father’s claim would win. But just a page later Aristotle says quite explicitly [V] That we should not make the same return to everyone, nor give a father the preference in everything, as one does not sacrifice everything to Zeus, is plain enough. (1165a14–16)

So the ransoming case cannot be an example of a general principle that justice-duties to fathers outweigh justice-duties to anyone else because Aristotle does not subscribe to such a principle. Aristotle introduces the ransoming case as an exception to the general rule that returning benefits (e.g. repaying loans) has a higher priority than obliging friends (e.g. making loans). So in passage [U] Aristotle is not saying that we should return higher priority benefits (e.g. benefits to fathers) rather than lower priority benefits (e.g. benefits to ransomers), but rather he is saying that sometimes returning benefits is not the right thing to do. Again, in the last sentence of passage [U] Aristotle describes the ransoming dilemma not as one debt being trumped by another, but rather as a principle of justice (“the debt should be paid”) being trumped by other sorts of considerations (nobility or necessity). That is, practical wisdom judges that the right thing to do is to violate the principles of justice.

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On my reading, Theobald must chose between a right, but unjust act and a just, but wrong act. Of course, unjust acts are vicious. So Theobald’s choice could be put this way. He should perform a vicious, but morally required act rather than a virtuous, but morally wrong act. Vicious, morally right acts are dirty hands acts while virtuous, morally wrong acts are admirably immoral acts.11

Justice v. care What is the noble or necessary consideration that trumps Theobald’s duty to ransom his ransomer, Svetlana? What is it that makes ransoming his father the right thing to do? I suggest that it is the duty of care. As I said in chapter 12, a good friendship is both caring and just, or in Aristotle’s jargon, non-deviant and equalized. Friends have both the duty to strive for the common good and the duty to match benefits to contributions within the friendship. In Theobald’s situation these duties conflict. Care insists upon the importance of advancing the interests of one’s friends. In the ransoming dilemma, care requires Theobald to ransom his father. Justice insists upon the importance of giving one’s friends their due. In the ransoming dilemma, justice requires Theobald to pay his debt to Svetlana. Theobald must choose between his prima facie duty of justice to Svetlana and his prima facie duty of care to his father. How do conflicts of duty arise from the demands of different virtues? Virtues are more than merely habits of right action and passion. They are also dispositions to perceive and believe in certain ways. In particular, virtues are salience- and valueprojectors. Each virtue presents different things as important and desirable in each situation. Each virtue presents situations through somewhat different lenses. Generally, virtues govern different spheres, so they do not present conflicting views of the same situation. But sometimes a single situation under different descriptions falls into different spheres. That is, the same situation can plausibly be seen as the purview of different virtues. When different virtues present incompatible points of view of the same situation, conflicts of duty arise. Then a person is pulled in different directions by different virtues. Each option is both virtuous from the perspective of one virtue and vicious from the other virtue’s perspective. In any conflict of duty situation, the act endorsed by practical wisdom is one’s duty, simpliciter. The virtue from which the act flows presents the right perspective. Yet the other virtue does not magically withdraw its claim in conflict of duty cases. Neither virtue is silenced, to use McDowell’s terminology.12 Each act seems both right and wrong, even though one act is ultimately recognized by practical wisdom as right, all

11 12

See Curzer, “How Good People Do Bad Things,” 250–1. McDowell, “Virtue and Reason,” 125–6.


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things considered. That is why in conflict-of-duty cases the good agent is torn and feels guilty, no matter what he or she ends up doing.13 A corollary is that not only continent people, but also virtuous people are sometimes internally conflicted. Both sometimes feel pained at acting rightly. The difference is that virtuous people are conflicted and feel pained only in conflict-of-duty situations, and they are pulled in different directions by different virtues, while continent people are conflicted and feel pained in ordinary situations, and they are pulled one way by practical wisdom and the other by bad passions and desires. Thus, continence should not be described as a disposition to overcome desires to perform wrong acts, for that ignores conflict-of-duty cases. Instead, continence should be described as a disposition to overcome vicious desires, desires from which vicious acts typically flow.

Justice outside of friendship We have justice-duties to all of our friends, and since the polis is one large friendship, that means we have justice-duties to lots of people.14 Moreover, some of our friendships might include people from non-members of our polis. So we might have justice-duties to people outside of our polis, too. But we do not have justice-duties to everyone. Aristotle says, [W] Friendship and justice seem . . . to be concerned with the same objects and exhibited between the same persons. (1159b25–6) To inquire how to behave to a friend is to look for a particular kind of justice, for generally all justice is in relation to a friend. (EE 1242a19–21; see also 1160a8; 1161a10–11; 1161a30–b10; 1162a29–33)

Passages [W] pretty clearly state that we have justice-duties to other people only insofar as they are our friends. According to Aristotle, justice does not govern our treatment of others merely qua persons, but rather justice is always about our treatment of others qua friends (i.e. qua parents, or children, or lovers, etc.) I owe it to my wife to do half of the housework not because she is a person, but because she is my wife. I should buy a round of drinks for my drinking buddies not because they are people, but because they are my buddies. And so on. I have no justice-duties to anyone qua person. Miller disagrees. He argues that Aristotle accepts the existence of justice-duties to non-friends. But Miller relies on only two passages.15 And I shall show that even in these two passages Aristotle does not actually endorse justice-duties outside of friendship. 13 See H. Curzer, “Admirable Immorality, Dirty Hands, Care Ethics, Justice Ethics, and Child Sacrifice,” Ratio 15 (2002): 227–44. 14 Aristotle acknowledges that sometimes a polis is rife with strife—divided for example, into rich and poor—rather than resembling a big happy family. Such a polis might be best described as two friendships located upon the same bit of land. 15 Miller 84–6. See also Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics 2nd ed., trans. T. Irwin (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1999) 285. Contrariwise, Annas denies that Aristotle has “a robust conception of justice as demanding duties to those who fall outside the city-state.” See Annas, The Morality of Happiness, 293.

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In the first of these passages, Aristotle says that one can have no friendship with a person qua slave. [X] But qua man one can; for there seems to be some justice between any man and any other who can share in a system of law or be a party to an agreement; therefore there can also be friendship with him in so far as he is a man. (1161b5–8)

At first, this passage seems to suggest that justice is actual wherever friendship is merely possible. In other words, we are required to treat even non-friends justly. But actually Aristotle’s claim here is only that justice (and therefore friendship) is possible between any two people. Aristotle’s point throughout VIII.11 is that friendship and justice are coextensive. He says that, [Y] Each of the constitutions may be seen to involve friendship just in so far as it involves justice. . . . But in the deviation-forms, as justice hardly exists, so too does friendship. (1161a10–30)

So in passage [X] Aristotle cannot be arguing that friendship can potentially develop between any two people because there is already justice between them. Instead, he must be arguing that both friendship and justice can potentially develop between any two people. One can become friends with any person, but one need not consider oneself to be already a “friend of mankind.” Miller also cites a passage from the Politics in which Aristotle warns that states should not treat neighboring peoples despotically, since a despotic rule is an unjust one. Aristotle says, [Z] In Lacedaimon and Crete the system of education and the greater part of the laws are framed with a view to war . . . Yet to a reflecting mind it must appear very strange that the statesman should be always considering how he can dominate and tyrannize over others, whether they are willing or not. How can that which is not even lawful be the business of the statesman or legislator? Unlawful it certainly is to rule without regard to justice. (Pol. 1324b6–28; see also Pol. 1324a35–b36)

Miller takes passage [Z] to be evidence that Aristotle thinks people who are not members of one’s polis are entitled to just treatment. He says, “Aristotle, in this passage at any rate, is anticipating the more explicit efforts of later moral theorists such as the Stoics to develop a moral point of view which includes all of humanity in its scope.”16 But Miller reads too much into this passage. Aristotle’s point is only that if a country conquers its neighbors and rules them despotically, it will be sucking them into an uncaring and unjust civic friendship. By becoming members of the conquering state, they will become parties to a deviant and unequalized civic friendship. In any event, these two passages should be interpreted in the light of Aristotle’s many statements that justice and friendship are coextensive (passages [W]). Aristotle takes friendship, and thus justice-duties, to extend very widely. He requires us to be open to

16

Miller 86.


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friendship with anyone. We must be open to the possibility of having justice-duties toward anyone. But Aristotle does not think that we actually already have justiceduties to people who are outside of our friendships. We may try out our new swords upon non-friends without acting unjustly. Is Aristotle right to claim that we have no justice-duties outside of friendship? Surely not! Consider impoverished people in the third world who do not belong to any friendship group of which Ulna is a member. If Ulna seizes some of their meager possessions without permission, deepening their poverty, then she must surely have a duty of rectificatory justice to undo or ameliorate this harm. If Ulna assaults these people, she owes them payment of damages. Aristotle does not say anything like this, and that is a serious omission. Additionally, Ulna must surely have a duty of reciprocal justice to avoid unfair exchanges with people outside of her friendships. She cannot morally go to some remote area of the world and “buy” large tracts of land in exchange for beads and trinkets, for example. Similarly, Ulna cannot morally pay a pittance for labor. She must pay a reasonable wage to people that she employs, even if they are not her friends in any sense. Again, Aristotle unfortunately says nothing like this. What about distributive justice? If Ulna is well off, but does not share her resources with people who are not her friends (even in Aristotle’s expansive sense of friendship), is Ulna acting unjustly? Does she have a justice-duty to refrain from certain luxuries in order to distribute goods to impoverished people that she has not harmed in the third world? This is a contested issue, of course, but even if Aristotle is right to maintain that Ulna has no distributive justice-duties to people who are not her friends, that is not the end of the story.

Beyond justice Aristotle’s view that we have duties of justice only to our friends is quite repugnant to contemporary sensibilities. But Aristotle’s overall moral theory contains an aspect that partially mitigates the harshness of his view. As I argued in chapter 4, the essence of liberality is helping others over and above the requirements of justice. According to Aristotle, distributive justice requires us to pass out benefits to those people who deserve them because of their contributions to friendships. Liberality requires us to pass out benefits to people who do not deserve them in Aristotle’s sense. Unlike our justice-duties, our liberality-duties are the sort of duties that Kant calls “imperfect.” We must donate an appropriate amount of goods, to appropriate people, in appropriate ways, at appropriate times, and so on. Within these constraints, it is up to us to decide who and how to help. These boundary conditions seem unhelpful, but they are actually instructive. For example, it would be inappropriate to bestow largess upon millionaires. If we have goods remaining to us after we have satisfied our justiceduties, then we should give some of those goods to people who need them.17 The 17

Presumably, donating to causes that benefit needy people indirectly would be fine.

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recipients of our largess might be needy friends who have already received from us everything that justice requires, or they might be needy non-friends. That is up to us. So although we may have no justice-duties to impoverished people in the third world, we do have liberality-duties to help the needy. And the needy include impoverished people in the third world. Additionally, it would be inappropriate to donate unproductively. We may not be required to maximize efficiency, but roughly speaking the more good we do per donated dollar, the better. Doubtless our civic friendship includes people who will be very needy, even after they have received their just shares. And helping impoverished people in the third world can be a tricky business. Nevertheless, I suspect that we will often do more good per dollar by helping impoverished people in the third world than by helping our needy friends. So liberality will push us to help impoverished people in the third world. As I said, one difference between justice-duties and liberality-duties is that justiceduties are specific benefits owed to specific people, while we have more latitude in satisfying our liberality-duties. But this should not obscure the most important similarity between justice-duties and liberality-duties which is that both are duties. Liberal acts are not supererogatory for Aristotle, as they are for some moral theories. Helping others is morally required, not merely nice. Liberality is a virtue, not merely a heroic version of some virtue. Moreover, for people who live in affluent countries, helping needy non-friends is one of the most appropriate exercises of liberality. Thus, Aristotle’s account of liberality mitigates, though it does not obviate, his omissions with respect to justice. Another mitigating aspect of Aristotle’s account of justice is that it expands easily to cover beings on the borders of personhood. Since we have justice-duties to our friends, the relevant question for Aristotle is not whether a being has a soul, or can reason well, or can suffer, but rather whether it can be befriended. Thus, although Aristotle does not mention it, his view straightforwardly implies that we have justice-duties to some pets and work animals, our young children, some mentally impaired people, etc.

Conclusion For Aristotle there is no such thing as universal justice or justice simpliciter. Instead, there is justice with respect to this friendship, justice with respect to that friendship, justice with respect to the other friendship, and so on. Justice governs only dealings among friends. This tight linkage of justice and friendship allows something of a breakthrough. By combining the right rules of justice with the different values upon which different friendships are based, Aristotle can flesh out his account of justice significantly. He can say who and what the equals and unequals are. Moreover, by maintaining that different friendships operate under rules of justice fleshed out in different ways because of their different goals and values, Aristotle can capture important facets of morality. First, he can explain why justice is relative to


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friendships, why different friendships call for somewhat different principles of justice. Second, Aristotle can give a complex, yet plausible analysis of conflicts of duty within nesting and overlapping friendships, and conflicts of duty between justice and care. On the other hand, the view that justice governs only dealings among friends has the hideous implication that we may treat non-friends without any concern for justice. This implication is only somewhat softened by Aristotle’s expansive view that membership in a polis counts as a sort of friendship, and his view that liberality-duties may be discharged by helping non-friends.


Moral Development


14 Practical Wisdom and Reciprocity of Virtue (NE VI.12–13)

Introduction In the Protagoras Socrates accepts, for the sake of argument, that pleasure is a common denominator for comparing seemingly different types of goods (Protagoras, 354b).1 Thus, Socrates maintains that “courage,” “temperance,” etc., are all names (or branches, versions, or applications) of wisdom, understood as the science of measuring the amount of pleasure provided by each act (Protagoras, 356d–7b). Aristotle does not accept the unity of virtues thesis, perhaps because he thinks that different virtues govern different passions and incommensurable goods. Instead, Aristotle offers a watered-down version of the unity of virtues thesis. He maintains that there are two versions of each virtue. A person may have only some of the second-best virtues, but if a person has even one virtue of the best sort, then he or she has them all. Aristotle says that the difference between the best and the second-best versions of a virtue is that the best version includes practical wisdom. Most commentators take this to mean that people with the best versions can reliably determine which acts are in accord with virtue while people with the second-best versions get it wrong reasonably often. Practical wisdom is the knowledge of which acts are right. But I shall argue that Aristotle agrees with Socrates in the Meno that all virtuous people, even those with merely the second-best virtues, are able to determine reliably which acts are in accord with virtue. Aristotle also agrees with Socrates about the difference between the best and the second-best sorts of virtue. People with the best sort of virtue (which Aristotle calls proper virtue or virtue “in the strict sense,” and Plato calls knowledge) can explain why acts are in accord with virtue, but people with the second-best sort of virtue (which Aristotle calls natural virtue, and Plato calls true belief) cannot do so (Meno, 97b–c). In this context, therefore, Aristotelian practical wisdom is the knowledge of why right acts are right.

1

What Plato’s views are, what Socrates’ views in other dialogues are, even what Socrates, the character, in the Protagoras really thinks, are all subjects of substantial controversy. By “Socrates’ view” I shall merely mean the view apparently espoused by the Socrates, the character, in the Protagoras.

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Thus, Aristotle’s all-or-nothing view of proper virtue is based upon his understanding of why right acts are right rather than upon the determination of which acts are right.

Aristotle’s argument I shall focus on two linked passages near the end of book VI of the Nicomachean Ethics. In the first passage, Aristotle deploys the concepts of cleverness, practical wisdom, natural virtue, and proper virtue. The second passage contains a rather obscure argument for a controversial claim that I shall call the reciprocity of virtue thesis. I shall begin by stating, distilling, and then restating Aristotle’s distinctions and premises. Aristotle begins his treatment of the relationships among the parts and sorts of virtue by distinguishing natural and proper virtue in the following passage. [A] [1] All men think that each type of character belongs to its possessors in some sense by nature; for from the very moment of birth we are just or fitted for self-control or brave or have the other moral qualities; but yet we seek something else as that which is good in the strict sense—we seek for the presence of such qualities in another way. [2] For both children and brutes have the natural dispositions to these qualities, but without thought (nous) these are evidently hurtful. [3] Only we seem to see this much, that while one may be led astray by them, as a strong body which moves without sight may stumble badly because of its lack of sight, still, [4] if a man once acquires thought (nous) that makes a difference in action; and his state, while still like it was, will then be virtue in the strict sense. [5] Therefore, as in the part of us which forms opinions there are two types, cleverness (deinoe¯ts) and practical wisdom (phrone¯sis), so too in the moral part there are two types, natural virtue (phusike¯ arete¯) and virtue in the strict sense (kurio¯s arete¯ ), and of these the latter involves practical wisdom. (1144b4–17; see also EE 1234a28–30)

Sentences [4] and [5] of passage [A] uncontroversially indicate that natural virtue combined with practical wisdom becomes proper virtue. This will turn out to be a pivotal point. A bit later Aristotle deploys the distinction between natural virtue and proper virtue in the following argument: [B] [1] It is not possible to be good in the strict sense without practical wisdom, [2] nor practically wise without moral virtue (ethike arete¯ ). [3] But in this way we may also refute the dialectical argument whereby it might be contended that the virtues exist in separation from each other; the same man, it might be said, is not best equipped by nature for all the virtues, so that he will have already acquired one when he has not yet acquired another. [4] This is possible in respect of the natural virtues, but not in respect of those in respect of which a man is called without qualification good; [5] for with the presence of the one quality, practical wisdom, will be given all the virtues. (1144b31–1145a2)

Passage [B] presumes a certain simple picture. Several virtues are available, each governing a different sphere or aspect (peri ho) of human life. Each virtue consists of a intellectual component consisting of some sorts of knowledge and intellectual abilities,

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plus a moral component consisting of dispositions concerned with passions, desires, pleasures, etc. All of the intellectual components together constitute practical wisdom, an excellent state of the rational faculty insofar as it concerns itself with action. All of the moral components together constitute moral virtue or habituated virtue, an excellent state of the part of the soul that obeys the rational faculty (1102b13ff ). The moral dispositions of the different virtues are not completely irrational or separate from each other; nor are the bits of practical wisdom separate from moral virtue or from each other. In his argument Aristotle exhibits the interdependence of these components. In passage [B] Aristotle employs one of his favorite methods of resolving aporiai; he disarms an objection by making a distinction that allows him to accommodate seemingly incompatible endoxa. Here one endoxon is the empirical observation cited in sentence [3], that some people seem to possess only some virtues: they act and feel correctly with respect to only some spheres of human life. The other endoxon is the Socratic assertion that virtue is a unity; consequently, people who have one virtue have all virtue(s). Aristotle resolves these competing claims in sentence [4] by asserting that the term “virtue” has two related senses. The first endoxon is true of natural virtue; the second is partially true of proper virtue. Aristotle acknowledges the existence of people with only some natural virtues, and denies the existence of people with only some proper virtues. In sentence [3] Aristotle proclaims his intention to use sentences [1] and [2] to “refute the dialectical argument” that virtues can be acquired one-by-one. Sentence [5] then turns sentences [1] and [2] into premises of a very compressed, somewhat elliptical refutation of the claim that a person can have only some proper virtues. Thus, Aristotle’s argument for his reciprocity of virtue thesis is this. (1) A person with any proper virtue must have practical wisdom. (2) A person with practical wisdom must have moral virtue. (3) A person possessing the intellectual components of all of the virtues (i.e. practical wisdom) must also possess the moral components of all of the virtues (i.e. moral virtue). [rephrasing of premise (2)] (4) Practical wisdom plus moral virtue is proper virtue. (5) Therefore, a person with any proper virtue must have all of the proper virtues.2 Before the serious squabbling between competing interpretations begins, Aristotle’s argument may be more or less uncontroversially elucidated and refined a bit. Premise (1) of Aristotle’s argument claims that if a person possesses the part of practical wisdom and the part of moral virtue that together constitute one proper virtue, then he or she possesses all of the parts of practical wisdom. If Anastasia has the intellectual component of courage plus the moral component of courage, then she has the intellectual components of all of the virtues. Now pretty clearly the moral 2 E. Telfer, “The Unity of the Moral Virtues in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics,” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 90 (1989–90): 36.

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component of Anastasia’s courage is not doing any work, here. Premise (1) is a claim about the interconnectedness of a certain sort of knowledge; it is an epistemological thesis.3 So the gist of Aristotle’s claim is really that no one has just part of practical wisdom. Anastasia cannot have the intellectual component of courage without the intellectual component of temperance, for example. People with any part of practical wisdom have all of it. Premise (2), too, can be trimmed. Suppose Bentley has all of practical wisdom. Premise (2) says that Bentley has the moral component of every virtue. Is the moral component of Bentley’s courage directly linked to all of practical wisdom? Is it directly linked to the intellectual component of temperance, for example? Surely, the moral component of Bentley’s courage is directly linked only to the intellectual component of courage, and merely indirectly to the other intellectual components.4 Perhaps the intellectual component of his courage causes or presupposes the moral component of his courage. Or perhaps both components of courage are independently produced by some other cause. In each of these cases the presence of the rest of practical wisdom follows from premise (1). So the contribution of premise (2) is that possession of the intellectual component of any virtue implies the possession of the moral component of that virtue. No one has just the intellectual component of a virtue without the moral component. Thus massaged, Aristotle’s argument unites an epistemological thesis with a thesis about the co-presence of knowledge and habit to produce the reciprocity of proper virtues thesis. (1a) A person possessing the intellectual component of one virtue must possess the intellectual components of all of the virtues (i.e. practical wisdom). (2a) A person possessing the intellectual component of a virtue must also possess the moral component of that virtue. (3) A person possessing the intellectual components of all of the virtues (i.e. practical wisdom) must also possess the moral components of all of the virtues (i.e. moral virtue). (4) Practical wisdom plus moral virtue is proper virtue. (5) Therefore, a person with any proper virtue must have all of the proper virtues.

The orthodox interpretation Practically every claim about Plato’s dialogues seems to be contested by someone. Nothing about Plato is generally accepted. Aristotle scholars are less contentious, however. In particular, scholars agree about the outlines of Aristotle’s argument for 3 Reeve seems to be denying this when he observes that a bad passion in one sphere may corrupt passions in other spheres. However, presumably the causal chain is this. The bad passion distorts its corresponding intellectual component, which, in turn, distorts an intellectual component in an adjacent sphere, which finally distorts its corresponding moral component. This is compatible with my claim. See Reeve 170. 4 See the preceding footnote.


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his reciprocity of virtue thesis. But consensus eventually attracts detractors like picnics attract ants. After presenting the orthodox interpretation of Aristotle’s argument, I shall present an alternative interpretation. Both interpretations have significant drawbacks, but I shall argue that on balance my interpretation is preferable. Many commentators take sentences [1], [2], and [3] of passage [A] to be making two claims about natural virtue. First, natural virtue is an innate, non-rational tendency that sporadically enables its possessor to recognize and perform virtuous acts. Some children and even animals possess natural virtue, so that it must be both congenital and uninformed by thought. For example, speaking of natural virtue, Ramsay says, “Aristotle and Aquinas believed virtues may also be the results of natural inheritance rather than deliberate cultivation.” Similarly, Sorabji says, “Natural virtue [is] a benign inborn disposition.”5 A second claim is that natural virtue can lead one to act wrongly. Natural virtue causes the agent to mistake virtuous acts for vicious ones and vice versa in stressful, complex, or unusual situations. People with mere natural virtue have a knack for doing the right thing, but they do not reliably know which acts are in accordance with virtue. Telfer says, “Natural virtues are innate good qualities of temperament which can lead their possessor astray unless they are guided by reason in the form of practical wisdom. An example would be a naturally kind disposition, which without the guidance of practical wisdom might prompt its owner to indulge others to their detriment or to help the undeserving at the expense of the deserving.” Irwin says, “A person with merely natural bravery will be foolishly unafraid of dangers that should frighten him; he will not know which dangers are worth facing; and he will waste his efforts on pointless sacrifice, or else he will crack when he is genuinely frightened because he has not trained himself to withstand fear.”6 If natural virtue is an unreliable, non-rational tendency to act in accord with virtue, and if the addition of practical wisdom makes the naturally virtuous agent properly virtuous, then practical wisdom must be (or at least include) the rational component of virtue that enables the agent to know reliably which acts are right in all (or almost all) situations. Now an act does not qualify as “in accord with virtue” just because a virtuous person performs it; nor is the act automatically disqualified if performed by a non-virtuous person. After all, virtuous people can act out of character, and nonvirtuous people can perform virtuous acts.7 In Aristotle’s jargon, an act is in accord with a virtue when it conforms to the right rule (orthos logos) for that virtue (1138b18–34, 5 H. Ramsay, “Natural Virtue,” Dialogue 37 (1998): 341; R. Sorabji, “Aristotle on the Role of Intellect in Virtue.” In Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, ed. A. Rorty (University of California Press, 1980) 213. See also Bostock 86. 6 Telfer 35–6; Irwin, “Disunity,” 69. See also Gottlieb 107–10; A. D. Smith, “Character and Intellect in Aristotle’s Ethics,” Phronesis 41 (1996): 64; S. White, “Natural Virtue and Perfect Virtue in Aristotle,” Proceedings of the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy 8 (1992): 152ff. 7 To paraphrase Socrates in the Euthyphro, courageous people perform acts in accord with courage because the acts are in accord with courage; they are not acts in accord with courage merely because courageous people perform them.

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1114b26–30). So for any virtue, the knowledge of which acts are in accord with virtue is the knowledge of how to apply that virtue’s right rule. I do not assume that the right rule of a virtue is literally a rule, but only that it is some rational way of picking out right acts in particular situations. Of course, this knowledge is not a memorized table of particular situations matched to right acts. Nor will routine algorithms work. In order to identify right acts reliably a person must perceive salient factors within situations, assign correct values to things, determine the best means to certain ends, etc. Again employing Aristotle’s jargon, I shall refer to this ability to use the right rule, this knowledge of which acts are in accord with virtue, as the that (to hoti) (1095b6–7). The orthodox interpretation takes the distinction between natural and proper virtue to be the ability to discern which acts are right. It takes practical wisdom to be the that. Aristotle’s argument becomes the following. (1b) A person who knows which acts are in accord with one virtue, must know which acts are in accord with all of the virtues (i.e. practical wisdom). (2b) A person who knows which acts are in accord with one virtue, must also possess the moral component of that virtue. (3b) A person who knows which acts are in accord with all of the virtues (i.e. practical wisdom) must also possess the moral components of all of the virtues (i.e. moral virtue). (4) Practical wisdom plus moral virtue is proper virtue. (5) Therefore, a person with any proper virtue must have all of the proper virtues. A person with a proper virtue knows whatever he or she needs to know about the situations, objects, goods, passions, actions, etc. relevant to that virtue. But why does Aristotle think that such a person knows what he or she needs to know about all of the other virtues, too? Several commentators give similar answers. Cooper says, “any knowledge about, say, the values involved in courage . . . must see the place of these values in a single overall scheme of moral or ethical goods and bads, including all those involved in all the other ethical virtues.” Irwin says, “We may still resist [the reciprocity of the virtues thesis] if we argue that wisdom can be divided into different partial insights distributed between separable virtues . . . Aristotle will deny such divisibility of the final good; if the good has an organic structure, we cannot understand the full value of each element in it without understanding its relation to the other elements.”8 The orthodox interpreters thus introduce into premise (1b) a new concept, the final good, which I shall call “happiness” or “the happy life.” Their claim is two-fold. First, in order to have the intellectual component of one virtue a person must have knowledge of the happy life. Second, knowledge of the happy life includes or carries with it the intellectual component specific to each virtue. A person knows which acts are in J. Cooper, “The Unity of Virtue,” Reason and Emotion (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999) 109; Irwin, “Disunity,” 71. See also Annas, The Morality of Happiness 76; T. Aquinas, Commentary on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics 403; Bostock 87–8; Sorabji 207; White 158–9. 8


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accord with a virtue, if and only if, he or she thoroughly understands the mereological unity of goods that is the happy life. The first component of premise (1b) is that a holistic understanding of goods within the happy life is necessary for reliably determining which acts are in accord with any particular virtue. Conflicts among the claims of the virtues arise in various situations and must be adjudicated. Such conflicts may be understood in terms of trade-offs among the different sorts of virtue-governed goods that constitute the happy life. To be virtuous, a person must be able to rank these goods correctly. But these goods are interdependent. For example, risky acts are rash rather than courageous unless the risk is worth taking. And the knowledge of which risks are worth taking depends upon the ranking and interdependence of goods within the happy life. So in order to recognize courageous acts in a variety of situations a person needs to know when to sacrifice some personal safety for sensual pleasure, when to sacrifice some safety for money, and so on. A courageous person must know not only all about safety, but also all about sensual pleasure, money, etc. lest the lure of trivial, harmful, or illicit sensual pleasure, insufficient, excessive, or ill-gotten money, etc., tempt him or her to perform cowardly or rash acts.9 Thus, in order to recognize which acts are courageous, a person must also know which acts are temperate, which acts are liberal, and so on. The second component of premise (1b) claims that the holistic understanding of goods composing the happy life is sufficient for determining which acts are in accord with any particular virtue. Once a person knows the relationships and relative values of the goods that constitute the happy life, he or she will be able to apply that knowledge to decide what should be done in every situation. Premise (2b) attributes to Aristotle the claim that the knowledge of which acts are in accord with one virtue implies the possession of the moral component of that virtue. To know the good is to do it. But the moral component of a virtue includes much more than merely habits of right action; it also includes habits of right passion, right motivation, right pleasures, etc. So premise (2b) is the dubious claim that people who know which actions are right within a sphere will perform those acts for the right reasons, with the right passions, etc.

My interpretation The orthodox interpretation flows naturally and straightforwardly from several parts of passage [A]. However, as I will show below, it is an uncharitable interpretation, for it attributes implausible and contradictory doctrines to Aristotle. My interpretation settles 9

This is, perhaps, why Aristotle does not employ the life-planning approach described by Rawls ( J. Rawls, A Theory of Justice (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1971) 407ff.). Instead, Aristotle employs a life-choosing approach. He takes his reader to be choosing from among just a few types of life (hedonistic, political, moneymaking, contemplative, etc.) because there are only a few options with the requisite unity. One cannot just mix and match various goods or projects and expect to emerge with a coherent lifeplan.

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for less straightforward interpretations of some parts of passage [A] in exchange for a much more charitable account of Aristotle’s overall argument for the reciprocity of virtue thesis. In general, Aristotle distinguishes among (a) whatever potentialities, abilities, and dispositions are innate, (b) the good dispositions of passion and action acquired through habituation, and (c) these habituated passions and actions, plus practical wisdom acquired through teaching. After all, nature, habit, and teaching all play a role in moral development. The orthodox interpretation takes natural virtue, moral virtue, and proper virtue to correspond to these three stages of moral development.10 However, passages [A] and [B] do not distinguish these three stages. Only natural virtue and proper virtue are under discussion; nothing lies between them. Natural virtue becomes proper virtue with the addition of practical wisdom; habituation is not mentioned. This is puzzling for habituation clearly plays a major role in Aristotle’s account of moral development. To accommodate habituation, I take natural virtue and moral virtue to be the same. This certainly seems initially odd. I cannot explain why Aristotle would use the term “natural virtue” to refer to the result of good habituation. Moreover, the identification of natural virtue and moral virtue admittedly flies in the face of some phrases with passage [A] and also some other passages (e.g. 1151a18–19). On the other hand, my claim that natural virtue is moral virtue follows directly from two Aristotelian doctrines. The first doctrine is part of Aristotle’s basic picture of the virtues; the second is from passage [A]. (a) proper virtue = practical wisdom + moral virtue (b) proper virtue = practical wisdom + natural virtue (c) Therefore, natural virtue = moral virtue The point might be put this way. Since the mere addition of practical wisdom transforms natural virtue into proper virtue, natural virtue must already include the good dispositions of passions, desires, pleasures, etc. that constitute moral or habituated virtue. I take Aristotle’s view to be that people are naturally endowed with faculties that can be used for good or ill; nature provides locomotion, emotion, sensation, reason, etc. Legs can be used courageously to charge into battles worth fighting or pusillanimously to flee from such battles. Anger is crucial to recognizing and reacting properly to insults and injuries, but can also produce improper responses like rage at minor slights. And so on. People are not virtuous by nature; nature provides the raw materials of virtue. Indeed, these abilities are equally the raw materials of vice. If nature’s role is morally neutral, then natural virtue cannot be a sort of virtue with which people are born. Rather it must be the virtue that people develop by good habituation. Natural virtue is moral virtue.

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E.g. Bostock 86.


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I shall argue below that when Aristotle says that proper virtue is natural virtue plus practical wisdom, the practical wisdom he has in mind cannot be the that, the knowledge of which acts are virtuous. What is left? Well, Aristotle introduces the that in the following passage: [C] The facts (to hoti, the that) are the starting-point, and if they are sufficiently plain to him, [the student of ethics] will not need the reason (to dihoti, the because) as well. (1095b6–7)

A person who knows the that can correctly identify which acts are in accord with virtue throughout the variety of situations encountered in life. A person who knows the because not only knows the that, but can also explain why these acts are in accord with virtue. The difference between the that and the because roughly corresponds to Plato’s distinction between true beliefs about the rightness of acts, and knowledge of the rightness of acts, where true beliefs plus an explanation or account (logos) of these beliefs is knowledge. My claim is that, in the context of Aristotle’s argument for the reciprocity of virtue thesis, practical wisdom is the because.11 Proper virtue is natural virtue plus the knowledge of why right acts are right. On my interpretation, Aristotle’s argument is this: (1c) A person who knows why acts are in accord with one virtue, must know why acts are in accord with all of the virtues (i.e. practical wisdom). (2c) A person who knows why acts are in accord with one virtue, must also possess the moral component of that virtue. (3c) A person who knows why acts are in accord with all of the virtues (i.e. practical wisdom) must also possess the moral components of all of the virtues (i.e. moral virtue). (4) Practical wisdom plus moral virtue is proper virtue. (5) Therefore, a person with any proper virtue must have all of the proper virtues. Why does Aristotle think that premise (1c) is true? To answer, I must explain Aristotle’s line of thought about why right acts are right. The knowledge of why an act is in accord with virtue cannot simply be an account of how that act contributes to the happy life. After all, some acts that are in accord with virtue do not enhance a person’s happiness, and some vicious acts do enhance happiness. For example, in certain situations, cowardly acts may be much more conducive to the happy life than courageous acts because in these situations the courageous acts are likely to lead to death, wounds, and/or pain, while cowardly acts avoid these bad consequences. To deny this bleak fact by maintaining that the warm glow of having done the right thing always trumps all bad consequences is wishful thinking. Such a denial also contravenes Aristotle’s statement that, 11 Aristotle uses the term “practical wisdom” to mean different things in different places. My claim is limited to passages [A] and [B] and their vicinity.

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[D] It is not the case, then, with all the virtues that the exercise of them is pleasant, except in so far as it reaches its end. (1117b15–16; see also 1117a32–4)

In this passage, Aristotle rejects the general claim that virtuous people always find right acts to be pleasant. Instead, he says that right acts are sure to be pleasant only if they succeed at accomplishing their external goal.12 In general, an act that is in accord with virtue does not necessarily forward the interests of the agent. On the other hand, virtues are character traits that are in the best interests of their possessors. Thus, the knowledge of why a certain act in a certain situation is in accord with virtue must consist of two parts. If Clementine has that knowledge, then she knows both that the act exemplifies such-and-such a character trait, and that such-andsuch a character trait is a virtue. Just as Rule Utilitarians deny that in every situation the act that maximizes the happiness of all concerned is necessarily right, so Aristotle denies that in every situation the act that is most conducive to the agent’s happiness is necessarily in accord with virtue. And just as Rule Utilitarians instead maintain that an act is right because it conforms to a rule that, when almost universally followed, maximizes happiness (even if the act, itself, does not maximize happiness), so Aristotle maintains that an act is virtuous because it exemplifies a character trait that is conducive to the agent’s happiness (even if the act, itself, is not conducive to the agent’s happiness). Once Clementine knows that a certain character trait is a virtue, the rest of the because consists in the that, that is, in the knowledge that the act conforms to the right rule of that virtue. What does it mean to know that a certain character trait is a virtue? Character traits do not qualify as virtues just by fitting the doctrine of the mean. After all, although all virtues are medial, some medial traits are not virtues (EE 1234a23–5).13 Instead, a character trait is a virtue if it “makes a man good and makes him do his own work (ergon: ) well” (1106a22–4). The “work” of a person, his or her goal or function, is a life involving reason. Done well, it is the happy life. So a character trait is a virtue if it effectively promotes the happy life. Because happiness depends partially upon luck, virtue is no guarantee of happiness. Nevertheless, courage is a virtue, for example, because overall, throughout most of the lives of most people in most circumstances, courage contributes substantially to a person’s life, both instrumentally and intrinsically.14

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See ch.2 and ch.15. The virtue of justice might seem to be a non-medial character trait. However see ch.11. 14 Aristotle does not say that a character trait is a virtue if, and only if, among the competing traits governing a sphere of life, the character trait in question best promotes the happy life. Aristotle does not require that courage contribute more than any other character trait concerned with situations of physical risk. After all, heroic courage might well be better than proper courage, and natural courage is also a virtue. Of course, courageous people are more likely to lead happy lives than cowards, rash people, people who are incontinent or continent with respect to risk, etc., but Aristotle leaves open the possibility that several different character traits might be virtues in the same sphere. 13


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So to know that courage is a virtue, Clementine must know that courage is conducive to the happy life. What is the happy life? Aristotle does not describe the happy life in terms of a single good or a collection of goods. Instead, Aristotle typically describes the happy life as the life of virtuous activity. In other words, the happy life consists fundamentally of courageous acts, temperate acts, contemplative acts, etc. And these acts, together with the various virtuous passions, perceptions, beliefs, etc., constitute the essence of the happy life. Of course, the virtue-governed goods play a role in the happy life as instruments and perhaps even as intrinsically desirable elements, but they are not its heart.15 I have claimed that (a) a character trait is a virtue because it is conducive to the happy life, and that (b) the happy life is a life characterized by acts exhibiting the various virtues. It follows that (c) a character trait is a virtue because that character trait is conducive to the life of virtuous activity. Now to contribute to such a life is to make its virtuous activities better and more numerous. The main way to do that is to promote and preserve the states of character from which virtuous acts flow. Thus, (d) a character trait is conducive to the life of virtuous activity because it sustains, protects, and enhances various virtues (including itself ). To know that V1 is a virtue is to know that V1 is conducive to the life of virtuous activity. And to know that V1 is conducive to the life of virtuous activity is to know that V1 promotes and preserves the virtues, V1, . . . Vn. At the very least, to know that V1 is a virtue, one must know what the other virtues are. To know that V1 is a virtue, one must know that V2 is conducive to the happy life, that V3 is conducive to the happy life, that V4 is conducive to the happy life, and so on.16 To summarize, the knowledge of why an act is right consists of two parts: knowledge that the act exhibits a certain character trait, and knowledge that the character trait in question is a virtue. To know that a character trait is a virtue, one must know what all of the other virtues are. One must know that each is conducive to the happy life by knowing how each promotes and preserves both itself and all of the other virtues. Thus, the because for any virtue includes the because for every virtue. Put differently, the knowledge of which character traits are virtues is the knowledge that each of these character traits fits constructively into a good person’s character. This, I maintain, is why Aristotle asserts the first premise of his argument, the claim that, (1c) a person who knows why acts are in accord with one virtue, must know why acts are in accord with all of the virtues (i.e. practical wisdom). On my interpretation, the happy life must be grasped holistically, but that is not because we need to know how to trade-off various different sorts of goods. My interpretation does not attribute to Aristotle an unexpressed, implausible doctrine of

15 This is a dramatic over-simplification. For one thing, Aristotle says that there are two happy lives, each aiming at a different sort of virtuous action. See ch.18. 16 Even if V1 has no impact on Vn, one must know what Vn is in order to know that V1 has no impact upon it.

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the commensurability and organic unity of goods. Instead, the happy life must be grasped holistically because the components of a good person’s character are interdependent. Virtues are mutually sustaining and enhancing. Conversely, the absence of a virtue in one sphere blocks virtues from developing in other spheres. The first premise of Aristotle’s argument involves an organic unity that is psychological rather than normative. Since on my interpretation, practical wisdom is the because, the second premise of Aristotle’s argument turns out to be that, (2c) people who have the because with respect to a particular virtue also have the moral component of that virtue. Aristotle is confident of this claim because of his views about the moral development path. Aristotle thinks that there are two basic mechanisms of moral progress: habituation and teaching. People do not come to learn why certain acts are virtuous by habituation, of course. The because is acquired through teaching. Aristotle maintains that habituation and teaching are not simultaneous. He says, [E] Argument and teaching, we may suspect, are not powerful with all men, but the soul of the student must first have been cultivated by means of habits for noble joy and noble hatred, like earth which is to nourish the seed. . . . The character, then, must somehow be there already with a kinship to virtue, loving what is noble and hating what is base. (1179b23–31, see also 1095a4–6; 1095b2–7; Pol. 1338b4–5)

In passage [E] Aristotle explicitly rejects the view (commonly attributed to him) that habituation and teaching progress gradually and simultaneously, each supporting the other. Instead, he asserts that the disposition to feel appropriate passions must be instilled by habituation before the because (or anything else) can be taught. Aristotle believes that people cannot acquire the knowledge of why certain acts are virtuous, until they are already reliably experiencing the right passions. The soul must be cultivated “first”; the habits “must somehow be there already . . . ” Dudley will not learn anything in his ethics class unless he has the prerequisite good habits.17 This belief about the sequence of moral development is the source of Aristotle’s confidence in premise (2c). My interpretation does not accuse Aristotle of assuming that practical wisdom produces, or is produced by, virtuous passions. That would contradict Aristotle’s claim that virtuous passions arise through habituation and practical wisdom through teaching. Rather Aristotle’s claim is that people cannot acquire practical wisdom until they are already reliably feeling appropriate passions.18

17

See ch.15. Broadie also rejects the orthodox view. Like me, she denies that the ability to identify the right act in each situation includes knowledge of why the right act is right, knowledge of the happy life. She denies that the that requires the because. But unlike me, she denies that the knowledge of why right acts are right is available to us at all. On Broadie’s view we cannot know the because. See Broadie 258–9. 18


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Natural virtue Now that both interpretations are on the table, I shall show that passages [A] and [B] are problematic. That is, the orthodox interpretation which takes the passages more or less at face value turns out to be problem-ridden. Second, I shall show that my interpretation avoids these problems, though only by taking parts of passage [A] in artificial ways. I shall begin with the notions of natural virtue and practical wisdom in passage [A], and then take up the premises of Aristotle’s argument in passage [B]. The orthodox interpretation of passage [A] takes natural virtue to be an innate character trait that sometimes leads people to act wrongly. People with natural virtue rely on the moral knack or intuition with which they were born. Although it generally enables people of natural virtue to act in accord with virtue, this knack or intuition is unreliable. It occasionally labels a wrong act as right. I shall argue that both of these claims about natural virtue are mistaken: natural virtue is neither innate nor misleading. Aristotle uses the term “natural” and the phrase “from the very moment of birth” to describe natural virtue in passage [A]. He claims that children and even animals have natural virtue. Nevertheless, taking Aristotle to mean that natural virtue is innate would cause several serious interpretive problems. If Aristotle were to maintain that some people are born with virtue, then he would be recanting his well-known claims that [F] Neither by nature, then, nor contrary to nature do virtues arise in us; rather we are adapted by nature to receive them, and are made perfect by habit. (1103a23–6; see also 1106a6–10)

Here Aristotle asserts that nature merely provides us with the raw material for virtue: the senses, the passions, the intellect, etc. Nature does not give us a head start in the right direction. Nature enables us to feel fear, for example, but it does not dispose us, even a little bit, to feel fear rightly rather than wrongly. It does not give us a gentle push in the direction of either courage or cowardice. Aristotle does not merely make this assertion; he goes on to advance several arguments against the idea of innate virtue (1103a26–b25). In particular, he argues that if virtue were innate, people would be nearly virtuous before they acted in accord with virtue, but as things are, people act in accord with virtue well before they are nearly virtuous. Aristotle’s claim that people are born morally neutral—neither marred by vicious passions and tendencies as extreme versions of the Christian doctrine of original sin suggest, nor overflowing with virtuous passions and tendencies as romantics such as Rousseau suggest—is a pillar of Aristotle’s ethics. The idea of innate virtue undermines this pillar. Moreover, as an intellectual virtue, practical wisdom is acquired by teaching if anything is. And natural virtue plus practical wisdom is proper virtue. So if Aristotle were to maintain that natural virtue is innate, then Aristotle would be committed to the claim that children lack only practical wisdom to achieve proper virtue. And this, in turn, would commit Aristotle to the claim that children need no habituation, but only teaching, to become fully virtuous. But the claim that people become good primarily by habituation is another pillar of Aristotle’s ethics.

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Third, children sometimes act in ways that, when speaking loosely, we associate with virtue. Like courageous and liberal people, they sometimes take risks and donate possessions, for example. But this is far from the reliable medial action demanded by Aristotelian virtue. Aristotle has high standards for what counts as virtuous action. He cannot help but notice that children lack the ability to act reliably in accord with virtue even in stressless, simple, common cases (1153a29–31; 1154a32–3; EE 1215b22–4; EE 1236a2–5). So the claim that children have anything remotely resembling virtue should not be attributed to Aristotle. Finally, Aristotle says in sentence [1] of passage [A] that “All men think that each type of character belongs to its possessors in some sense by nature . . . ” (italics added). So Aristotle evidently takes his claim to be uncontroversial. However, the claim that people are innately virtuous is quite controversial. The view that some people are born with a knack for courage, others for temperance, and so on, is not ridiculous, but it is hardly common sense, either. So taking natural virtue to be innate would clash with Aristotle’s claims that people are neither good nor bad by nature, that habituation plays a central role in moral development, that children need substantial moral improvement, and that character is widely thought to be somehow innate. In passage [A] Aristotle says that natural virtues are “evidently hurtful” when unsupplemented by reason and that “one may be led astray by them.” The orthodox interpretation of these phrases is that natural virtue is inferior to proper virtue because it is less effective than proper virtue at determining which acts are right. However, a more neutral translation of sentence [3] is in order. Closer to the Greek would be, “just as a strong body which moves without sight may stumble badly because of its lack of sight, so it is here [with respect to natural virtue].” (ho¯sper so¯mati ischuroi aney opseo¯s kinoumeno¯i sumbainei sphallesthai ischuro¯s dia to me echein opsin, houto kai entautha) Aristotle’s analogy is that people with mere natural virtue may act wrongly in the way that blind people may stumble. But blindness does not trip people: it merely reduces their ability to avoid obstacles and dangers. Similarly, the character trait of natural virtue does not lead people to act wrongly; it does not generate mistakes. Aristotle’s analogy suggests that natural virtue is inferior to proper virtue, not because it gives wrong answers in hard cases, but rather because it is less effective than proper virtue at avoiding and resisting various pressures, temptations, sophistical manipulations, etc. that constitute obstacles to the performance of virtuous acts and threats to the loss of virtue. Naturally virtuous people merely lack certain safeguards against acting wrongly. After all, natural virtue is supposed to be a sort of virtue, but there is nothing virtuous, nothing excellent or admirable, about a character trait that leads its possessor to blunder around in moral confusion, acting and feeling wrongly. A different line of thought also leads to the conclusion that naturally virtuous people reliably act in accord with virtue. In addition to practical wisdom, a properly virtuous person has dispositions to feel proper passions and to act rightly from these passions (1105a31–3). The properly virtuous person reliably acts and feels rightly. Since


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naturally virtuous people lack only practical wisdom, they must already have the other dispositions. Thus, they do not go astray; they reliably act and feel rightly. This seems too simple. Could it be that virtuous dispositions exist only in the presence of practical wisdom (and vice versa), so although properly virtuous people have both moral virtue and practical wisdom, people who lack either lack both? The various components of a properly virtuous character are, indeed, mutually supporting. In particular, practical wisdom bolsters and is bolstered by moral virtue. But Aristotle does not take this synergism to an extreme. He does allow that one can have moral virtue without practical wisdom. After all, as I mentioned above, he says repeatedly that habits of virtuous action and passion are a prerequisite, not an accompaniment, of effective teaching. Since people must acquire virtuous dispositions of action and passion through habituation before they gain practical wisdom through teaching, naturally virtuous people must already have these dispositions. Natural virtue includes habituated virtue. In an interesting passage located between passages [A] and [B] Aristotle says, [G] It is not merely the state in accordance with the right rule (kata tou orthon logou), but the state that implies the presence of the right rule (meta tou orthon logou), that is virtue; and practical wisdom is the right rule about such matters. (1144b26–8)

Here Aristotle distinguishes two states of character. One of these states is somehow in accordance with the right rule; the other somehow contains the right rule. The last clause of passage [G] goes on to identify practical wisdom with the right rule, at least “about such matters.” Since the difference between natural and proper virtue is practical wisdom, the two states of character Aristotle is contrasting in passage [G] must be natural and proper virtue. So although natural virtue does not include the right rule, it does include a disposition to act in accordance with the right rule. Pace the orthodox interpretation, therefore, natural virtue reliably generates right acts. My reading of passage [A] is admittedly forced. However, unlike the orthodox interpretation, my interpretation cleaves to the moral neutrality of human nature generally espoused by Aristotle. Additionally, by taking natural virtue to be acquired by habituation rather than present at birth, my interpretation avoids the problematic claims that children need no habituation and that they reliably act virtuously. Finally, my interpretation is compatible with Aristotle’s claims that natural virtue is a sort of virtue, and that people lacking practical wisdom can have habits of acting according to virtue.19

19 Other interpretations of “natural virtue” in passage [A] are available. Perhaps Aristotle’s claim is that some people are easily able to acquire virtue because of their inborn nature, while others who are not so lucky must struggle to do so. All are potentially good; some have it tougher than others. Alternatively, perhaps Aristotle is saying that some children are born with the disposition to develop virtues, although no one is born with the virtues themselves. The innate ability or disposition to develop virtues easily might be thought to be natural virtue. See Hardie, Aristotle’s Ethical Theory 236; White 142–51. These alternative interpretations avoid some of the objections I have raised, but like the orthodox interpretation, they violate the moral neutrality of our natural endowments. Moreover on these interpretations, natural virtues are not character

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Practical wisdom No interpretation fits all of Aristotle’s remarks about practical wisdom. But like passage [A], several other passages near the end of book VI seem to support the orthodox interpretation at first glance, but ultimately are more congenial to my interpretation. These passages are problematic if practical wisdom is taken to be the knowledge of which acts are right, but less problematic on my suggestion that practical wisdom is the knowledge of why right acts are right. Passage [G] is one such passage. What does Aristotle mean by saying that proper virtue contains the right rule, but natural virtue does not? Doesn’t this mean, as the orthodox interpretation asserts, that naturally virtuous people lack the knowledge of which acts are right? Orthodox interpreters might take Aristotle’s point to be that, if Ebenezer is a properly virtuous person, then he determines for himself what is right, while naturally virtuous people rely on others. If Ebenezer has the right rule within himself, then he knows which acts are right and does not need to be told. Alternatively, Gottlieb takes Aristotle’s point in passage [G] to be that Ebenezer does not merely act in accord with the right rule, but does so from the right motive with the proper passions. Unlike naturally virtuous people, Ebenezer is motivated to do the right thing at least partially because it is right, and feels no internal conflict doing so.20 Passage [G] says that the difference between naturally and properly virtuous people is that the latter have the right rule (i.e. practical wisdom) within themselves. However contra Gottlieb, this is not a point about motivation or passion. It is a claim about which people play host to the right rule. Orthodox interpreters get this right. But they do not take into account the fact that Aristotle is talking about states of character, dispositions to act and feel consistently. Passage [G] says that both naturally and properly virtuous people act according to virtue. The difference is that properly virtuous people act with the right rule. But a person cannot act reliably according to virtue without being able to determine for himself or herself what is right. Ebenezer cannot reliably act rightly by merely following orders. Sometimes orders are unclear, inapplicable, absent, etc. Thus, naturally virtuous people have the ability to determine which acts are in accord with virtue. Since people with mere natural virtue are not confused about how to act, the practical wisdom that naturally virtuous people lack cannot be the knowledge of which acts are in accord with virtue.21 Practical wisdom must mean something else in this context. Since I take practical wisdom to be the because, I suggest that to have the traits that become proper virtues merely with the addition of practical wisdom. Indeed, they are not character traits at all. 20

Gottlieb 100–6. White takes natural virtue to include habits of virtuous action and passion, but not the right motive (the commitment to perform virtuous acts for their own sake), because he takes this motive to presuppose the knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous. See White 162–6. 21


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right rule within oneself is to understand it. Possessing the right rule is not only being clear as to what to do, even in hard cases, but also knowing why it is the right thing to do. Aristotle’s distinction in passage [G] is that naturally virtuous people merely follow the right rule, but properly virtuous people have internalized the right rule by possessing the because. They know why virtuous acts are virtuous. Aristotle describes cleverness as the morally neutral ability to do means-ends and/or part-whole reasoning. He asserts that it is a necessary condition of practical wisdom: [H] There is a faculty which is called cleverness; and this is such as to be able to do the things that tend towards the mark we have set before ourselves, and to hit it. Now if the mark be noble, then the cleverness is laudable, but if the mark be bad, then the cleverness is mere smartness . . . Practical wisdom is not the faculty, but it does not exist without this faculty. (1144a23–8)

If aimed at a bad target, cleverness leads people to act viciously; if aimed at a good target, cleverness is a good thing. The last part of passage [H] indicates that cleverness combined somehow with the right ultimate end (i.e. the happy life) is at least part of practical wisdom. So much is uncontroversial. Since the orthodox interpretation takes practical wisdom to be the that, it naturally understands passage [H] to be saying that the virtuous person finds out which acts are right in a particular situation by determining which of the available options in that situation is most conducive to the happy life.22 However, as I mentioned above, this is the wrong way to determine which acts are right. One cannot determine which acts are in accord with virtue by straightforward means-ends reasoning starting from the happy life as ultimate goal, or by straightforward part-whole reasoning starting from the happy life as ultimate whole. On my interpretation, Aristotle’s claim in passage [H] is that, while cleverness alone is merely a morally neutral ability, cleverness combined with the knowledge of the happy life yields an understanding of why certain acts are in accord with virtue. This explanation has two parts: showing that certain character traits promote the happy life (i.e. they are virtues) and showing that certain acts exhibit these character traits. Cleverness plays a role in the first of these parts. For cleverness is the means-ends reasoning faculty, and unlike virtuous acts, the virtues are related to the happy life as means to an end. In NE VI.12 Aristotle raises the following three-prong challenge. By itself, practical wisdom is impotent. It does not cause people to act rightly, for action stems not from mere knowledge, but rather from states of character. Moreover, even if practical wisdom were efficacious, it would not help virtuous people to become better since they need no improvement. Nor do non-virtuous people need practical wisdom since good advice from other people works just as well (1143b24–31). Aristotle replies that if a person has all of the other components of virtue, then practical wisdom does improve his or her ability to act rightly (1144a11ff ). How? If the 22

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orthodox interpretation were right, then Aristotle could simply say that practical wisdom enables people to determine which acts are in accord with virtue, especially in hard cases. But Aristotle does not say this. Instead, Aristotle says something more complex and obscure. He observes that even non-virtuous people act in accord with virtue, but virtuous people are in the right state when they act (1144a18–19). Aristotle seems to be building up to the claim that practical wisdom’s use is to help people gain and/or maintain the right state. It must be admitted that Aristotle does not go on to say this, here. He turns to the question of moral virtue’s use, instead. But Aristotle’s rebuttal to the objection that practical wisdom is useless is suggested in passage [I], below. Aristotle defends practical wisdom by claiming that it protects virtue against corruption and loss. In the chapter in which Aristotle formally defines practical wisdom (NE VI.5) Aristotle says that practical wisdom [I] is not only a reasoned state; this is shown by the fact that a state of that sort may be forgotten but practical wisdom cannot. (1140b28–30)

Passage [I] says that, unlike some “reasoned states,” practical wisdom is unforgettable. This is puzzling on the orthodox interpretation because the knowledge of which acts are in accord with virtue is quite easily forgotten. People often become confused or deceived about their moral principles by others wielding sophistry, rhetoric, emotional appeals, or even just flawed arguments. People often lose their grasp on moral principles all by themselves through rationalization, denial, inattentiveness, or just plain error. So if practical wisdom is the that, then Aristotle is making a very counterintuitive claim in passage [I]. On my interpretation, however, Aristotle is making a plausible and familiar point. I say that practical wisdom consists of explanations of why right acts are right. Like Socrates in the Meno, Aristotle is saying in passage [I] that beliefs without explanations are easily lost, but explanations tie down beliefs, so that the resulting belief-explanation combination is much more secure. Knowledge of why certain acts are in accord with virtue makes a virtuous person unlikely to be seduced into ignoring or denying the fact that these acts are in accord with virtue. The because protects the that. The move from natural virtue to proper virtue constitutes moral progress, not only because the because is worth having for its own sake, but also because without the because, the that is less secure. One set of passages seems, at first glance, to be incompatible with my interpretation of practical wisdom. Aristotle says, [ J] The function (ergon) of man is achieved only in accordance with practical wisdom as well as with moral virtue; for virtue makes the aim right, and practical wisdom the things leading to it (ta pros touton). (1144a6–9; see also 1140b11–20; 1144a20–2; 1145a4–6; 1151a15–19; EE 1227b12–1228a2)


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Now passage [J] is the center of an interpretive minefield around the edges of which I hope to tiptoe. Some commentators take passage [J] to say that moral virtue provides the knowledge of the ultimate end of action (i.e. the happy life), while practical wisdom works out the means to, or the parts of, the happy life. These means or parts are right acts.23 On this Humean reading, passage [J] would support the orthodox interpretation by making practical wisdom the knowledge of which acts are right. But this reading of passage [J] is vigorously contested by other commentators24 because it problematically assigns to moral virtue a task for which reason is far better suited, the task of acquiring a certain sort of knowledge. Moreover, this reading in a sense subordinates reason to the passions, despite Aristotle’s clear view that virtue requires passion to be attentive and obedient to reason. Finally, this Humean reading of passage [J] clashes with several passages. Most damagingly, the following passage says explicitly that practical wisdom provides the knowledge of the happy life: [K] It is thought to be the mark of a man of practical wisdom to be able to deliberate well about what is good and expedient for himself, not in some particular respect, e.g. about what sorts of thing conduce to health or to strength, but about what sorts of thing conduce to the good life in general. (1140a25–28; see also 1142b31–33; Rhet. 1366b20–2)25

So although one interpretation of passage [J] supports the orthodox interpretation, good grounds for rejecting that interpretation of passage [J] exist. On my interpretation of passage [J], Aristotle’s point is that moral virtue generates a desire for the happy life, vaguely understood, while the role of practical wisdom is to provide a concrete account of the happy life. Everyone desires to lead what they consider to be a happy life, of course, but moral virtue creates a yearning to lead a virtuous life, rather than say a life of moneymaking or sensual pleasure. Practical wisdom provides a list of virtues plus detailed descriptions of their aspects and applications. Thus interpreted, passage [J] assigns to moral virtue the creation of a desire, and to reason the acquisition of a piece of knowledge. It also supports my claim that practical wisdom focuses on which character traits fit together in the properly virtuous person, rather than merely determining which particular acts are in accord with virtue.

23

Fortenbaugh, Aristotle on Emotion; Joachim 218. Other commentators take the knowledge of the happy life to be provided by theoretical wisdom (Reeve 86ff.), practical wisdom (D. Wiggens, “Deliberation and Practical Reason.” In Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, ed. A. Rorty (University of California Press, 1980) 221–40), or nothing (Broadie 198–202). See also Bostock 88–98; Smith 62–3; T. Tuozzo, “Aristotelian Deliberation is not of Ends.” In Essays in Ancient Greek Philosophy IV: Aristotle’s Ethics, ed. J. Anton and A. Preus (Albany: SUNY Press, 1981) 193–212. 25 Aristotle is surely not claiming in passage [K] that practical wisdom plays no role in the deliberation about which acts promote particular goods in particular situations. Rather Aristotle’s point in passage [K] is that this is not characteristic or distinctive or central to practical wisdom’s task. It is not “the mark of a man of practical wisdom” (italics added). After all, people lacking practical wisdom may also deliberate well “about what sorts of thing conduce to health or to strength,” though such people will not deliberate well about “what sorts of thing conduce to the good life in general.” 24

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Finally, a taxonomic point. By taking practical wisdom to be the that, the orthodox interpretation makes not only natural virtue, but also proper virtue turn out to be insufficiently admirable. If proper virtue was merely natural virtue plus the that, then proper virtue plus the knowledge of why acts are in accord with virtue would be an even better state of character than proper virtue unsupplemented. But the only state of character better than proper virtue is heroic virtue (1145a15ff ), and surely one need not possess heroic virtue in order to know why certain acts are right. Thus, the orthodox interpretation has no room for the person who knows not only which acts are right but also why they are right. On my interpretation, however, finding a niche in Aristotle’s taxonomy for the person with the because is easy. The person who knows not only which acts are right but also why they are right simply is the properly virtuous person.

The first premise So far, the investigation of passage [A] and its surrounding passages has exposed some problems facing the orthodox interpretation. Turning to passage [B] reveals even more clearly that the orthodox interpretation of Aristotle’s argument is uncharitable. On the orthodox interpretation, Aristotle’s argument is doubly unsound because both of his main premises turn out to be patently false. Indeed, Aristotle himself provides counterexamples. My interpretation of Aristotle’s argument is free from these drawbacks. The orthodox interpretation must deny the existence of unevenly virtuous people, people who believe, reason, perceive, choose, act, and feel just fine with respect to some spheres, but not others. Such people would be counterexamples to the premise that, (1b) a person who knows which acts are in accord with one virtue, must know which acts are in accord with all of the virtues. The orthodox interpretation might acknowledge that some people seem to be unevenly virtuous. They seem, for example, to know which acts are courageous, but not which acts are temperate. However the orthodox interpretation must maintain that these people do not actually know which acts are courageous in unusual, complex, or stressful situations. They make enough mistakes about what to do in hard cases that their choices are not reliably right. These people do not really have the virtue of courage, but only a knack or feeling for courage that lets them down when the choices get tough. However, we all know unevenly virtuous people. Consider a pair of examples. Felicity takes all, and only, the right risks for the right reasons with the right blend of fear and confidence. But she flares too easily and too severely when insulted. She is courageous, yet hot-tempered. Do her false beliefs about revenge belie her claim to courage? No, Felicity’s courage keeps her from inappropriately risky revenge. She seeks excessive revenge only when she can do so safely. Similarly, Grover has no trouble discriminating among virtuous and vicious acts even in unusual, complex, or stressful situations involving money, but he makes dramatic misjudgments about his own alcohol consumption. He is liberal, yet intemperate. Does his lack of temperance


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cause him to go wrong in overlap situations, undermining his liberality? No. Although, Grover drinks himself silly whenever money is not an issue (e.g. at parties with open bars), in situations where he must buy his own drinks, Grover’s liberality takes charge, keeping him sober. He declines to buy more drinks, although only because they are not worth the money. In general, people can have both virtues and vices so long as their virtues reliably trump their vices. Premise (1b) is uncharitable, not only because unevenly virtuous people exist, but also because Aristotle, himself, is aware of them. In passage [B], Aristotle tries explicitly to accommodate the endoxon that some people seem to have only some virtues. Surely he is not merely responding to the observation that many people have a smattering of childish simulacra of virtues, but rather Aristotle must be trying to accommodate the common observation that there are people like Felicity and Grover who reliably act and feel rightly in some spheres, but not in others. Aristotle mentions them in several passages: [L] [1] The liberal man is not necessarily magnificent. (1122a29) [2] He who is worthy of little and thinks himself worthy of little is temperate, but not proud. (1123b5–6) [3] Some who in the dangers of war are cowards are liberal and are confident in face of the loss of money. (1115a20–2) [4] Those who are called by such names as ‘miserly’, ‘close’, ‘stingy’, all fall short in giving, but do not covet the possessions of others nor wish to get them. In some this is due to a sort of honesty and avoidance of what is disgraceful (for some seem, or at least profess, to hoard their money for this reason, that they may not some day be forced to do something disgraceful; to this class belong the cheeseparer and every one of the sort.) (1121b21–7)

Several commentators have used different maneuvers to explain away the liberal, nonmagnificent person in sentence [1].26 But in sentences [2] through [4] Aristotle affirms the existence of temperate, non-proud people, liberal cowards, and just illiberals. Thus, the orthodox interpretation makes Aristotle contradict himself. The orthodox interpretation attributes to Aristotle a necessity claim: in order to know which acts are in accord with one virtue a person must know which acts are in accord with all of the other virtues. Because the prima facie demands of different virtues may conflict, the virtuous person must assign correct rankings to these demands in order to resolve the conflicts. Phrased in terms of goods, this becomes the claim that a holistic grasp of the goods constituting the happy life (including especially a correct ranking of these goods) is necessary in order to know which acts are right. However, even if making trade-offs correctly is necessary in order to act in accord with virtue, one need not know all of the demands of all of the virtues in order to know all of the demands of one virtue. For example, Hortense can know all that there is to know about when to sacrifice safety for sensual pleasure without knowing when

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to sacrifice one sort of sensual pleasure for another, or when to sacrifice sensual pleasure for money. Neither of these bits of knowledge is relevant to the knowledge of which acts are courageous. No doubt, the virtues are interrelated. The knowledge of which acts are courageous includes at least some of the knowledge of which acts are temperate. But Hortense need not know everything about which acts are temperate in order to know which acts are courageous. Thus, Hortense can have the practical wisdom component of courage while lacking the practical wisdom component of temperance. In general, people can have complete knowledge of which acts are in accord with one virtue without having similar knowledge of all of the other virtues. The orthodox interpretation also attributes to Aristotle a sufficiency claim; if a person knows the relative values and interrelationships of the goods composing the happy life, then he or she will know which acts are in accord with all of the virtues. But this claim is also false. Even if Igor knows how to make trade-offs among all of the goods, he may still be wrong about how to act in some situations because of culpable misconceptions or misperceptions about the world. For example, Igor might know that taking minor risks in order to help others in major ways is usually the right thing to do. Yet if he fails to realize that crossing a busy, six-lane highway is quite risky, or if he fails to perceive an oncoming truck, then he may mistake a rash act for a courageous one. My interpretation attributes neither this necessity claim nor this sufficiency claim to Aristotle. Instead, I take Aristotle to hold the following, more plausible theses. First, in order to know why acts are in accord with one virtue a person must know all of the other virtues. Second, if a person knows all of the virtues, then he or she will know why right acts are right. Thus, on my interpretation unevenly virtuous people are not counterexamples to Aristotle’s first premise. A person who reliably knows what to do with respect to one sphere (but not why), and does it with appropriate passions, pleasures, etc., yet fails to know what to do in other spheres, is perfectly compatible with premise (1c).

The second premise I have argued on charitable, textual, and theoretical grounds that the orthodox interpretation of Aristotle’s first premise should be rejected. These grounds are even more pressing with respect to Aristotle’s second premise. The counterexamples are more blatant, and Aristotle’s descriptions of the counterexamples are more central and detailed. Aristotle says that people with practical wisdom have all of the proper virtues. The orthodox interpretation of this claim is that people with the that reliably act and feel appropriately. But this interpretation is uncharitable because it burdens Aristotle with a patently false claim. Indeed, people who know what to do and feel, yet despite their knowledge end up feeling inappropriate passions are even more familiar than unevenly virtuous people. Whether they master or succumb to their bad passions, such people


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clearly lack virtue. Continent and incontinent people are blatant counterexamples to the premise that, (2b) whoever knows which acts are in accord with one virtue must also possess the moral component of that virtue. Again Aristotle shows that he is aware of this class of counterexamples. He famously describes continent and incontinent people as having the knowledge of what should be done, yet habitually feeling inappropriate passions. For example Aristotle says, [M] Both the continent man and the temperate man are such as to do nothing contrary to reason for the sake of bodily pleasures, but the former has and the latter has not bad appetites, and the latter is such as not to feel pleasure contrary to reason, while the former is such as to feel pleasure but not to be led by it. And the incontinent and the self-indulgent man are also like one another; they are different, but both pursue bodily pleasures—the latter, however, also thinking that he ought to do so, while the former does not think this. (1151b33–1152a6)

Of course, in some sense, incontinent people are not using their knowledge at the times when they act wrongly, but that does not prevent them from being counterexamples. Aristotle claims in the second premise that people with practical wisdom have proper virtue. And properly virtuous people do not just somehow possess practical wisdom while keeping it quiescent: they reliably use their practical wisdom as well as act and feel appropriately. Anyway, even if the incontinent are somehow disqualified, continent people remain counterexamples. Aristotle explicitly notes that people with practical wisdom are not incontinent: [N] Is it then practical wisdom whose resistance is mastered? . . . But this is absurd; the same man will be at once practically wise and incontinent, but no one would say that it is the part of a practically wise man to do willingly the basest acts. (1146a4–7; see also 1144a36–b1)

Since incontinent people have the that, they would have practical wisdom if the orthodox interpretation of practical wisdom were correct. Thus, the orthodox interpretation is contradicted by passage [N]. The orthodox interpretation attributes to Aristotle the view that people who know what is right will act and feel rightly. But this is a very extreme claim. Even those who believe that, “to know the good is to do it,” do not hold that the mere knowledge that an act is right constitutes a sufficient incentive. For example, Socrates in the Protagoras maintains that a certain sort of knowledge reliably produces right behavior. But this knowledge consists not only in the knowledge that a certain act is right, but also the knowledge of why the act is right. A central part of Aristotle’s ethical theory is that becoming and remaining good is more than just an intellectual matter. Motives, passions, etc., are also involved. Of course, the claim that right action is ensured merely by the knowledge of which acts are right runs counter to this doctrine. Thus, the orthodox interpretation attributes to Aristotle a premise that is both implausible and incompatible with a pillar of his ethical theory.

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Aristotle takes the second premise of his argument to be so obvious as to require no justification. Yet the orthodox interpretation of the second premise conflicts with common sense, with Aristotle’s claim that continent and incontinent people exist, and even with the views of those who are extreme intellectualists about virtue. My alternative fares better. Continent and incontinent people are no threat to Aristotle’s argument on my interpretation. People who lack proper passions in a certain sphere, and know which acts are in accord with virtue (though not why) are not counterexamples to premise (2c).

Conclusion On the orthodox interpretation, Aristotle’s argument for his reciprocity of virtue thesis hinges on the claim that knowledge of a certain unity of goods is necessary for determining which acts are right, plus the claim that this knowledge has the power to produce right acts, feelings, motives, etc. On my interpretation, by contrast, Aristotle’s argument hinges on the claim that knowledge of a certain unity of character traits is necessary for explaining why right acts are right, plus the claim that habituation is a precondition for successful teaching. Both interpretations are problematic. Start with passage [B]. On the orthodox interpretation, Aristotle’s argument for his reciprocity of virtue thesis is not worth taking seriously. Premise (1b) stringently requires that everyone who reliably knows how to act appropriately in even one sphere must be able to rank the demands of all of the virtues. Such people must have a thorough understanding of the whole happy life in terms of the interrelationships of goods and their trade-offs. Even more implausibly, they must be able to apply their understanding in concrete cases in order to determine reliably how to act appropriately in every sphere. Counterexamples to these claims abound. Indeed, Aristotle himself mentions these unevenly virtuous people. But premise (2b) is worse. Premise (2b) says that everyone who reliably knows how to act appropriately in a sphere must reliably actually feel and act appropriately in that sphere. Knowledge is sufficient for virtue. Again Aristotle, himself, points out an obvious class of counterexamples: continent and incontinent people. To attribute premises (1b) and (2b) to Aristotle is to accuse him of holding incredible and contradictory views. This creates an interpretive puzzle. An alternative to the orthodox interpretation is needed. On my interpretation, Aristotle’s view is consistent and plausible. I have argued that people with natural virtue possess the that, but lack the because, while people with proper virtue possess both. The difference between natural and proper virtues is practical wisdom, and practical wisdom is the knowledge of why certain acts are in accord with virtue. What is this knowledge? Acts are in accord with virtue when they follow the right rule of a virtue. To know that a character trait is a virtue is to know that it is conducive to the happy life. To know that a character trait is conducive to the happy life, one must know all of the virtues. That is why Aristotle holds premise (1c).


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To get to the point of knowing this, one must have already acquired habits of virtuous passion and action. That is why Aristotle holds premise (2c). Neither premise faces a huge, glaring class of counterexamples. To get to my interpretation of passage [B], I have had to interpret parts of passage [A] in unnatural ways. That is my interpretation’s primary drawback. But upon closer examination, the orthodox interpretation of passage [A] is hardly problem-free, either. Its definitions of natural virtue and practical wisdom lead to dramatic incompatibilities among Aristotle’s doctrines and passages. By contrast, my interpretation of passage [A] avoids or ameliorates these problems. For this reason, and also because it allows Aristotle’s argument for the reciprocity of virtue thesis to be respectable, I maintain that my interpretation of passages [A] and [B] is, on balance, preferable to the orthodox interpretation.

15 Aristotle’s Painful Path to Virtue: The Many and the Generous-Minded Two questions For Aristotle, the goal of moral development is, of course, to become virtuous. Aristotle provides a partial description of the virtuous person in the following familiar passage. The virtuous person performing virtuous acts, [A] must have knowledge, secondly he must choose the acts, and choose them for their own sakes, and thirdly his actions must proceed from a firm and unchangeable character. (1105a31–3)

By my count, this passage lists five components of virtue. Presumably, the virtuous agent’s knowledge consists in true beliefs concerning which acts are virtuous, plus a correct account of why they are virtuous. Virtue thus includes both (1) the ability to identify which acts are virtuous in a given situation and (2) an understanding of why they are virtuous. Choice is deliberate desire, so choosing virtuous acts is a combination of determining and desiring virtuous acts. People want to carry out virtuous acts for various reasons. For example, some choose virtuous acts merely because they are fashionable or instrumentally valuable. But Aristotle specifies that the virtuous person (3) desires virtuous acts for their own sakes. Finally, since a state of character includes dispositions to act and feel in certain ways, “a firm virtuous character” includes not only (4) dispositions of virtuous action, but also (5) dispositions of virtuous passion. The virtuous person reliably acts and feels right. Since “We are inquiring not in order to know what virtue is but in order to become good” (1103b27–8), it seems natural to ask how these five components of virtue are acquired. Aristotle’s oft-repeated prescription for becoming virtuous is, “We become just by performing just acts, and temperate by performing temperate acts” (1105a18–19). Now virtuous action is different in different situations, so habitually acting virtuously does not mean repeatedly doing the same thing, but rather it means repeatedly doing the right thing. Nevertheless, it is easy enough to see how performing virtuous acts can provide dispositions of virtuous action. Aristotle explains elsewhere

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that teaching, rather than habituation, provides the explanation of why certain acts are virtuous (1095b2–13, see below). Aristotle suggests that dispositions of virtuous passion are inculcated through music (Politics 1340a12–b13).1 But the acquisition of the two remaining components of virtue seems mysterious. How do we acquire the ability to identify virtuous acts? How do we come to desire virtuous acts for their own sake?

Burnyeat’s answers: moral progress through pleasure In a classic article entitled “Aristotle on Learning to be Good,” Burnyeat presents answers to these two questions.2 He says that according to Aristotle, [W]e first learn (come to see) what is noble and just not by experience of or induction from a series of instances, nor by intuition (intellectual or perceptual), but by learning to do noble and just things, by being habituated to noble and just conduct. . . . You need a good upbringing not simply in order that you may have someone around to tell you what is noble and just—you do need that. . . . Aristotle discusses whether the job is best done by one’s father or by community arrangements—but you need also to be guided in your conduct so that by doing the things you are told are noble and just you will discover that what you have been told is true. . . . in the sense of having made the judgment your own, second nature to you.3

So according to Burnyeat, Aristotle thinks that guided habituation enables you acquire the ability to judge for yourself which acts are virtuous. To begin with, you need “someone around to tell you what is noble and just.” You must be told by someone that this act in this context is virtuous; that act is vicious; and so on. But you do not become a good judge of action simply by generalizing from these virtue judgments. Instead, “doing the things you are told are noble and just,” enables you to “make the judgment your own, second nature to you.” That is, habitual virtuous action causes you to accept these virtue judgments not just superficially, but in a profound way. Of course, making these judgments your own is not enough; you need to be able to make your own judgments. Luckily, by habitually acting on these particular judgments, you also develop the ability to judge for yourself which acts are virtuous and which are vicious. You “internalize from a scattered range of particular cases a general evaluative attitude which is not reducible to rules or precepts.”4 Parent or community 1 What exactly is the explanation of why certain acts are virtuous? How does teaching provide this explanation? What exactly are virtuous passions? How does music train our passions? These difficult questions are beyond the scope of this chapter. See P. Crittenden, Learning To Be Moral (London: Humanities Press International, 1990) 115–16; D. Depew, “Politics, Music, and Contemplation in Aristotle’s Ideal State.” In A Companion to Aristotle’s Politics, ed., D. Keyt and F. Miller (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991) 368–9; C. Lord, Education and Culture in the Political Thought of Aristotle (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1982) 85ff; McDowell, “Deliberation and Moral Development in Aristotle’s Ethics,” 31; C. D. C. Reeve, “Aristotelian Education.” In Philosophers on Education, ed., A. O. Rorty (London: Routledge, 1998) 61. 2 M. Burnyeat, “Aristotle on Learning to be Good.” In Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, ed., A. O. Rorty (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980) 69–92. 3 Burnyeat 73–4. 4 Burnyeat 72.

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provides the true beliefs about how to act. You internalize these beliefs and also cultivate the ability to make further virtue judgments by acting on these beliefs again and again. Burnyeat recognizes that an explanation of this process is necessary. “How can I learn that something is noble or just by becoming habituated to doing it?” he asks.5 Burnyeat’s answer is that I may be told, and may believe, that such and such actions are just and noble, but I have not really learned for myself (taken to heart, made second nature to me) that they have this intrinsic value until I have learned to value (love) them for it.6

So I internalize a judgment that a certain act is virtuous by recognizing the intrinsic value of the act. I have “really learned for myself (taken to heart, made second nature to me)” that a certain act is virtuous by coming to value the act for its own sake. This is not a dispassionate judgment. Coming to value virtuous acts is coming to love them. The learner “has learned what is noble (‘the that’) and, as we now see, thus come to love it.”7 To internalize the judgments of which acts are virtuous is to come to love (i.e. to desire) virtuous acts for their own sake. How does the learner come to love virtuous acts for their own sake? According to Burnyeat, Aristotle’s view is that “what you love in this sense is what you enjoy or take pleasure in. But equally [Aristotle] insists that the capacity for ‘noble joy and noble hatred’ grows from habituation.”8 The learner comes to love virtuous acts by taking pleasure in them. The acts are pleasing, so the agent desires to repeat them. That positive reinforcement leads learners to desire virtuous acts is unsurprising. But the further claim that this pleasure “grows from habituation” stands in need of explanation. Why does repeatedly performing virtuous acts produce pleasure? Burnyeat appeals to Aristotle’s observation that virtuous people enjoy performing virtuous acts because they know that the acts are virtuous and because they have developed “virtuous tastes.” For example, virtuous people enjoy drinking moderate amounts of wine because it is temperate and because wine tastes good in correct quantities, not merely because moderation avoids hangovers and bad reputations. Now according to Burnyeat, when learners repeatedly perform virtuous acts they enjoy these acts in the same way and for the same reason that virtuous people do. So what “grows from habituation” is not just any sort of pleasure: habituation produces “noble joy.” The learners are “learning to enjoy something properly where this contrasts with merely taking pleasure in it.”9 Let me summarize Burnyeat’s interpretation. (A) Aristotle thinks that the learner is given virtue judgments about particular acts in particular situations. (B) The learner internalizes these judgments by habitual virtuous action. (C) This guided habituation also yields the ability to identify virtuous acts. It produces the desire to perform virtuous acts for their own sake. (D) The learner is motivated to perform virtuous acts again and 5 8

Burnyeat 74. Burnyeat 76.

6 9

Burnyeat 78. Burnyeat 76.

7

Burnyeat 76.


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again by taking pleasure in them. (E) Conversely, the learner comes to take proper pleasure in virtuous acts by performing them.10

Objections to Burnyeat’s answers Burnyeat has done a great service by calling attention to the questions of how habituation can have cognitive and motivational impact, how learners come to identify virtuous acts and to desire these acts for their own sake. Unfortunately, I must disagree with Burnyeat’s answers for several reasons. (A) Aristotle maintains that learners gain the ability to determine which acts are virtuous through habituation rather than by teaching. He says, [B] [1] For, while we must begin with what is familiar, things are so in two ways—some to us, some without qualification. Presumably, then, we must begin with things familiar to us. [2] Hence any one who is to listen intelligently to lectures about what is noble and just, and generally, about the subjects of political science must have been brought up in good habits. [3] For the facts (to hoti, the that) are the starting-point, and if they are sufficiently plain to him, he will not need the reason (to dihoti, the because) as well. (1095b2–7)

In sentence [3] Aristotle distinguishes between the belief that certain acts are virtuous, and the account of why these acts are virtuous. The virtuous person presumably has both the that and the because. Sentence [2] distinguishes between what is acquired by being “brought up in good habits,” and what is acquired by listening “intelligently to lectures about what is noble and just.” Together these sentences indicate that habituation provides the ability to identify virtuous acts, and teaching provides the understanding of why virtuous acts are virtuous. Aristotle’s first reason for asserting that the that cannot be acquired through teaching is that ethics teaching presupposes knowledge of the that. “A young man is not a proper hearer of lectures on political science; for he is inexperienced in the actions that occur in life, but its discussions start from these and are about these” (1095a2–4). Now Aristotle believes that learners need someone to ensure that their practice makes them better, not worse since, “it is from playing the lyre that both good and bad lyre-players are produced” (1103b8–9). Someone must make certain that learners acquire the right beliefs and desires through habituation. Learners cannot simply be 10 Several commentators present variations of Burnyeat’s account. Reeve, for example, paints the following picture. (d) Habituated virtue makes desire right. Repeatedly performing virtuous acts makes the learner desire (and choose) to perform virtuous acts. (e) Performing virtuous acts with wrong desire produces frustration; performing them with right desire makes these acts pleasing. (f ) The learner may doggedly follow principles despite frustration, but this will not enable the learner to make the subtle discriminations of virtue and vice that are essential to acting well. Learners only come to have detailed knowledge of which acts are right by experiencing these acts with pleasure Thus, Reeve agrees with Burnyeat that (c) the learner comes to take pleasure in virtuous acts by repeatedly performing them, but reverses Burnyeat’s claim that (b) the learner chooses virtuous acts because the learner takes pleasure in them. See Reeve, Practices of Reason, 51–4.

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trained by rote as we train animals, because virtue requires different acts in different situations. But how is habituation guided? Burnyeat declares that the guide tells the learner which acts are virtuous and which vicious in particular situations. The learner must know “of specific actions that they are noble or just in specific circumstances . . . [M]oral advice will come to him in fairly general terms; a spot of dialectic may be needed . . . ”11 But this is teaching. To call it anything else would be misleading. So, although Burnyeat says that he is attributing to Aristotle the view that learners acquire the that by habituation, Burnyeat’s description of guided habituation reveals that he actually takes Aristotle’s view to be that learners acquire the that by habituation plus teaching. Of course, if there were no other way to guide learners, then Burnyeat’s interpretation might be charitable despite Aristotle’s protestations that ethics teaching presupposes that the learner already knows the that. However, there are various ways to keep learners on track without either giving them the that (i.e. teaching learners “this is the right thing to do in this situation”) or reducing habituation to mere mindless repetition (e.g. making learners stand fast in battle again and again no matter what the risk and likelihood of success). For example, one might merely prevent learners from acting wrongly, allowing them to discover the right acts for themselves. So Burnyeat errs by attributing to Aristotle the view that habituation begins with the learner being taught which acts are virtuous and which vicious. (B) In sentence [2] of passage [B], Aristotle gives his second reason for asserting that the that must be acquired through habituation rather than teaching. He insists that successful habituation is a prerequisite for successful teaching. This claim is supported by sentences [1] and [3], too. The judgments about which acts are virtuous are “what is familiar to us,” and “we must begin with things familiar to us.” These judgments “are the starting-point.”12 Aristotle advances the thesis that teaching is futile before good habits are already in place in another passage, too. [C] Argument and teaching, we may suspect, are not powerful with all men, but the soul of the student must first have been cultivated by means of habits for noble joy and noble hatred, like earth which is to nourish the seed . . . The character, then, must somehow be there already with a kinship to virtue, loving what is noble and hating what is base. (1179b23–31; see also 1095a4–6).

11

Burnyeat 72. Vasiliou takes the that (the recognition of particular actions as virtuous) to be some of the starting points (archai) for ethics. He concludes that the that and the because coincide, for archai cannot have separate explanations. Yet, in this passage, Aristotle says that a person who has grasped the that “will not need the because.” Aristotle does not say that such a person “already has” the because. Moreover, the main point of the passage is that the learner needs good habits to be able to profit from teaching. But if good habits provide both the that and the because, what is left to teach the learner? See Vasiliou 776–8, 787–9. 12


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In this passage, habituation has a different role: it provides the learner with a love of the noble and hatred of the base. What Aristotle means by “the noble” and “the base” is not obvious. I suggest that these terms are residual elements of an older, Homeric value system, coexisting uneasily alongside Aristotle’s newer system of values. He strives to harmonize the two systems in various ways. One way is by defining virtuous actions in his own way and then asserting that “virtuous actions are noble” (1120a23). In any event, “loving what is noble” surely includes desiring to perform virtuous acts for their own sake. So in this passage, Aristotle is claiming that we acquire the desire to perform virtuous acts for their own sake by habituation. Aristotle’s main point in the passage is that this habituation must precede “argument and teaching.” Farmers prepare the earth before they sow. The two activities are not mingled. Similarly, the student must have been “cultivated by means of habits” before teaching can be effective. “Argument and teaching are not powerful” with people unless the proper habits are inculcated “first.” They must “be there already.” Odd though it may sound to us, in these two passages Aristotle is saying that the learner must both come to be able to identify virtuous acts and come to desire to perform virtuous acts by habituation before one can teach the learner anything about the noble. Of course, Burnyeat is aware of Aristotle’s claim that “Education through habits must come earlier than education through reason” (Politics 1338b4–5): Burnyeat quotes the same passages that I do. His way of accommodating Aristotle’s claim is to distinguish between two sorts of teaching. He implies that one sort of teaching occurs early in the learning process and consists of telling learners which acts are right. The second sort of teaching occurs late in the learning process and consists of explaining why right acts are right. The former sort guides habituation; the later sort presupposes proper habits.13 But Aristotle does not distinguish between these two sorts of teaching. He does not mention a type of ethics teaching that is somehow exempt from the prerequisite of proper habits. He does not say that habituation must precede teaching about the because, but not teaching about other aspects of ethics. His claim is quite general: proper habits are a prerequisite of teaching about ethics. Unfortunately, Burnyeat’s interpretation of guided habituation makes habituation kick in during or after learners are

13 Other commentators have also been understandably reluctant to attribute to Aristotle the counterintuitive claim that habituation must precede all teaching. They too have tried in various ways to smuggle some teaching into habituation. Sherman, for example, takes Aristotle to be saying that learners become virtuous through virtuous action accompanied by description and explanation. She says, “Aristotle would probably object to the practice of the parent who says, ‘Do this, don’t do that’ without further descriptions or explanations. The child can legitimately ask ‘why,’ and some description and explanation will be in order. . . . [E]motions cannot be shaped without some simultaneous cultivation of discriminatory abilities. This is included as a part of habituation” (Sherman, The Fabric of Character, 172–3). Sherman is quite right to maintain that “descriptions and explanations” are crucial to the process of moral development. But there is no reason to think that Aristotle would include them within the notion of habituation. Description and explanation are teaching, and Aristotle insists that successful teaching presupposes successful habituation. He denies that descriptions and explanations should accompany parental commands and exhortations.

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taught which acts are virtuous. Burnyeat’s suggestion is that learners are told which acts are virtuous “in fairly general terms [with] a spot of dialectic.” And this contradicts Aristotle’s claim that successful ethics teaching presupposes both knowledge of the that and good habits. (C) Aristotle says that the desire to perform virtuous acts for their own sake arises from habituation. Plausibly enough, Burnyeat takes this to mean that learners do not desire to perform virtuous acts for their own sake unless they first perform them many times. But habituation is not required to instill the desire to perform virtuous acts for their own sake. Our appetite for virtue is not limited to virtuous acts that have already become habits. We intrinsically value and desire many actions that we have not even performed, let alone performed habitually. For example, we may not only judge that in certain situations standing fast in battle and resisting adulterous advances are the right acts, we may also desire to perform these acts for their own sake even if we have never before been in battle or been the object of seduction.14 The view Burnyeat attributes to Aristotle cannot explain the common fact of our moral experience that we often choose virtuous acts for their own sake the first time that we encounter them. A defender of Burnyeat might maintain that we acquire the disposition to want to perform certain virtuous acts by performing different acts of similar sorts. Although we many never have stood fast in battle or resisted adultery, we have done things like this before. Other previously performed courageous and temperate acts prepare us to resist warriors and seducers. Yet what is like war and seduction? Is Burnyeat’s defender maintaining that habitually resisting pressure in committee meetings and declining hot fudge sundaes disposes us to want to stand fast when we find ourselves in our first battle and run fast from our first seduction? This seems implausible. Moreover, consider the incontinent. They choose virtuous acts for their own sake,15 but they do not end up performing the virtuous acts they choose. Some people become incontinent by backsliding, but many others come to choose virtuous acts before they develop their own character to the point of being able to carry out their virtuous choices. People who have been acting wrongly may resolve to change their vicious ways and act rightly for its own sake. Yet they often spend a long time, perhaps forever, not implementing this resolution. In situation after situation they fail to act rightly. Such incontinent people have somehow learned to choose virtuous acts for their own sake, but they have not learned this through acting virtuously, because they 14 The claim that one can acquire moral truths beyond our own experience is affirmed by Hursthouse and denied by Reeve. See R. Hursthouse, “Moral Habituation,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 6 (1988): 215n15; Reeve, Practice of Reason, 53. 15 Aristotle does not explicitly say that the incontinent choose virtuous acts for their own sake. But the continent differ from the virtuous only in that they typically have inappropriate desires, and the incontinent differ from the continent only in that they typically act on their inappropriate desires. Thus, the incontinent do not differ from the virtuous with respect to choice or motive, but only with respect to desire and action.


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have not been acting virtuously. These people are clear counterexamples to Burnyeat’s thesis that learners who come to desire virtuous acts for their own sake must have repeatedly performed these virtuous acts. Conversely, some people habitually act rightly in situation after situation although their motives are far from pure. They refrain from theft in order to avoid getting caught, stand fast in battle in order to impress their girlfriends, etc. Such people act better than the incontinent, although at least in one sense they are morally worse, for they lack the desire to perform virtuous acts for their own sake. Some of these people go on to become virtuous, I suppose, but others make no moral progress at all. They habitually act rightly, but for the wrong reasons. They show that habituation alone is insufficient to instill the desire to perform virtuous acts for their own sake. I shall suggest below that habituation instills this desire only when combined with a certain catalyst. (D) Burnyeat claims that we “really learn” which acts are virtuous (i.e. we come to desire these acts for their own sake) by taking pleasure in performing them. Pleasure is a guide to virtuous action. But Aristotle does not say that learners take pleasure in performing virtuous acts. In fact, Aristotle says that following their pleasures leads the not-yetvirtuous astray (1104b9–12; 1109a14–16; 1113a33–b2). This is presumably Aristotle’s reason for advising learners to avoid the things they find pleasant in order to hit the mean. He says, [D] Now in everything the pleasant or pleasure is most to be guarded against; for we do not judge it impartially. We ought, then, to feel towards pleasure as the elders of the people felt towards Helen, and in all circumstances repeat their saying; for if we dismiss pleasure thus we are less likely to go astray. (1109b7–13)

The advice of the Trojan elders that Aristotle is here urging us to follow was to send Helen back because she was too tempting.16 She was a forbidden pleasure. Far from urging us to perform the acts that please us in order to learn to desire virtuous acts for their own sake, Aristotle instead urges us to steer clear of pleasure because it is likely to lead us wrong.17 (E) Burnyeat attributes to Aristotle the view that repetition makes virtuous acts pleasant. But Aristotle never actually says this. He does say, “Things familiar and things habitual belong to the class of pleasant things; for there are many actions not naturally pleasant which men perform with pleasure, once they have become used to them” (Rhetoric 1369b15–19; see also 1179b35–6). But a few lines later Aristotle goes on to say that, “I 16

Iliad 3.156ff. Annas writes off these passages as cases where Aristotle is ignoring his own considered view and merely expressing the simpler, popular view that contrasts the lives of virtue and pleasure. See J. Annas, “Aristotle on Pleasure and Goodness.” In Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, ed. A. O. Rorty, (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980) 290–2. 17

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count among pleasures escape from painful or apparently painful things and the exchange of a greater pain for a less” (Rhetoric 1369b26–8). So in these passages his claim really is that habituation transforms acts that are not naturally pleasant into pleasant acts or less painful acts. Burnyeat thinks that Aristotelian learners take pleasure in performing virtuous acts in the same way that the virtuous do. Now the virtuous enjoy virtuous acts in two ways: they enjoy both the fact that they are virtuous (noble pleasure) and/or the particular sort of pleasure peculiar to the spheres governed by these virtues (proper pleasure). Unfortunately, learners do not enjoy virtuous acts in either of these ways. Aristotle is actually committed to the view that learners do not typically enjoy virtuous acts at all. Before one can derive pleasure from the intrinsic value of virtuous acts, one must first consider them to be intrinsically valuable.18 Thus, the learners’ enjoyment depends upon the choice to perform these acts for their own sake. The enjoyment does not produce, but rather presupposes the choice. Virtuous people have made this choice; learners have not. So learners do not enjoy the virtuousness of virtuous acts. By definition, learners are not yet virtuous. In particular, they lack the right passions and the right tastes. They find some vicious acts pleasant and some virtuous acts unpleasant. Medial action is typically unpleasant for a person with excessive or defective passions and tastes. Standing fast in battle is unpleasant for anyone experiencing excessive or defective fear. Spending and giving the right amount of money is unpleasant for people who love money too little or too much. Eating the right amount is unpleasant for people whose appetites are too large or too small. And so on. “One cannot get the pleasures of a just man without being just” (1173b29–30). So learners do not learn that virtuous acts are pleasant by performing and enjoying them, because learners do not enjoy them. Indeed, virtuous action is painful for learners. It certainly does not positively reinforce the desire to perform virtuous acts. Burnyeat uses the analogy of skiing to glide over this gap between the set of acts that seem pleasant to learners and the set of virtuous acts.19 At first, skiing may be a chore, but as it becomes easier with practice it becomes more fun. If virtuous activities are like skiing, then practice makes virtuous acts pleasant, too, reasons Burnyeat. Activities are sports (rather than drudgery) because mere acquisition of appropriate skills is all it takes for most people to find the activity pleasant. Thus, a taste for sports comes naturally along with the acquisition of skills, and practice provides skills. However, virtuous acts are not like sports in this respect. The ability to perform virtuous acts does not, by itself, make these acts pleasant. Continent or even vicious people, for example, are often expert at virtuous acts that they do not enjoy. Making virtuous acts pleasant requires something over and above the skills provided by practice.

18

Broadie 122n46. Burnyeat 76; MacIntyre, making a similar move, cites chess. Hardie compares virtue acquisition to the process of learning to skate. See Hardie, Aristotle’s Ethical Theory, 110–14; A. MacIntyre, After Virtue (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1981) 188. 19


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Aristotle, himself, assimilates virtue acquisition, not to the process of becoming skilled at sports, but rather to craft acquisition. [E] Virtues we get by first exercising them, as also happens in the case of the arts as well . . . Men become builders by building and lyre-players by playing the lyre; so too we become just by doing just acts, temperate by doing temperate acts, brave by doing brave acts. (1103a31–b2)

Of course, Aristotle’s point here is that virtues, like crafts, are acquired through habituation. In this passage he takes no position on whether the habituation process is either pleasant or painful. Elsewhere, however, Aristotle says that learning to play music “is no amusement, but is accompanied by pain” (Politics 1339a29–30). In general, while acquiring a craft through practice may have pleasant aspects, it is overall unpleasant. If virtue acquisition is like craft acquisition, perhaps learning to act virtuously is also a painful process. A defender of Burnyeat might make the following rebuttal. Virtue, vice, incontinence, etc. are matters of degree, and people can exemplify combinations of these attributes. Aristotle is giving us paradigms, not pigeonholes. Could not the recommendation to perform virtuous acts be addressed to somewhat virtuous people, people who have some of the right beliefs, desires, passions, motives, etc., but need more, or have all of these things, but need them nailed down, or have these things in outline, but need them fleshed out, etc.? After all, the closer people are to being virtuous, the more pleasure they gain from virtuous activity, but even people who are rather far from being virtuous gain some pleasure from acting virtuously.20 So perhaps virtuous action enables the somewhat virtuous person to find virtuous action somewhat pleasant. This rebuttal fails. In order for virtuous acts to provide positive reinforcement to the somewhat virtuous person, the amount of pleasure generated must exceed the amount of pain, so that the act is overall pleasant. However, virtuous acts are typically not even overall pleasant for these less-than-virtuous people.

The painfulness of virtuous action There is, moreover, a deeper reason why Burnyeat’s account fails, a point that is important enough on its own to develop at some length. Learners will not find all or even most virtuous acts to be overall pleasant because, on Aristotle’s considered view, virtuous acts are not typically overall pleasant even for the virtuous, let alone for the learners. This claim may seem surprising since Aristotle says such things as “a good man qua good delights in virtuous actions” (1170a8–9) in many passages. Moreover, Aristotle argues for the claim that virtuous people find virtuous acts pleasant in the following passage.

20

Sherman, The Fabric of Character, 185–90.

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[F] [1] The lovers of what is noble find pleasant the things that are by nature pleasant; and [2] virtuous actions are such, so that [3] these are pleasant for such men as well as in their own nature. (1099a13–15)

In sentence [1] Aristotle asserts his doctrine that the virtuous accurately experience pleasure and pain. Illness can distort our tastes, so to determine whether some food is really sweet, consult the healthy rather than the sick. Similarly, vice (and other bad character states) can distort our pleasures, so to determine whether something is really pleasant, consult the virtuous. Aristotle combines this thesis with the claim that [2] virtuous acts are truly pleasant and concludes that [3] virtuous acts are pleasant for virtuous people. Aristotle uses this conclusion to derive a criterion of virtue. He says, [G] We must take as a sign of states the pleasure or pain that supervenes on acts; for the man who abstains from bodily pleasures and delights in this very fact is temperate, while the man who is annoyed at it is self-indulgent. (1104b3–7)

Thus, to determine whether someone is virtuous, check to see if he or she enjoys virtuous acts such as abstaining from (presumably intemperate) bodily pleasures. A virtuous person will take pleasure from virtuous acts; a vicious person will not. Not only do the virtuous constitute the standard of the pleasant, the pleasant also constitutes the standard of the virtuous. Although Aristotle asserts, argues for, and uses the thesis that virtuous acts are pleasant for the virtuous, I shall show that when Aristotle expresses his considered view, he rejects the thesis that they are typically overall pleasant. First, notice that Aristotle concedes at many points within his detailed treatment of the particular virtues that virtuous people do not always find virtuous acts completely pleasant, pleasant without any admixture of unpleasantness. Indeed, almost every virtue’s exercise often involves a substantial amount of pain. The virtue of good temper requires appropriately feeling and expressing anger, yet Aristotle mentions that expressing anger is painful (1149b20–1).21 Many just acts are painful. For example, justice requires that one pay one’s debts, yet even Aristotle’s exemplars, the great-souled people (megalopsychoi), find it painful even to hear of, let alone to pay their debts (1124b12–15).22 Justice sometimes requires us to administer setbacks to our friends (e.g. awarding an honor coveted by a friend to a more deserving person). Friends are pained by each other’s misfortune. Thus, we are sometimes pained by our own just acts. Temperate people are moderately pained by the absence of certain bodily pleasures (1119a14), and sometimes this absence and therefore this pain results from a

21 Elsewhere, Aristotle agrees that feeling anger is painful, but maintains that revenge, which is one expression of anger, is pleasant (1117a5–7). However, even justifiable revenge is not always pleasant and other appropriate reactions to anger (e.g. doing nothing in response to mild insults) are clearly unpleasant. 22 In defense of the great-souled people, note that they do pay their debts and even “confer greater benefits in return” (1124b11).


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temperate act of abstention. For example, a temperate person might refrain from eating a desired dessert that is beyond his or her means (1119a16–20). Aristotle denies that liberal people find liberal acts (e.g. refusing an offer of money from the wrong sources) painful, but he suggests that these acts are not always pleasant (1120a26–7). Poetic justice (nemesis) involves feeling pain at the undeserved bad fortune of the good and the undeserved good fortune of the bad (EE 1233b19–25).23 Whenever our action brings undeserved good or bad fortune (e.g. helping a stranger who turns out to be wicked), poetic justice will make our act painful. The quasi-virtue of friendship opens people up to much pain. An odd example is this: “To see [our friends] pained at our misfortunes is painful” (1171b4–6), so when a person reveals his own misfortune (e.g. by announcing the funeral of a beloved relative) he “cannot stand the pain that ensues for his friends” (1171b8). In general, the thesis that the virtuous always find virtuous acts completely pleasant is incompatible with Aristotle’s account of mixed actions. Aristotle says, “For such actions men are sometimes even praised, when they endure something base or painful in return for great and noble objects gained” (1110a19–22). In this passage Aristotle asserts that some mixed acts are both praiseworthy (i.e. virtuous) and, in some respect, painful. Could it be that, although virtuous acts sometimes involve pain, the pain is always or almost always outweighed by pleasure, so that each virtuous act is typically overall pleasant for the virtuous agent? Aristotle states his view most overtly with respect to the pain of courageous acts. He not only concedes that courageous acts are often painful because they frequently lead to death, wounds, etc. (1117a32–4), he explicitly goes on to reject the general claim that virtuous people always, or almost always, find virtuous acts overall pleasant. He says, “It is not the case, then, with all the virtues that the exercise of them is pleasant, except in so far as it reaches its end” (1117b15–16). In this important and somewhat neglected passage, Aristotle is clearly maintaining that virtuous acts are often not pleasant for the virtuous. What does Aristotle mean by the qualification “except in so far as it reaches its end?” Accomplishing the external goal of a virtuous act yields a certain pleasure. Aristotle is saying that if this pleasure is added to whatever other pleasures the act generates, then the combination will outweigh whatever pain is generated by the act. For example, suppose you surprise a pair of strangers stealthily removing your computer from your house. You fight to repel the robbers. If you succeed, then you are pleased by the fact that your property is saved. You are also pleased by the awareness that you acted courageously, and probably by other things too. These pleasures will outweigh the suffering caused by your fright and leg wound, so the act will be overall pleasant. However, virtuous acts do not always or almost always accomplish their goals. And when the goal is not achieved, then the pain of a virtuous act may outweigh the

23

Coker 61–91. See also ch.11.

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pleasure. If the robbers get away with your computer despite your efforts, then your courageous act may be, on balance, painful. The pain of your pounding heart, throbbing leg, and missing computer may outweigh the pleasures of the act, even including the pleasure of knowing that you acted courageously. So Aristotle’s claim in this passage is that if the end of the act is achieved, then the act is overall pleasant for the virtuous agent, otherwise the act is not necessarily overall pleasant.24 The belief that virtuous acts are typically overall pleasant for virtuous people is dear to us. We want to believe it, and we want to attribute it to Aristotle. Yet in addition to Aristotle’s examples, many other commonly painful, virtuous acts may be adduced. Justly punishing one’s own child, forgoing a hilarious, but inappropriate joke (1128a33–b3), acknowledging one’s own serious faults (1127a23–6), listening politely to a very boring person, delivering terrible news to a friend, are all often overall painful, even for (perhaps especially for) just, witty, truthful, friendly, caring people. Courageous action may produce the pleasure of liberating a captive in war, but is often overall painful when wounds are sustained or innocent bystanders are harmed. Temperate eating usually produces sensual pleasure, but may be painful if the food is spoiled or badly prepared. Liberal giving may produce the pleasure of receiving the recipient’s gratitude for one’s charitable gift, but may produce the pain of the recipient’s ingratitude. And so on. Aristotle’s general account of pleasure says that pleasure is (or supervenes upon or completes) unimpeded action. But whatever “unimpeded” means, virtuous action is often impeded. And impeded virtuous action is not overall pleasant. An honest examination of our own experience confirms that when all of a virtuous act’s pleasures and pains are combined, the act often turns out to be overall painful. Aristotle is honest enough to admit that doing the right thing often hurts. Indeed, this fact is so obvious that attributing its denial to Aristotle would be uncharitable. A charitable reading of Aristotle would try to preserve consistency and plausibility by reinterpreting Aristotle’s various statements that virtuous people enjoy virtuous acts. I suggest that Aristotle’s statements do not mean that virtuous acts are always completely pleasant or even typically overall pleasant for virtuous people. Instead, these statements mean that virtuous acts are somewhat pleasant: they yield some pleasure although their pleasure is sometimes outweighed by their pain. More precisely, the virtuous person gains two sorts of pleasure from performing virtuous acts. First, the virtuous person feels a warm glow stemming from the belief that he or she is acting rightly. The virtuous enjoy the virtuousness of their acts. Second, virtuous people develop virtuous tastes, and virtuous acts gratify these tastes. The virtuous enjoy the pleasures proper to virtuous acts. For example, temperate people develop a taste for reasonable quantities of nutritious food at dinnertime. They enjoy eating a good

24

See ch.2.


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dinner. By contrast, some of the intemperate, the incontinent, and even the continent do not enjoy eating good dinners, because they are longing for junk food, instead. Abandoning the thesis that virtuous acts are typically overall pleasant for virtuous people does not, by any means, eliminate the link between virtue and pleasure. We can still say that the virtuous person always feels the warm glow when doing the right thing, while the vicious person sometimes feels a corresponding repugnance when acting rightly (because he or she thinks he or she is acting wrongly). We can say that virtuous acts are overall pleasant for virtuous people when the acts achieve their ends. We can say that painful virtuous acts are usually less painful overall than vicious acts for virtuous people.25 We can say that virtuous people typically find the virtuous life overall pleasant.26 But we cannot say that they find virtuous acts to be always, or even typically, overall pleasant. Indeed, virtuous people might find virtuous acts to be typically overall painful. The overall painfulness of some virtuous acts for the virtuous has various interesting implications. For example, the difference between virtue and continence cannot be that the virtuous person does with pleasure what the continent person does with pain.27 The implication relevant to the present chapter, however, is the collapse of Burnyeat’s interpretation of Aristotle’s account of moral development. Burnyeat’s claim that the pleasure of virtuous acts drives moral development cannot survive the discovery that virtuous acts are not typically overall pleasant. In the remainder of the chapter I shall present an alternative interpretation of Aristotle’s account of moral development.

Stages of moral development Aristotle takes moral development to proceed in stages, each stage being a different character type. The later stages are familiar. Learners move from incontinence to continence by acquiring habits of virtuous action, from continence to proper virtue by acquiring habits of virtuous passion and coming to understand why virtuous acts are virtuous. The earlier stages may be less familiar and more controversial, perhaps because they do not appear in Aristotle’s NE VII.1 list of character types. I shall argue that the

25 Aristotle’s assertion that the less painful counts as pleasant (see Rhetoric 1369b26–8 quoted above) suggests another way to read Aristotle’s statements that virtuous people enjoy virtuous acts. Rather than taking these statements to mean that virtuous people find virtuous acts to be typically overall pleasant, Aristotle may mean merely that virtuous people typically find virtuous acts to be less painful than the alternatives. 26 The virtuous life may be understood as a very long virtuous act. The virtuous life cannot fail to achieve its external goal since it lacks an external goal. Thus, the virtuous life must typically be overall pleasant. 27 Instead, the difference might be that the potential for pain in some situations pushes the virtuous person to perform the virtuous act carefully rather than casually (i.e. in ways that minimize the possibility and/or severity of pain), but in these situations the potential for pain induces in the continent person a desire to avoid the virtuous act (a desire which the continent person must overcome). So continent people experience the frustration of unsatisfied desire, but virtuous people do not.

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many (hoi polloi) are moral beginners who have the potential for virtue, but as yet possess none of the components of virtue.28 The generous-minded (eleutherios) are the people at the second stage of moral development. They have chosen to lead the virtuous life, but are confused about what virtue is. Next, I shall argue that the many become generous-minded by coming to desire to perform virtuous acts for their own sake, and the generous-minded advance to incontinence by acquiring the ability to determine which acts are virtuous. Thus, Aristotle believes that the desire to act virtuously for its own sake precedes the ability to identify virtuous acts. To perform a virtuous act for its own sake is to perform the act as an end in itself (rather than as a mere means) because the act is virtuous (rather than because the act is customary, pleasurable, expected of one, etc). So virtuous people desire to perform virtuous acts at least partially because they take virtuous acts qua virtuous to be intrinsically valuable.29 This is a special sort of desire, a desire stemming from a belief about what is an ultimate end. Intrinsically valuable things are (part of ) the virtuous person’s goal in life. A person who says, “I believe X to be intrinsically valuable, but I do not want X” either does not really believe X to be intrinsically valuable or has not yet brought his or her desires and beliefs into harmony. So virtuous people take performing virtuous acts to be part of their conception of the happy life. Indeed, the overall, long-term desire to perform virtuous acts for their own sake is nothing less than the desire to lead the virtuous life. This desire based upon a judgment of intrinsic value is a choice, an overarching decision, a sort of commitment to virtuous living.30 Aristotle contrasts those who have made the commitment to lead the virtuous life with those who have not in the following passage. [H] While [arguments] seem to have the power to encourage and stimulate the generousminded among the young, and to make a character which is gently born, and a true lover of what is noble, ready to be possessed by virtue, they are not able to encourage the many to nobility and goodness. For these do not by nature obey the sense of aido¯s [shame, guilt, remorse],31 but only 28 For an excellent discussion of the many in Aristotle, see Garrett 171–89. Garrett does not recognize the generous-minded as a separate category, and seems to think of the vicious as a subset of the many. 29 Some commentators take Aristotle’s statement to mean only that virtuous people perform virtuous acts because they believe them to be virtuous. (Broadie 87; J. Lear, Aristotle: The Desire to Understand (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988) 170). Other commentators take Aristotle’s statement to mean only that virtuous people perform the acts as ends in themselves (R. Kraut, “Aristotle on Choosing Virtue for Itself,” Archiv fur Geschichte der Philosophie 58 (1976): 235–8; Sherman, The Fabric of Character, 176). 30 I suggest that this commitment need not be made in any formal, articulated, or even conscious manner. The choice might be gradual or abrupt, partial or wholehearted. 31 Although aido¯s is often translated as “shame,” Aristotle here uses the term in a way that is both narrower and broader. In common parlance one can be ashamed of one’s poverty or one’s nakedness, for example. But Aristotle says that aido¯s is due to vicious action or indications of vicious action (Rhet 1383b18–21). Aido¯s should be felt when one acts wrongly (1128b21–2). Thus, “shame” seems too broad a translation; “guilt” or “remorse” seem to be better. Unfortunately, guilt can only be appropriately felt for one’s past acts, but as I shall explain below, aido¯s can be appropriately felt about contemplated future acts. One can feel aido¯s with respect to an act with which one is toying, a fear of becoming guilty. Shame is a concern about how one’s acts appear to others (1128b11–12; EE 1233b26–9), but regret is focused upon the act, itself. Lacking a term narrow enough to focus on guilt, but broad enough to allow revulsion at potential acts, I shall leave aido¯s


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fear, and do not abstain from bad acts because of their baseness but through fear of punishment. (1179b7–13)32

I take Aristotle’s claim that the generous-minded person is “a true lover of what is noble” to mean that the generous-minded have made the commitment to lead the virtuous life. They have accepted the ultimate values of the virtuous. That the generous-minded are “ready to be possessed by virtue” indicates that they desire to become virtuous although they are not yet actually virtuous. The many, on the other hand, have not made this commitment to the virtuous life. They also do not even “abstain from bad acts because of their baseness” let alone perform virtuous acts for their goodness. They do not yet endorse the values of the virtuous, and they are far from eager to become virtuous. They do not take virtuous action to be intrinsically valuable, to be part of the happy life. Instead, “The many . . . think [happiness] is some plain and obvious thing, like pleasure, wealth, or honor” (1195a22–3). Of course, the many lack the ability to determine which acts are virtuous and why. And they also lack habits of virtuous action and passion. They have none of the five components of virtue listed at the start of this chapter. They are at the beginning of the moral development path. The claim that the many are moral beginners seems odd. It might be objected that beginners are children, but the many are adults. However, although some people at each stage of moral development eventually progress to the next stage, and some deviate from the moral development path, most people at each stage simply fail to move up. For one reason or another they do not make moral progress. In particular, most people never even get started on the process of moral development. They are stuck at the first stage. Thus, the category of “the many” includes not only children, but also the majority of adults, for these adults are morally childish. Aristotle’s poignant description of the generous-minded suggests that they are almost virtuous, rather than just one step up from the many. However, since the generous-minded are “among the young” they must have the character traits of the young. And Aristotle considers the young to be far from virtue. He says, [I] [1] A young man is not a proper hearer of lectures on political science; for he is inexperienced in the actions that occur in life, but its discussions start from these and are about these; and, further, since he tends to follow his passions, his study will be vain and unprofitable, because the end aimed at is not knowledge but action. [2] And it makes no difference whether he is young in years or youthful in character. (1095a2–7)

untranslated. See D. Cairns, Aido¯s: the Psychology and Ethics of Honour and Shame in Ancient Greek (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993) 14–20, 415–18; B. Williams, Shame and Necessity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993) 79–90. 32

Aristotle makes a similar distinction in NE III.8 between two sorts of citizen-soldiers. Some citizensoldiers perform courageous acts in order to avoid punishments, while others perform these acts in order avoid aido¯s and for the sake of a noble object (1116a17–b3).

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In this passage, sentence [2] indicates that “the young,” like “the many,” is a phrase that names a group of people of similar characters, rather than of similar ages. Some of the young are not young. Sentence [1] describes the character of the young. The young man “follows his passions;” presumably they lead him astray. Thus, the young lack the habits of virtuous actions and passions. Moreover, the young are “inexperienced in the actions that occur in life.” They have not yet acquired the starting points of lectures and discussions of political science. That is, they lack “the that.” Since “the that” is a prerequisite for obtaining “the because” as Aristotle says in passage [B], we may assume that the young lack “the because,” too. They have neither the ability to identify virtuous acts nor the understanding of why virtuous acts are virtuous. Since the generousminded are a subset of the young, it follows that the generous-minded lack these habits and abilities. The generous-minded are far from virtuous. How could such a morally deficient person be a “true lover of what is noble?” How, in other words, could the generous-minded desire to perform virtuous acts for their own sake?33 I suggest that learners typically make the commitment to the moral life quite early in the moral development process. To desire to perform virtuous acts for their own sake, one need not be virtuous or even know much about the virtuous life. Some people are in love with (the idea of ) love without actually being in love, or really knowing what love is, or even reliably recognizing it when they see it. Similarly, I suggest that the generous-minded are in love with (the idea of ) virtue without actually being virtuous, or really knowing what virtue is, or even reliably recognizing virtuous acts when they see them. The generous-minded have a vague conception of the happy life as the virtuous life, and a commitment to that vague conception. But they lack the concrete ability to determine which acts are virtuous in which situations, let alone the habits of choosing these acts or feeling the right passions.34 Aristotle (a) says that arguments “seem to have the power to encourage and stimulate the generous-minded;” (b) describes the young as “not proper hearers of lectures on political science;” and (c) asserts that “the generous-minded are among the young.” These three statements seem inconsistent. However, they can be reconciled by distinguishing between “properly hearing” and “being encouraged and stimulated by” arguments and lectures. Proper hearers are persuaded by the facts and logic of lectures or arguments. But people who are encouraged and stimulated listen to an argument or a lecture about what to do and, without really understanding it, they become excited and inspired (see 1149aa25–9). Fred may hear a moving sermon about standing up for

33 Garver finds it puzzling that in the Rhetoric Aristotle attributes to the youth “a concern for the noble [that] coexists with domination by emotion and excess.” E. Garver, “Growing Older and Wiser with Aristotle: Rhetoric II.12–14 and Moral Development,” Proceedings of the Boston Area Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy 10 (1994): 176. 34 This possibility seems to undermine McDowell’s claim that for Aristotle, “the content of the end cannot be pinned down in abstraction from the ability to put it into practice in recognizing specific occasions for action” (McDowell 27). But perhaps McDowell would maintain that the generous-minded do not really have a “pinned down” grasp of the content of the virtuous life.


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one’s beliefs, for example, and vow to become a “person of principle,” a “paragon of integrity” ready to “sacrifice anything and everything”, rather than compromise his ideals. And then the next day Fred may bow to peer pressure without even recognizing that he is doing so. So it is perfectly possible, indeed quite common, for arguments and lectures to “encourage and stimulate” generous-minded people before they are yet ready to learn from arguments and lectures. Since both the generous-minded and the many lack the habits of virtue—the ability to identify virtuous acts, and the understanding of why virtuous acts are virtuous—the two sorts of people are the same with respect to four of the five components of virtue. The only difference between the generous-minded and the many is that the generousminded have made the commitment to leading the virtuous life and the many have not. The generous-minded desire to perform virtuous acts for their own sake, and the many do not. Of course, this is a very important difference. Yet it is just one difference, after all. Thus, the generous-minded are just one step up from the many in the process of moral development. So the question, “How do people come to desire virtuous acts for their own sake?” (i.e. “How do people come to commit themselves to the moral life?”) is equivalent to the question, “How do the many become the generousminded?”35 Similarly, since both the generous-minded and the incontinent are committed to virtue, but lack the habits of virtuous actions and passions, the sole difference between them is that the incontinent are reliably able to identify virtuous acts while the generous-minded are not. They too are the same with respect to four of the five components of virtue. So the question, “How do people acquire the ability to identify virtuous acts?” (i.e. “How do people gain the that?”) is equivalent to the question, “How do the generous-minded become the incontinent?” Aristotle does not mention it, but in practice, it is often difficult to distinguish the many and the generous-minded from the incontinent. First, none of these people reliably act virtuously. The many have no desire to act virtuously. The generousminded fail because they lack the ability to identify virtuous acts. The incontinent have both this desire and this ability, but fail to act virtuously, because their choices to perform particular virtuous acts are trumped or bypassed by bad passions. Second, all of these people are frustrated because they do not reliably achieve their objectives. The generous-minded are blocked by their ignorance. The incontinent are blocked by their passions. And the many are blocked by the fact that their choices are counterproductive and contradictory. For example, overeaters want to be thin; the dishonest want to be trusted; etc. Third, most of these people are busy pretending (to others and even to themselves) to have each other’s character traits. The many often pretend to be 35

Some generous-minded people are not morally improved, former members of the many. A learner may have the moral luck to start off life as a generous-minded person, rather than having to climb up from the category of the many. He or she may be blessed with good role models or innate moral tendencies, and so begin with the right values and general desires. He or she may begin life with a commitment to the moral life. Other people may end up in the class of the generous-minded as a result of moral backsliding from higher states of character. An incontinent person may become morally confused or misguided, for example.

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incontinent because incontinence is more respectable than choosing to act wrongly. They rationalize their actions in moral terms even though their real reasons are not moral. For example, a person may choose to indulge in a third slice of cheesecake, pretending to be a dieter unable to resist temptation. On the other hand, the incontinent sometimes pretend to be members of the many because they prefer to be perceived as people who are not trying to be moral rather than people who are failing to be moral. They would rather be successes at vice than failures at virtue. Unsuccessful dieters may deny that they are on diets, for example. Many of the many pretend to be generous-minded. Rather than admitting that they knowingly did wrong, they plead ignorance: “Of course I wanted to treat my mother-in-law with respect; I just did not know that she would mind being teased about her weight.” Contrariwise, the generous-minded may pretend to be incontinent or members of the many because they would prefer to be perceived as weak or even wicked rather than foolish: “Of course I knew that I should not tease her, but I could not stop myself” or “Of course I knew, but I just wanted to slight her.”

My answers: Moral progress through pain As we have seen, Aristotle says that people come to identify and desire virtuous action through habituation. But this is still somewhat mysterious. Aristotle cannot simply mean that people acquire this desire and ability merely by repeatedly acting rightly. The thoughts and feelings of the learner are a crucial part of the process. I shall argue that according to Aristotle, both the many and the generous-minded make moral progress through pain rather than pleasure. More precisely, my answers to the two questions posed at the beginning of this chapter are these: the many come to choose virtuous actions for their own sake through habituation motivated by punishment and threat of punishment, and the generous-minded become able to identify virtuous acts through habituation motivated by the pain of retrospective and prospective aido¯s. Aristotle makes the many seem so despicable that it is hard to imagine them making moral progress. Can they really become morally better? And if so, do they improve by coming to desire virtuous acts for their own sake, thus becoming the generousminded? Or do they acquire some different component of virtue? In the following passage Aristotle contrasts the many with those who are incorrigible (as well as with the generous-minded, again). [ J] The many obey necessity rather than argument, and punishments rather than what is noble. This is why some think that legislators ought to stimulate men to virtue and urge them forward by the motive of the noble, on the assumption that those who have been well advanced by the formation of habits will attend to such influences; and that punishments and penalties should be imposed on those who disobey and are of inferior nature, while the incurably bad should be completely banished. (1180a4–10)


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The many need not be “completely banished.” They are not “the incurably bad.” Thus the many are capable of moral progress. This passage implies that the many progress because they act virtuously when threatened with “punishment and penalties.” Here Aristotle not only endorses negative reinforcement for such people, he also rules out the possibility that they are improved by argument. That virtue acquisition hurts is hardly a new idea. Plato describes each stage in the ascent from the cave as painful (Republic 515c, 516a). But Aristotle does not take pain to be a mere side effect of moral development or even a minor contributor; he thinks that the pain drives the process. Aristotle says elsewhere, “People who are puzzled to know whether one ought to honor the gods and love one’s parents or not need punishment” (Topics 105a5–7). Presumably, he is not suggesting that people committed to the life of virtue, but in doubt about whether virtue requires us to honor the gods and love our parents, come to learn these requirements through punishment. There are no such people. Honoring gods and loving parents are obviously aspects of the virtuous life. Aristotle’s point is rather that punishment pushes people to commit to the life of virtue. How does performing virtuous acts over and over under the threat of pain induce the many to progress? Aristotle does not say. I suggest that the many progress through the familiar mechanism of internalizing the punishments. The many move from being punished for vicious acts to punishing themselves for vicious acts. After her parents have scolded and grounded Betty several times for getting drunk, she almost hears their voices in her head when she wakes up with a hangover. After Bob has been teased by his peers for his timidity, he calls himself a coward when he declines a dare. And just as Betty used to hold herself back and Bob used to push himself forward for fear of “punishment and penalties” from parents and peers, they now respectively stay sober and act audaciously from fear of self-punishment. Like many of the many, Betty and Bob come to perform virtuous acts from fear of the painful feeling we might call shame, guilt, or remorse. They “obey the sense of aido¯s” as Aristotle says of the generous-minded. To internalize punishment is to internalize a certain standard, certain values. People who feel aido¯s for not doing certain things, for not living a certain way, believe that they should do these things, should live this way. This is a belief about intrinsic value and thus about ultimate ends. It begets a desire to lead a certain type of life. By coming to feel aido¯s for vicious acts, the many come to desire to perform virtuous acts for their own sake. They make the virtuous life their goal; they come to “love the noble.” And this is the component of virtue that the generous-minded have and the many lack. The members of the many who ultimately make moral progress by internalizing punishments become the generous-minded. Thus, learners come to desire virtuous acts for their own sake not through the pleasure of virtuous action, as Burnyeat maintains, but rather through the pain of punishment. Coming to feel aido¯s is the moral progress of the many; feeling aido¯s makes further moral progress possible for the generous-minded. How does aido¯s serve as a catalyst? Of

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course like external punishments, aido¯s negatively reinforces bad behavior, but aido¯s produces moral progress in another way, too. Aristotle thinks that passions call attention to, and give importance to things. Fear, for example, alerts you to, and emphasizes dangerous things. It makes you focus on threats. Fear turns a forest landscape into possible ambushes and traps, obstacles to escape, etc. Rustling leaves become warning signs; shadows become lurkers; and so on. Aido¯s, too, is a salience projector. But instead of highlighting threats, aido¯s makes you focus on vicious acts and the features within the situation that make these acts vicious. Aido¯s turns the naked woman in bed beside you into “another man’s wife;” your wedding ring becomes a sign of a broken promise; and so on. When a generous-minded person feels aido¯s, the act’s viciousness is impressed upon his or her mind. The aido¯s vividly brings to the foreground the fact that the aido¯sproducing act is wrong.36 Fear does not tell us that there is danger; we must already be aware of danger in order to feel fear.37 Similarly, aido¯s does not tell us that an act is wrong; we must already recognize that the act is wrong in order to feel aido¯s. So what information does aido¯s provide? Aido¯s emphasizes and makes us internalize the judgment that the act is wrong. Aido¯s makes another contribution, too. In addition to emphasizing the danger in a dangerous situation, fear “sets us thinking what can be done” (Rhet 1383a6–7). Fear motivates us to deliberate about how to avoid or reduce the danger. It also causes useful features of the situation to jump out at us. Fear turns a forest landscape into various hiding places, paths that might lead to safety, etc. Sticks become potential weapons; trees become shields; and so on. Similarly, in addition to emphasizing the viciousness of certain acts, aido¯s sets us thinking what should have been done. It also provides context clues to the alternatives within the situation. Aido¯s suggests that the woman should have been “just a friend;” the money for the hotel room should have been spent on a family bread machine; and so on. Thus, aido¯s presupposes the judgment that certain acts are vicious, but prompts the learner to discover which acts are virtuous. Unlike Burnyeat’s account of moral development, the aido¯s-account need not fall back on a distinction between “learning” and “really learning.” Pushed by aido¯s, the learner himself or herself (rather than a teacher) identifies virtuous acts. So far, the aido¯s-account is limited to the learner’s experience. It explains the acquisition of the ability to make virtue judgments only about familiar situations. So far, aido¯s seems to emphasize only the viciousness of acts that the learner has already performed; it imparts only the virtuous alternatives to the learner’s actual choices. But an account that does not explain how the learner comes to recognize which acts are virtuous and vicious in situations outside of the learner’s experience is, at best, too limited.

36 Burnyeat agrees that aido¯s enhances moral progress, although he mentions aido¯s only as a negative reinforcer and not as salience projector. See Burnyeat 79. 37 Leighton suggests that fear does tell us that there is danger. See Leighton, “Aristotle’s Courageous Passions,” 90–4.


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Luckily, aido¯s develops the learner’s ability to judge acts in new situations, too. First, one person can feel aido¯s for another person’s act if the first person identifies somehow with the second. Fiction and friendship allow people to feel aido¯s for the acts of others. Thus, through vicarious aido¯s people come to recognize that certain acts are wrong and discover which acts are right, without actually performing any of these acts. Second, aido¯s has a prospective as well as a retrospective sense. One can feel aido¯s with respect to an act that one is considering, but has not yet performed. Aristotle says, that aido¯s is “a kind of fear of disrepute” (1128b11–12), and “young people . . . are restrained by aido¯s” (1128b16–18).38 This is a moral revulsion at the very thought of a vicious act, a revulsion that indicates the wrongness of the act. Like Socrates’ daimonion, aido¯s says, “No” to acts before the learner performs them, and this tells the learner that the act is vicious and sets him or her thinking what would be virtuous in this situation. Prompted by aido¯s, the generous-minded gradually come to choose, not just the acts they think are virtuous, but the acts that really are virtuous. They make the right choices. Of course they still feel wrongly. And their vicious passions lead them to act wrongly despite their right choices. They still lack the habits of virtuous action and passion (as well as the understanding of why virtuous acts are virtuous). In other words, when the generous-minded make moral progress, they move up to the level of incontinence.39 Once again moral progress occurs not through pleasure, as Burnyeat maintains, but rather through pain. Whereas the pain of external punishment motivates the many, the generous-minded are improved more subtly by the pain of aido¯s, but in neither case does pleasure play a role.

Conclusion Aristotle defines practical knowledge as correct deliberation plus correct desire. It is correct choice of virtuous acts (1139a21–31). How are the two components of practical knowledge acquired, and in what order? According to Burnyeat’s interpretation of Aristotle, learners begin by being told which acts are virtuous; then by repeatedly performing and enjoying them learners internalize this teaching and come to desire virtuous acts for their own sake. My interpretation reverses Burnyeat’s ordering. I attribute to Aristotle the view that learners first come to desire virtuous acts by internalizing punishments, moving from the many to the generous-minded. Learners then become able to recognize virtuous acts through aido¯s, moving from the generous-minded to the incontinent. It would be nice if we could attribute to Aristotle the contemporary common-sense view that learners simultaneously gain these two Of course, one can feel aido¯s for the desire to perform a vicious act. Such aido¯s is morally useful; indeed, it may help us to rid ourselves of vicious desires and thus progress from continence to whatever the stage beyond continence is. But this is actually a retrospective aido¯s, remorse over an already existing or past desire. 39 Incontinence is an under-appreciated state of character. On Aristotle’s view, the incontinent are more morally advanced than most people. The incontinent actually make the right choices, although of course they do not act upon their choices. 38

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components of virtue through a mix of instruction and habituation. But there is no textual evidence for this, and a fair amount of evidence against it. Under such circumstances, attributing the common-sense view to Aristotle goes beyond charity to misinterpretation. Another common-sense view, expressed in many contemporary child-raising manuals, is that positive reinforcement is the major motivator of moral development. Burnyeat attributes this view to Aristotle. According to Burnyeat’s interpretation of Aristotle, the pleasure that learners feel upon performing virtuous acts enhances the desire to perform them. On my interpretation, however, pain rather than pleasure drives moral development. Aristotle proposes to improve moral beginners (the many) through external punishments: he does not mention external rewards. Aristotle proposes to improve more advanced learners (the generous-minded) by internal punishment, by aido¯s; he does not give aido¯s’s pleasant counterpart, pride, any role in moral development.40 Burnyeat says that learners enjoy virtuous acts in the same way that virtuous people do: they enjoy the virtuousness and the proper pleasure of virtuous acts. But learners cannot enjoy either of these sorts of pleasures because they do not accept the intrinsic value of virtuous acts and have not developed proper tastes or passions. Burnyeat’s interpretation faces an even worse obstacle. Commentators attribute to Aristotle the belief that virtuous people typically find virtuous actions overall pleasant. However, this claim flies in the face of common experience and also contradicts Aristotle’s text at several points, so I attribute to Aristotle the following darker view. Virtuous people always take certain pleasures in performing virtuous acts, but the act’s associated pains often outweigh these pleasures. Thus, not even the virtuous, let alone learners, typically enjoy virtuous acts. Although this darker view is less comforting, it is more plausible and more consistent with Aristotle’s text.

40 He could. See K. Kristjańsson, “Self-respect, Megalopsychia, and Moral Education,” Journal of Moral Education 27 (1998): 5–17.

16 Shame and Moral Development: The Incontinent, the Continent, the Naturally Virtuous, and the Properly Virtuous Introduction A general account of moral character development seems like a useful prolegomena to, or component of virtue ethics, but today’s prevailing accounts of moral development focus on the improvement of reasoning or behavior rather than character. To find a virtueoriented account of moral development it seems natural to turn to Aristotle. Surprisingly and unfortunately, Aristotle actually provides no sustained, explicit account of moral development. Indeed, the chapter that seems closest, NE II.9, is filled with simplistic, self-contradictory advice. For example Aristotle says, [A] He who aims at the intermediate must first depart from what is the more contrary to it as Calypso advises, ‘Hold the ship out beyond that surf and spray.’ For of the extremes one is more erroneous, one less so; therefore since to hit the mean is hard in the extreme, we must as a second best, as people say, take the least of the evils. (1109a30–b1).

Notice that in passage [A] Aristotle is not recommending that learners steer between excess and deficiency, but rather he is urging them to opt for one of the extremes. The best act would be medial, but Aristotle recommends the “second best” act, instead. Acting rightly is too hard for learners, so Aristotle recommends performing a wrong act, though not the worst act. Learners should “take the least of the evils” (not a sub-optimal act, but a wrong act). In other words, people progress toward virtue by performing vicious acts! This clashes with Aristotle’s central tenet about moral development: people become virtuous by performing virtuous acts (1105a18–19). Moreover, it is bad advice. Greedy people do not become liberal by shortchanging themselves; irascible people do not become good tempered by putting up with dire insults; and so on.1

1

Curzer, “Aristotle’s Bad Advice About Becoming Good,” 139–46.

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Luckily, Aristotle does make enough remarks about moral development elsewhere so that a plausible account can be discerned. Making Aristotle’s account explicit will elucidate the relationships among the catalysts of moral development, the components of virtue, and the character types which constitute stages along the path of moral development. It will also enable Aristotle to make major contributions to the contemporary discussions of moral development and virtue ethics. As described in the previous chapter, Aristotle’s views about the early stages of moral development seem quite odd at first glance. According to Aristotle, those people who do wicked deeds unless threatened with punishment, and who choose to pursue a nonvirtuous life because they value other things higher than virtue, are not the vicious, but the many. They have the wrong values, but unlike the vicious, the many can make moral progress. The threat of punishment causes the many to perform moral acts. This can cause the many to change their values. They can come to value virtuous action for its own sake, to make virtuous action the ultimate end of their lives. Many of the many switch their allegiance from lives aimed at honor, pleasure, or wealth to the life aimed at virtuous action. They become people in love with nobility and the ideal of virtue.2 After undergoing this dramatic transformation, these people seem, at first glance, to have reached the end of the moral development path. However, although people at the next stage beyond the many cherish virtue and are committed to the virtuous life, they are not the virtuous, but the generous-minded. They do not really understand what the virtuous life involves. They have good values at a very general level; they desire virtuous action for its own sake. However, they lack the understanding to apply these values correctly to specific cases. Inspired by arguments and lectures that they do not understand, the generousminded can make moral progress by seeking to avoid aido¯s, often translated as “shame.” This enables them to acquire and internalize the knowledge of which acts are virtuous. They choose these acts for their own sake qua virtuous. Unfortunately, they do not consistently perform the virtuous acts that they choose, for they are somehow deflected by their lack of habitual virtuous passions. In other words, the generous-minded rise to the level of incontinence.3 I shall pick up the tale of moral development from the previous chapter with a description of the advances from incontinence to continence, from continence to natural virtue, and from natural virtue to proper virtue.

2

The catalyst does not make moral progress inevitable or even typical, but merely possible. Kristjańsson also takes Aristotle to believe that the learner passes through two stages of moral development before arriving at incontinence, but Kristjańsson describes these stages very differently than I do. See K. Kristjansson, Aristotle, Emotions, and Education (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007) 20–1. 3

SHAME AND MORAL DEVELOPMENT

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Incontinence to continence To explain how the incontinent can move up to continence we must first get clear about the difference between the incontinent and the continent. Both recognize which acts are virtuous, and choose virtuous acts for their own sake. The obvious difference is that the continent act rightly and the incontinent act wrongly. But why? Do the incontinent have stronger passions or less ability to resist passions? When Aristotle contrasts the continent and the incontinent, he says, [B] [I]t is possible to be in such a state as to be defeated even by those [passions] which the many master or to master even those by which the many are defeated. . . . [These states] are incontinence and continence. (1150a11–14).4

This claim is a bit puzzling. Aristotle says that the incontinent are mastered by levels of temptation even lower than the levels that the many master. Why should the incontinent be less able to master passions than the many (1150b6–16)? And why use the many as a benchmark at all? Anyway, this much is clear. The incontinent perform vicious acts, not because they are more tempted, but rather because they are less able to resist temptation than the continent. The difference between the continent and the incontinent is not a difference in passions, but rather it is a difference in the ability to master passions. Aristotle states explicitly that the continent have bad passions when he contrasts the virtuous (using temperance as his example of virtue) and the continent in the following passage: [C] Both the continent man and the temperate man are such as to do nothing contrary to reason for the sake of bodily pleasures, but the former has and the latter has not bad appetites, and the latter is such as not to feel pleasure contrary to reason, while the former is such as to feel pleasure but not to be led by it. (1151b33–1152a2)

Thus, the incontinent perform vicious acts, while the continent habitually perform virtuous acts, but neither habitually feels virtuous passions. Notice that Aristotle does not define the incontinent and the continent simply as internally conflicted people, or even more precisely as people whose passions and reason clash. Such clashes happen to people who are neither continent nor incontinent, too. For example, reason and passion clash within Neoptolomos who has good passions and bad moral beliefs (1151b19–21). Instead, Aristotle stresses that continence and incontinence involve conflict between bad passions and good principles. The incontinent and the continent are familiar character types, but the process by which the incontinent become continent is seldom canvassed. Aristotle contrasts the incontinent with the vicious (using self-indulgence as his example of vice). He explains that,

4

Here I translate hoi polloi as “the many” rather than as “most people.”

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[D] The self-indulgent man has no remorse (metameleia) for he stands by his choice; but any incontinent man is subject to remorse. This is why. . . . the self-indulgent man is incurable and the incontinent man curable. (1150b29–34)5

So remorse is a crucial catalyst. The incontinent have it, and this partially explains how they are able to advance; the vicious lack it and this partially explains why they are unable to advance. How does remorse make moral progress possible for the incontinent? Aristotle explicitly, though incompletely, addresses the moral improvement of the incontinent as follows. [E] Of the forms of incontinence . . . those who are incontinent through habituation are more curable than those in whom incontinence is innate; for it is easier to change a habit than to change one’s nature. (1152a27–30)

Replacing the offending habit with a new habit cures those who are incontinent by habit. Curing the innately incontinent is more difficult, but if they can be cured at all, the therapy must be the same. Presumably, the new habit is formed by repeatedly performing virtuous acts. The roles of remorse here are the same as the roles of aido¯s described in the preceding chapter. (Indeed, aido¯s and metameleia seem to be different terms for the same passion.) Remorse must motivate the virtuous acts that eventually become habitual. The incontinent feel remorse when they do not live up to their own virtuous standards, and they seek to avoid this painful feeling by performing virtuous acts. Remorse plays other roles, too. It highlights the fact that certain acts are wrong, and prods the agent into determining what should have been done (or what should be done in the case of prospective remorse). By acting out of character, the incontinent can transform their character. The incontinent can progress by acquiring the ability to triumph over their bad passions and reliably act rightly. They can gain the habit of performing virtuous acts. In other words, they can become continent.

Continence to natural virtue If the incontinent can make moral progress, then surely so can the continent. But the continent do not morph directly into the fully virtuous. Continent people identify virtuous acts, choose these acts for their own sake, and habitually perform them, but

5 Metameleia is often translated as “regret,” but the English word, “regret” is a broad term. In common parlance one can regret the end of summer or the accidentally spilled milk. Aristotle is using metameleia in this broad way when he remarks that “bad men are laden with metameleia” (1166b24–5) and when he distinguishes involuntary and non-voluntary acts in III.1. Since metameleia here means sorrow at the way things turned out, perhaps because of the agent’s choices, “regret” or perhaps “agent-regret” are appropriate translations. However, when Aristotle says that the vicious are incurable because they do not feel metameleia (1150b29–34), he obviously means something different. His view is that, although the vicious feel agentregret, they are incurable because they do not feel morally responsible. “Remorse” or “guilt” seems closer to what Aristotle means.


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lack both the habits of virtuous passion and the knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous. Properly virtuous people, of course, possess all five of these components of virtue. Now one of Aristotle’s more controversial claims is that habituation is a prerequisite for teaching, as I argued in the preceding chapter. This claim commits Aristotle to the existence of a distinct stage or character type that is morally better than continence and morally worse than virtue proper, for the Aristotelian learner needs to possess habits of virtuous passion already in order to learn why virtuous acts are virtuous. These two components cannot be acquired simultaneously, because the latter is acquired through teaching, as I shall argue below. Thus, continent people must acquire habits of virtuous passion before they can go on to acquire the knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous. The intermediate stage between continence and proper virtue might be described as continence plus habits of virtuous passion, or proper virtue minus knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous. I argue in chapter 14 that this intermediate stage is the state of character that Aristotle calls natural virtue. How do the continent acquire habits of virtuous passion? Kosman speculates that the habit of feeling virtuous passions is acquired simply by habitually performing virtuous acts. Kosman says, “One acts in ways that are naturally associated with and will ‘bring about’ [appropriate and correct] feelings, and eventually they become, as Aristotle might have said, second nature.”6 Kosman’s suggestion has the advantage of cohering with Aristotle’s central tenet about moral development: we make moral progress by performing virtuous acts. However, Aristotle does not explicitly assert that certain ways of acting bring about certain ways of feeling. Indeed, this seems implausible. Suppose Zelda is insufficiently angry and Yuri is unreasonably angry, yet neither acts on their feelings. Their restraint does not moderate their anger or increase their likelihood of hitting the mean with respect to the passion of anger in the future. Suppose Xavier finds offensive jokes funny and Veronica finds funny jokes offensive, yet both laugh at all and only the truly inoffensive jokes. Their appropriate actions will not increase their level of wittiness. Repeated performance of virtuous action may get a person to the point of choosing and performing virtuous action for its own sake, but no further. Could the continent acquire habits of virtuous passion just as the incontinent acquire the habits of virtuous action? Could remorse (experienced by the continent upon feeling vicious passions) motivate the continent to talk themselves into feeling the right passions on occasion after occasion until eventually feeling the right passions becomes a habit? This suggestion faces two related problems. First, hard as it is to overcome a passion, it is easier than changing the passion, as anyone knows well who has tried to talk himself or herself out of anger, fear, desire, or love. Persuading oneself to act in a certain way is much easier than persuading oneself to feel in a certain way. Persuading passions to change is too hard to be something that people typically do on numerous occasions

6 L. A. Kosman, “Being Properly Affected.” In Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, ed. A. Rorty (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980) 112.

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on the way to becoming fully virtuous. Second, because changing one’s passions is so hard, habituating passions takes more practice than habituating actions. Unfortunately, occasions for feeling certain passions come around too seldom to develop the habits of feeling those passions. If people habituated their passions simply by persuading themselves to feel the right passions again and again, then acquiring the habit of feeling the right fear and confidence on the field of battle would require frequenting the field of battle; acquiring the habit of feeling the right anger when insulted would require receiving numerous insults; and so on. Aristotle does describe a plausible mechanism for acquiring the habit of feeling proper passions, a mechanism that does not depend upon action to change passion, or require talking oneself out of the wrong passions and into the right ones. When discussing education in the Politics, Aristotle says that “music has a power of forming the character and should therefore be introduced into the education of the young” (Politics 1340b10–13). He explains how music builds character in the following passage: [F] When men hear imitations, even apart from the rhythms and tunes themselves, their feelings move in sympathy . . . Rhythm and melody supply imitations of anger and gentleness, and also of courage and temperance, and of all the qualities contrary to these, and of the other qualities of character, which hardly fall short of the actual affections, as we know from our own experience, for in listening to such strains our souls undergo a change. The habit of feeling pleasure or pain at mere representations is not far removed from the same feeling about realities. (Politics 1340a12–25)

In this passage Aristotle proposes that people can be trained to feel the right passions by listening to the right music. The process is a sort of habituation. The music produces ersatz emotions, passions that “hardly fall short of the actual affections.” The music stirs the soul. By repeatedly experiencing good imitations of virtuous passions, people develop the habit of feeling virtuous passions.7 Aristotle’s proposal solves the two problems mentioned above. First, learners need not persuade themselves to feel in accordance with virtue: they can simply sit back and let their passions be manipulated by the music while their reason makes the appropriate connections. Second, learners need not throw themselves into an impossibly large number of situations: they must merely listen to lots of the right sort of music. Of course, this story is incomplete. First, what is an imitation emotion? Are imitation emotions just milder versions of real passions? After all, the calmness or the excitement produced by certain pieces of music seem to be less vivid than the calmness or the excitement produced by certain situations. But will music then train listeners to feel inappropriately lukewarm passions? Second, music may make us angry or confident, but does not typically make us angry at anyone or confident about anything. It produces passions that lack objects. However, the passions appropriate for some situations are inappropriate for others. For example, the anger Ursula should feel when an arsonist 7

Crittenden 115–16; Reeve, “Aristotelian Education,” 61.


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burns down her house is inappropriate to feel when she is jostled in an elevator. So how can music that generates imitation anger habituate people to feel the right anger for each situation? How can the experience of listening to music develop the habit of feeling the right passions?8 These objections to Aristotle’s proposal are ameliorated by the assumption that when Aristotle talks of music, he has in mind not only the lyre, but also the stage.9 All interpretations of the Poetics agree that on Aristotle’s view, watching tragedy improves character by generating the passions of pity and fear. We can all testify that tragedy can produce extremely powerful passions. And by evoking these passions in certain contexts created by plot, character, spectacle, thought, melody, and diction, tragedy builds or improves our habits of feeling pity and fear at the right times, in the right way, toward the right objects, etc. Thus, if tragedy is a sort of music, then Aristotle does, indeed, provide an account of how music appropriately habituates the passions of pity and fear. If fear were governed solely by courage, then by training fear, tragedy would merely improve people’s courage. But of course tragedy is not so narrow. Different sorts of tragedies train people to face evils of different sorts. Watching a tragic hero fall into bankruptcy in a well-written and performed tragedy improves one’s liberality by training one’s fear of poverty, for example. Training fear takes the learner farther than one might initially think. I suggest that all of the virtues involve fear, for to each virtue there corresponds a characteristic loss, and fear is the appropriate stance toward that possible loss. Thus, training a person to feel fear properly can improve any of the virtues.10 Tragedy does not train all of the passions, of course. Presumably, other types of music (understood broadly) similarly habituate other passions. They not only produce imitation emotions, but also call to mind appropriate contexts. Muckraking protest music or erotic music does not simply anger or arouse the audience, for example; instead, the music somehow also presents a context of insult or seduction for which these emotions are appropriate. Aristotle’s confidence in music’s ability to improve one’s passions and thus one’s character might seem optimistic, even naı¨ve. However a long, respectable tradition, stretching from Plato through some contemporary opponents of pornography, maintains that bad music (understood broadly) damages the character of the listener by “watering bad passions.”11 And if bad music can dispose listeners to feel bad passions,

8

The questions in this paragraph were suggested to me by D. Nathan. Here I must disagree with Depew’s remark that, “although music is part of tragedy, it cannot be said that tragedy is part of music.” Depew maintains that it is the non-musical parts of tragedy, the plot and the characters, that enhance our passions and our practical wisdom, but music may be used in a broader sense that includes tragedy as a whole. See Depew 368–9; Lord 85ff. 10 I do not see how to tell a similar story about pity. 11 Aristotle too warns that shameful stories may undermine moral development (Politics 1336a40ff., 1340a1ff.). 9

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then it is hardly utopian to maintain that good music can dispose listeners to feel good passions.12 In summary, incontinent people have the right values and apply them correctly, but are blocked by their bad passions from reliably acting rightly. It is not surprising that, when prompted by remorse for their vicious acts, incontinent people move up to continence. They can progress by repeatedly performing virtuous acts and thus acquiring habits of virtuous action. They acquire the ability to overcome their inner temptations. On the other hand, it is surprising (and disconcerting) that, according to Aristotle, continent people cannot become fully virtuous directly: they must first acquire habits of virtuous passion before they can learn why virtuous acts are virtuous. Listening to the right music provides the habits of virtuous passion, moving the continent to a stage beyond continence, yet short of proper virtue. I shall call that intermediate stage natural virtue.

Natural virtue to proper virtue Naturally virtuous people have acquired (1) the desire to perform virtuous acts for their own sakes, (2) the knowledge of which acts are virtuous, (3) the habits of virtuous action, and (4) the habits of virtuous passion. They lack only (5) the knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous. Once this knowledge is acquired, the moral development process has reached its end: the learners are properly virtuous. Now the knowledge of why a certain act in a certain situation is in accord with virtue must consist of two parts: (a) the knowledge that the act exemplifies such-and-such a character trait, and (b) the knowledge that such-and-such a character trait is a virtue. The former is approximately the knowledge of which acts are virtuous. Learners have already acquired this knowledge as they moved from generous-minded to incontinent. The latter is the new stuff. Now the knowledge of which character traits are virtues is the knowledge of which character traits are conducive to the happy life, for that is what virtues are (1106a22–4). Naturally, the key to knowing what is conducive to the happy life is the knowledge of what the happy life is. So the knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous is built upon the knowledge of the happy life. How, according to Aristotle, do learners acquire the knowledge of the happy life? The interpretation of Aristotle’s answer is much contested. I shall superficially sketch the dispute among commentators, and then offer a way to avoid having to resolve it. 12 Contemporary aesthetician Noel Carroll also proposes that music (and narratives generally) can improve listeners’ emotions, although the mechanism he sketches emphasizes the cognitive more than Aristotelian habituation does. Carroll suggests that in order to understand narratives, in order to fill in the emotional and cognitive assumptions of the narratives, audiences must exercise their emotions and beliefs. This increases the sensitivity of the audience. It enhances their ability to recognize and classify which emotions and beliefs are appropriate for which situations. Guided by the narrative’s author, audiences learn when and how to feel emotions. They also clarify their moral beliefs, put them together in new ways, apply general rules to particular cases, etc. See N. Carroll, A Philosophy of Mass Art (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998) 320ff.


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The dispute The happy life is the ultimate end or goal of our actions. Now some of Aristotle’s statements about how we come to know the ultimate end are notoriously problematic. He says quite clearly and repeatedly that virtue makes the end right, and deliberation merely provides “the means,” or more literally “what conduces to the end” (ta pros to telos). [G] The end, then, being what we wish for, the things contributing to the end what we deliberate about and choose . . . (1113b3–4) The function of man is achieved only in accordance with practical wisdom as well as with moral virtue; for virtue makes the aim right, and practical wisdom the things leading to it. (1144a6–9) Now virtue makes the choice right, but the question of the things which should naturally be done to carry out our choice belongs not to virtue but to another faculty. (1144a20–2; see also 1111b26; 1112b11–16; 1112b34–5; 1145a4–6; 1151a15–19; EE 1227b12–1228a2)

In passages [G], Aristotle distinguishes between practical wisdom (or more narrowly, deliberation) and other (primarily passional, habituated) aspects of virtue, sometimes collectively called moral virtue. He seems to be saying that, while practical wisdom can tell us how best to accomplish the proper ultimate goal once we have adopted it, it is moral virtue that provides us with the knowledge of the proper, ultimate goal, itself, as well as the desire for that goal. In particular, deliberation can tell us how to attain the happy life once we know what it is, but deliberation cannot tell us what the happy life is, or motivate us to seek it. Some commentators accept this at face value.13 But the claim that knowledge of the happy life is acquired by moral virtue is problematic because seeking knowledge is an intellectual task: it is not a task for passion. It is hard to see how moral virtue could provide knowledge of the happy life. True, moral virtue is not merely a collection of blindly irrational urges or mechanical responses to stimuli. Moral virtue has a sort of reason. But moral virtue is rational in that it can understand reason, appreciate reason, be persuaded by reason (1102b13ff). Moral virtue does not engage in reasoning on its own. It cannot, itself, determine the nature of the happy life. Moral virtue does have a significant influence upon our thinking. Passions background some things in a person’s perceptual and intellectual field, while bringing other things into focus. Moreover, the passions demand that the person do something with respect to these things. But it is the faculty of reason that actually reasons about these things. Thus, other commentators reject this straightforward interpretation of passages [G], and maintain that the knowledge of the happy life is predominately provided somehow

13 Fortenbaugh, Aristotle on Emotion, 1975; W. Fortenbaugh, “Aristotle’s Distinction between Moral Virtue and Practical Wisdom.” In Essays in Ancient Greek Philosophy IV: Aristotle’s Ethics, ed. by J. Anton and A. Preus (SUNY press: Albany, 1991) 105. Broadie denies that Aristotle thinks that anyone has holistic knowledge of the happy life. See Broadie 198–202.

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by practical reason rather than by moral virtue. They differ among themselves over whether the process is deliberation,14 or some combination of intuition, induction, and perception,15 but they agree that whatever the process is, it is a rational process rather than somehow a process of moral virtue. The advocates of deliberation insist that ends can also be means to further goals. Thus, ends as well as means may be objects of deliberation. But this observation does not suffice. Suppose A is a means to B; B is a means to C; and C is an ultimate end. Now A can be an object of a deliberation about how to reach B, and B can be an object of a deliberation about how to reach C. But C cannot be an object of a deliberation because it is not a means to a further goal. An end can be an object of deliberation only if it is an intermediate end. But the happy life is an ultimate end rather than an intermediate one. Moreover, even B is not an object of deliberation qua end, but qua means to C, ends can only be objects of deliberation incidentally. So even if deliberation could describe the happy life, it could only do so qua means to something else. Deliberation advocates also protest that the phrase ta pros to telos may mean “the constituents of the goal,” so parts of the ultimate end, as well as means to the ultimate end can be objects of deliberation. But this observation does not suffice either. It does not explain away all of passages [G]. Worse yet, it only allows deliberation to grasp parts of the ultimate end, but not the ultimate end, itself, qua end. What is needed is a holistic understanding of the happy life. The advocates of intuition, induction, and perception maintain that, just as theoretical reason gains the knowledge of the first principles of science through intuition and/ or induction based upon perceived particulars, so in an analogous manner practical reason gains the knowledge of the first principles of morality, including knowledge of the happy life. After all, the Nicomachean Ethics contains an account of the happy life (vague and contested though it is), and this account is obviously obtained through some sort of rational process of intuition, induction, and perception rather than through moral virtue or deliberation. Unfortunately, although the advocates of intuition, induction, and perception bolster their interpretations by painstakingly assembling a web of passages that bear rather indirectly on the matter, Aristotle does not explicitly explain how intuition, induction, and perception combine to provide the knowledge of the happy life. Finessing the dispute All parties to this dispute hold problematic positions. Luckily, we need not choose among them, for the question here is how the learner acquires knowledge of the happy life. The advocates of intuition, induction, and perception may well be right about how philosophers determine the nature of the happy life. However, just as students of 14

Wiggins 222–7. D. DeMoss, “Acquiring Ethical Ends,” Ancient Philosophy 10 (1990): 63–79; Reeve, Practices of Reason, 7–66; Sorabji 206–7, 216. 15


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chemistry need not acquire the knowledge of the periodic table in the same way that its discoverers did, so naturally virtuous people taking the last step on the moral development path need not acquire the knowledge of the happy life in the same way that moral philosophers acquire this knowledge. Thus, the process used by theoretical reason to discover its truths, and the process used by Aristotle in the Nicomachean Ethics are beside the point. While advocates of moral virtue seem to take passages [G] straightforwardly, they actually go a bit beyond the text. Passages [G] do not actually make the claim that moral virtue provides knowledge of the happy life. Instead, these passages say that virtue “makes the choice right.” This is quite vague. It is vague enough to mean merely that virtue provides the commitment to the right choice, and/or that virtue defends against making wrong choices. A promise to get the student papers graded by Tuesday may insure that the papers are graded by Tuesday, although the promising is not the grading. An awareness of common errors in grading may insure that these errors are not made, although this awareness is not the grading. Motivation and boundary constraints of a choice may “make the choice right” although they do not make the choice. Finally, insofar as the advocates of deliberation take their claim to be about how learners gain the knowledge of the happy life, the advocates must contend with what Aristotle says in general about the process of moral development. When Aristotle lists the things that contribute to moral development, he reverts to the old chestnuts: nature, habituation, teaching, divine providence, and chance (1099b9–11; 1103a14–26; 1179b20–1). While habituation presumably alludes to moral virtue, and teaching may involve intuition, induction, and perception, deliberation is simply not mentioned. Its absence from Aristotle’s scattered remarks about moral development is weighty. As usual, what is clear is quite general; specifics are frustratingly absent. Surely, the learner who is lucky enough (divine providence?) to start with an unmarred human nature and sufficient goods of fortune (chance?) acquires the knowledge of the happy life by teaching, after habituation has produced good dispositions of action and passion. Philosophers discover the nature of the happy life somehow, and teach the rest of us. Aristotle leaves the nature of teaching unspecified, as will I. Perhaps Aristotle is not more specific because the term, “teaching,” comprehends several different processes. One sort of teaching might be to guide learners to discover the nature of the happy life for themselves through some sort of process of intuition, induction, and perception. But another sort of teaching might be simply to lecture on the nature of the happy life. Yet other sorts of teaching are possible, too.

Summary of the moral development path Aristotle’s implicit account of moral development specifies a developmental path in six stages. Each stage consists of a different character type: (a) one of the many, (b) generous-minded youth, (c) incontinent person, (d) continent person, (e) naturally

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virtuous person, (f ) properly virtuous person. Each new stage is reached by acquiring a new component of virtue. The five components of virtue in the order of their acquisition are: (1) the desire to perform virtuous acts for their own sakes qua virtuous, that is, the commitment to lead the life of virtue, (2) the knowledge of which acts are virtuous in which situations (i.e. the ability to identify virtuous acts), (3) the habits of virtuous action, (4) the habits of virtuous passion, and (5) the knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous (i.e. the knowledge of the happy life). At each stage on the path the learner gains a different component of virtue and thus advances to the next stage (becoming a better sort of person) at the prompting of a different catalyst, but those who lack the relevant catalyst remain fixated or regress. The many become generous-minded; the generous-minded become incontinent; and the incontinent become continent by performing virtuous acts prompted at first (1) by threat of external punishment, later (2) by internal aido¯s, and finally (3) by remorse. After the habits of virtuous action are already well entrenched, mere virtuous action no longer moves the learner forward along the moral development path. The continent become naturally virtuous (4) by listening to the right music. Naturally virtuous people are (5) able to make moral progress through teaching. If they are properly taught about which character traits are conducive to happiness, then naturally virtuous people acquire the knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous. That is, they become properly virtuous people.16

Other character types At first there seem to be a daunting number of possible combinations of virtue components in addition to the six mentioned above, but most can be ruled out as incompatible with Aristotle’s assumptions. I shall consider only the sixteen character types that include a commitment to the virtuous life. That is, I shall consider only those people who reliably strive to engage in virtuous action for its own sake. Aristotle allows for three springs of action: wish (boule¯sis), passion (thumos), and appetite (epithumia). Wish is a rational desire while the other two are non-rational desires, often bundled together under the term “passion.” Now a person who lacked both knowledge of which acts are virtuous and habits of virtuous passions could not have habits of virtuous actions, for neither rational desires nor non-rational desires would motivate such a person to act virtuously. This rules out the possibility of character types E and I. Conversely, a person who possessed both knowledge of

16

Speaking loosely, habituation develops and maintains the character of the virtuous; teaching nails it down. Does anything improve the character of the virtuous? Can fully virtuous people progress to an even higher level of moral development? The only character trait beyond proper virtue that Aristotle mentions is heroic virtue (1145a18–27). If heroic virtue is just the highest degree of virtue (rather than, say, a different sort of character trait beyond virtue), then virtuous action and teaching may transform proper virtue to heroic virtue by incrementally enhancing virtue.

knowledge of why acts are virtuous

X

habits of virtuous passion

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

habits of virtuous action knowledge of which acts are virtuous virtuous action for its own sake ability to make moral progress

X vicious

many

è punishment

Generousminded

è aidos

incontinent

è remorse

continent

è music

naturally virtuous

è properly teaching virtuous

generous minded

incontinent

continent

A


B

naturally virtuous

X


X

habits of virtuous action

D

properly virtuous

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

knowledge of which acts are virtuous

C

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

E

F

G

H

X X

I

J

K

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

virtuous action for its own sake

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

ability to make moral progress

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X


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which acts are virtuous and habits of virtuous passions could not lack habits of virtuous actions, for neither reason nor passion would motivate such a person to act nonvirtuously. This rules out the possibility of character types A and D.17 Can a person have the knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous without the habits of virtuous action and/or habits of virtuous passion? Aristotle might allow that people can (and often do) deviate from the moral development path by skipping stages, but he would insist upon a caveat. Aristotle assumes that successful habituation of both action and passion is a precondition of successful teaching. He also assumes that the knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous is imparted only through teaching. These assumptions dictate that people lacking habits of virtuous action and/or habits of virtuous passion cannot acquire the knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous. Could a properly virtuous person lose the habits of virtue, yet retain the knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous? That is, could a person with the knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous, yet without right habits of action or passion come into being through backsliding? Aristotle does not exactly preclude the possibility, but he contrasts the naturally virtuous, who may be led astray, with the properly virtuous, who presumably cannot (1144b4–14). That is, Aristotle thinks that the knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous is not forgotten. So once one makes it to proper virtue, one does not backslide. Thus, character types that include the knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous, but not the habits of virtuous actions and habits of virtuous passions, are incompatible with Aristotle’s account of moral development. Character types B, C, D, G, I, and J are thus impossible. Incontinent, continent, and naturally virtuous people have the knowledge of which acts exemplify which character traits, without the knowledge of which character traits are virtues. Surprisingly, people can also have the knowledge of which character traits are virtues without the knowledge of which acts exemplify which character traits. Using medicine as his example, Aristotle says, [H] If a man has theory without experience, and knows the universal but does not know the individual included in this, he will often fail to cure . . . Men of experience know that the thing is so, but do not know why, while the others know the “why” and the cause. (Meta 981a21–30)

Presumably, just as there are people who know the universal (the theory), but not the individual (the practice) of medicine, so there are people who know which character traits are virtues, but not which acts exemplify which character traits. A person might be in this situation after taking an ethical theory class, but before taking a moral problems class. Nevertheless, since the knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous includes the knowledge of which acts are virtuous, character types G, I, J, and K are impossible. So fourteen of the initial sixteen character types are impossible, some for multiple reasons. Now Bennett describes the remaining two combinations of virtue components: character types F and H. According to Bennett, Heinrich Himmler lacked both 17

Perhaps such character types could exist as a transition stage, but they would not be stable.

many

generousminded

incontinent

continent

naturally virtuous


inversely continent

inversely incontinent

X

X

X


X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

X

habits of virtuous action knowledge of which acts are virtuous virtuous action for its own sake ability to make moral progress

properly virtuous

X

X


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knowledge of which acts are virtuous and habits of virtuous action, but possessed habits of virtuous passion with respect to the treatment of others. That is, Bennett’s Himmler is a person of character type F. Call such people inversely continent. Also according to Bennett, Huck Finn also lacks the knowledge of which acts are virtuous, but has both habits of virtuous action and habits of passion. That is, Bennett’s Huck is a person of character type H. Call such people inversely incontinent.18 How do these sorts of people come about? People with natural virtue are prone to losing the knowledge of which actions are virtuous, perhaps by being persuaded or indoctrinated by someone with a false moral theory. Afterwards, such people might then act in accord with their virtuous passions and mistakenly believe themselves to be incontinent, as Huck does. Or they might then act in accord with their new principles and mistakenly believe themselves to be continent, as Himmler does. Aristotle mentions an example of the former case. In Sophocles’ play, Philoctetes, Neoptolomos believes that telling the truth is right and desires to do it. Then he loses this belief, but retaines the desire, “for telling the truth was noble to him, but he had been persuaded by Odysseus to tell the lie” (1151b19–21). Like Huck, Neoptolomos goes on to act in accord with his passions: he tells the truth. If this sort of thing becomes habitual, Neoptolomos will probably become inversely incontinent through the erosion of his other beliefs about which acts are virtuous. Thus, people like Himmler and Huck can arise through backsliding from natural virtue.

Non-reciprocity of natural virtue Proper virtue includes the knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous; natural virtue does not. Natural and proper virtue differ in another way, too. Aristotle says, [I] [1] The same man, it might be said, is not best equipped by nature for all the virtues, so that he will have already acquired one when he has not yet acquired another. [2] This is possible in respect of the natural virtues, [3] but not in respect of the [proper virtues, for the person with proper virtue has practical wisdom, and] with the presence of the one quality, practical wisdom, will be given all the virtues. (1144b34–1145a2)

Now the combination of sentences [1] and [3] of passage [I] has received a fair amount of attention from commentators, for here Aristotle advances what Irwin calls the Reciprocity of Virtue Thesis.19 Aristotle maintains that a person who has one proper virtue, has them all. But although the combination of sentences [1] and [2] has received less attention, it too has important implications. Here Aristotle clearly denies that any sort of reciprocity of virtue exists at the level of natural virtue. Some people acquire some of the natural virtues before they have acquired the rest, or retain some natural virtues while losing others. A person might become naturally 18 19

Bennett 123–34. Irwin, “Disunity in the Aristotelian Virtues,” 61–78.

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virtuous with respect to some sphere of human life while remaining merely continent, incontinent, generous-minded, or one of the many with respect to some other sphere. Indeed, Aristotle allows that some people are naturally virtuous in some respects yet vicious in other respects. He says, “Some who in the dangers of war are cowards are liberal and are confident in the face of the loss of money” (1115a20–2). So some people are liberal cowards. They handle money well, but danger badly. Presumably, others handle danger well, but money badly. They have the natural virtue of courage, but are incontinent or worse with respect to liberality.20 The fact that Tex cannot bring himself to give what he should to charity does not imply that he is a coward. In general, a person’s moral progress can be uneven, further along in one sphere than another. Unsurprisingly, Aristotle denies reciprocity, not only at the level of natural virtue, but at other levels, too. He says for example, “No one has all of the forms of incontinence” (1146b4). Thus, “incontinence” should be read as relative to an aspect of human life. When Tex is said to be incontinent, neither Aristotle nor the man on the street means that Tex is incontinent with respect to every sphere. Instead, he is being accused of incontinence with respect to some sphere. Similarly for continence, natural virtue, vice, etc. Aristotle’s Reciprocity of Proper Virtue Thesis implies that in order to become a properly virtuous person, the learner must make the transition from natural to proper virtue with respect to every sphere of human life all at once. This is a high hurdle. Even people who make it to natural virtue in many spheres often remain fixated at lower stages of moral development with respect to the remaining spheres. Thus, Aristotle presumably believes that very very few people make it to proper virtue. On the other hand, Aristotle’s Non-Reciprocity of Natural Virtue Thesis, and in particular his acknowledgement of the existence of liberal cowards, indicates that when Aristotle says that vicious people are incurable (1114a15–21; 1150b31–6), he means that people who are vicious with respect to one sphere cannot improve with respect to that sphere. Aristotle is not denying that such people can improve with respect to other spheres. The fact that Quentin is hopelessly stingy does not preclude him from becoming naturally courageous, for example. His whole moral life is not shot, only part of it. Indeed, Aristotle’s sanguine statement that virtue “is very generally shared” (1099b18), and his pessimistic statement that virtuous people “are rare” (1156b25) are compatible if Aristotle’s view is that few people are properly virtuous, but most people are naturally virtuous in some respects. Aristotle is clearly right about most of this. We all know people who manage to act, feel, desire, believe, reason, and perceive well in some spheres of their life despite their weaknesses and even failures in other spheres. Many people have made it to high (though perhaps not the highest) stages of moral development with respect to some spheres, while simultaneously remaining stuck at low (though perhaps not the lowest) stages with

20 Similarly, a person could be naturally virtuous with respect to giving money, but not with respect to taking money. And, of course, one could get even more fine-grained.


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respect to other spheres. So whether Aristotle’s Reciprocity of Proper Virtue Thesis stands or falls, his Non-Reciprocity of Natural Virtue Thesis seems quite plausible.21 One particular part of the Non-Reciprocity of Natural Virtue Thesis is disputed, however. Following the Stoics, Kant maintains that the commitment to the virtuous life is an all-or-nothing commitment. Raquel has either given duty priority over inclination in all cases of conflict or she has not done so. In Kantian jargon, a person’s will is either good or evil. Of course, Kant acknowledges that some people knowingly act wrongly despite a commitment to the virtuous life. He expresses this by saying that such people have a good, but frail will, the Kantian version of incontinence. But Kant’s insistence that Raquel either commits to the virtuous life wholeheartedly or not at all implies that Raquel cannot be generous-minded or higher with respect to some spheres, while being one of the many or vicious with respect to other spheres. For generous-mindedness and the more advanced character traits include a commitment to the virtuous life, while the many and the vicious lack such a commitment. Can commitment to the virtuous life be partial, as Aristotle thinks, or must it be total, as Kant thinks? Consider some cases. Raquel commits herself to staying on a diet, but she is unwilling to commit to being honest with others. Although Sigmund strives to be virtuous, he does not realize that humor is a morally relevant category. He is generous-minded or higher with respect to various other spheres, yet tends to tell hurtful jokes. Overall, it seems that many, if not most people make the commitment to virtue sphere by sphere, rather than committing to the virtuous life across the board. Everyone recognizes that moral development is not a smooth process, but many thinkers see moral development as a more or less linear process. The learner may improve quickly or slowly. Learners may make great leaps forward or occasionally backslide, but everything takes place along a single moral development path. By contrast, to accept the Non-Reciprocity of Natural Virtue Thesis is to see moral development as taking place at different rates, in fits and starts, along parallel routes, one route for each sphere of human life. Of course, moral development within one sphere affects the moral development within the others. Retarded moral development in one sphere can impede or undermine progress in other spheres, and conversely, progress in one sphere may trigger an

21 I propose the following grossly oversimplified and geeky virtue rating system. Consider ten virtues: courage, temperance, liberality, appropriate ambition, good temper, wit, truthfulness, friendliness, shame, and particular justice. (Magnificence is heroic liberality. Megalopsychia is an account of heroic virtue rather than a virtue, itself. General justice consists of the social components of the other virtues.) And suppose that the moral development path consists of seven stages: inability-to-progress (losers), the many, generousmindedness, incontinence, continence, natural virtue, proper virtue. Assign a virtue point for each stage on the path within each sphere. (Being one of the many with respect to physical risk is worth 1 point, generousmindedness with respect to temperance is worth 2 points, etc.) The reciprocity of proper virtues implies that each properly virtuous person has 60 virtue points. The next best person is naturally virtuous in all spheres, and so has 50 virtue points. A person who is cowardly and self-indulgent, but incontinent with respect to liberality, appropriate ambition, and good temper, and continent with respect to the remaining spheres has 29 virtue points.

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advance in others. Orville is prodigal: he spends more than he should in order to impress his girlfriend. Desperate to obtain the money, Orville becomes an embezzler. His illiberality leads to injustice. If Orville makes progress toward liberality by spending more reasonably, he will also reduce his need and desire to steal. Surprisingly, a learner may act well in some spheres solely because he or she is morally backward with respect to others. For example, Petunia’s tendency to feel excessive fear restrains her from acts of intemperance, injustice, and irascibility. If Petunia makes progress toward courage by feeling less fear, she may no longer be held back from committing adultery, burglary, and retaliatory assault. That is, progress in one sphere may trigger an overall decline in Petunia’s character. In general, moral development is much more complicated than one might think.

Summation argument The Non-Reciprocity of Natural Virtue Thesis may be used to solve an interpretive puzzle. In the Politics, Aristotle says that most people should participate in government, not as individuals, but as a group. His reason is that a large group of ordinary folks will have better actions, passions, desires, beliefs, reasons, and perceptions as a whole, than will superior individuals. [J] For the many, when they meet together may be better than the few good, if regarded not individually but collectively, just as a feast to which many contribute is better than a dinner provided out of a single purse. For each individual among the many has a share of virtue and practical wisdom. (Politics 1281a42–b5) If the people are not utterly degraded, although individually they may be worse judges than those who have special knowledge, as a body they are as good or better. (Politics 1282a16–17) Again, the many are more incorruptible than the few; they are like the greater quantity of water which is less easily corrupted than a little. The individual is liable to be overcome by anger or by some other passion, and then his judgment is necessarily perverted; but it is hardly to be supposed that a great number of persons would all get into a passion and go wrong at the same moment. (Politics 1286a31–5)

Here Aristotle is making two comparisons. First, some people (the few) are much better in several ways than most people (the many).22 Each superior person is more virtuous, more knowledgeable, and less corruptible than each ordinary person. Second, each group of ordinary folks is better, in each of these three ways, than each superior individual. Now this summation doctrine seems to be a surprising thesis for an unabashed elitist like Aristotle to hold. Aristotle does not seem to have some sort of group dynamic in mind. He is not appealing to some synergy that would enable the whole to be better

22 In these passages, Aristotle is contrasting the few people of superior virtue with the rest of the people, so I take hoi polloi to mean “most people” rather than “people at the first stage of moral development.”


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than the sum of its parts.23 After all, “a feast to which many contribute is better than a dinner provided” by one person, not because the many people somehow combine their casseroles into a super-casserole that tastes better than each of the smaller ones, but rather because when many contribute there are more different sorts of food. A group is not better at judgment than an individual because the group members combine their bits of knowledge in ways that the individual with the same knowledge does not, but rather because the group has more knowledge than the individual. More water is less easily polluted than less water, not because combining different batches of water transforms the water into a less corruptable compound, but rather simply because more water more effectively dilutes pollution. So Aristotle is not saying that by combining their strengths several people working together will generate better passions or judgments or resistance to temptations in a particular situation than any of them would have produced alone. Yet without some such synergy, how could Aristotle possibly think that the virtue, judgment, and resistance-to-temptation of a group of ordinary folks could be superior to the virtue, judgment, and resistance-to-temptation of the best folks? How could the combination of many bad dispositions, perceptions, and beliefs turn out to be good dispositions, perceptions, and beliefs? Aristotle’s claim is that in almost every situation someone in the group will have the knowledge, virtue, and resistance-to-temptation necessary to do the right thing, and the group will follow his or her lead. Since no one in the group is very virtuous, knowledgeable, or resistant-to-temptation, the group will have various different leaders in different circumstances. Nevertheless, the group will act well almost all of the time. Indeed, it will act more reliably rightly than any superior individual. Could Aristotle be comparing superior individuals who are properly virtuous with groups of ordinary folks at lower levels of moral development? No. Aristotle says that “the many, when they meet together may be better than the few good.” Now because of the Reciprocity of Proper Virtue Thesis, Aristotle’s view is that no one is better than the properly virtuous except perhaps the heroically virtuous. And Aristotle is surely not saying that ordinary folks, working together as a group, reliably rise to the level of heroic virtue in situation after situation. So the superior individuals of passages [J] are not properly virtuous. Could Aristotle be comparing superior individuals, each of whom is less than properly virtuous in every sphere, to ordinary folks, each of whom is even worse across the board? For example, could each of the superior individuals have natural courage, natural temperance, natural liberality, etc., while each of the ordinary folks is merely continent with respect to courage, continent with respect to temperance, continent with respect to liberality, etc.? No. In such a comparison the many, even 23

And rightly so. After all, even if the members of a group can occasionally act, feel, desire, perceive, believe, and think better than the group’s best members through some sort of synergy, they cannot do so reliably.

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as a group, could not be better than the few good. Even if the ordinary folks as a group reliably act, feel, desire, believe, perceive, and think in every situation as well as their best members, the superior individuals would still be better. The Non-Reciprocity of Natural Virtue Thesis is the key. Aristotle is comparing superior individuals, each of whom is naturally virtuous with respect to most spheres of human life, and less than naturally virtuous with respect to a few spheres, to ordinary folks, each of whom is less than naturally virtuous with respect to most spheres, and naturally virtuous in at least one sphere. Thus, “each individual among the many has a share of virtue and practical wisdom.” Aristotle assumes that in each sphere some of the ordinary folks are naturally virtuous, and that good traits trump bad ones within a group. In each situation, those ordinary folks with the correct habits of action, passion, perception, and belief lead the rest (either by persuasion, or by domination, or by garnering respect, or in some other way). The group defers to Mortimer in situations of physical risk because everyone knows that, although Mortimer is a nasty, stingy, irascible, alcoholic, with delusions of grandeur, he is courageous. But when the victory celebration is being planned, the group follows Nelda’s recommendation for how much liquor to buy because everyone knows that Nelda is temperate, even though she cowered, whimpering under the bed during the fighting. In general, the group of ordinary folks ends up coping correctly with each situation, while each of the superior individuals goes wrong with respect to some situations. Thus, the Non-Reciprocity of Natural Virtue Thesis explains how a large group of ordinary folks might act, feel, desire, perceive, believe, and think better as a whole, than superior individuals, even though each of the ordinary folks is much worse than each of the superior individuals.24

Responsibility for moral progress Aristotle’s account of responsibility for character seems at first glance to make no allowances for differences of opportunity and innate ability among people. Whereas common sense says that some people are less responsible than others for their bad character because they had greater obstacles to overcome in their youth (e.g. bad role models, genetic dispositions to vice, disadvantaged circumstances, etc.), Aristotle’s account in NE III.1 and NE III.5 seems to say that all people are equally and fully responsible for their character. Now Aristotle’s description of the causes of brutishness moderates his account of responsibility for character a bit by allowing that brutish people (i.e. mentally ill people) are generally not responsible for their character deficiencies. Instead, their terribly flawed dispositions are caused by inherited bad natures, traumatic experiences, and

24 I do not think that Aristotle’s summation doctrine is correct. Aristotle has neglected the fact that group dynamics are often poisonous. Moreover, that the group will follow its best members in each situation is overly optimistic. Finally, reconciling the summation argument with Aristotle’s claim that Monarchy and Aristocracy are better than Polity is a task for another day.


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perverse cultural conditioning (1148b17–31). So Aristotle separates the vicious, who are responsible for their bad character, from the sick, who are not responsible. But are all of the vicious fully responsible for their vices? In the following passage, Aristotle further improves his initial account of character responsibility by introducing the notion of degrees of responsibility for vice. Aristotle says, [K] Self-indulgence . . . is more a matter of reproach [than cowardice]; for it is easier to become accustomed to its objects since there are many things of this sort in life, and the process of habituation to them is free from danger, while with terrible objects the reverse is the case. (1119a21–7)

In passage [K], Aristotle observes that the virtue of courage is harder to acquire than the virtue of temperance for two reasons. We become virtuous by performing virtuous acts. But opportunities for temperate action are all around us, while opportunities for courageous action are rare. Moreover, temperate acts are typically performed in lowrisk situations, while courageous acts can only be performed in high-risk situations where fear is appropriate. Presumably, the relevance of this fact is that acting well in dangerous situations is more difficult than acting well in tempting situations. Since it is harder to become courageous than temperate, Aristotle concludes that people who fail to become courageous are less blameworthy than those who fail to become temperate. Self-indulgent people are more responsible for their vicious character than are cowardly people. Generalizing, we may infer that if Leopold’s path to virtue A is harder than his path to virtue B, then he is less blameworthy for failing to achieve virtue A than for failing to achieve virtue B. From here it is not much of an extrapolation to maintain that, if Leopold’s path to virtue A is harder than Kendra’s path to virtue A, then Leopold is less responsible, and thus less blameworthy for failing to achieve virtue A than is Kendra. If one person’s responsibility for gaining different virtues differs according to the difficulty of gaining each of those virtues, then it is plausible to infer that different people’s responsibility for gaining the same virtue differs according to the difficulty each person faces in gaining that virtue. Thus, Aristotle really does come close to saying that some people are less responsible than others for their bad character because they had greater obstacles to overcome in their youth. These theses about brutishness and degrees of responsibility soften and complexify the overly harsh and simplistic preliminary account of character responsibility found in NE III.1 and NE III.5, yielding a much more moderate and plausible view.

Comparisons and implications I shall conclude by drawing a few contrasts to some contemporary accounts of moral development and sketching some implications for moral education. The two most influential accounts of moral development in the twentieth century have been the

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behaviorist and the cognitive development accounts. Although a detailed treatment of the similarities and differences between these approaches and Aristotle’s approach is far beyond the scope of this chapter, I shall make a start on this project for the sake of bringing Aristotle into the contemporary discussion. Aristotle and the behaviorists agree that habituation plays a major role in moral development, but disagree about what counts as progress. Naturally, behaviorists take moral progress to consist in better behavior, but for Aristotle, behavioral improvement constitutes only a small part of moral improvement. Those who advance from incontinence to continence behave better, but advancing to higher stages produces no further change of behavior and those who advance from lower stages to incontinence gain the ability to identify right action, but not the habits of right action. Here Aristotle’s view is attractive, for we have all had the experience of becoming morally better in ways which cause us (hopefully only temporarily) to act morally worse. Aristotle and the behaviorists agree that moral progress must be motivated by some sort of reinforcement. Behaviorists hold that moral development works best when driven by both negative and positive reinforcement, but for Aristotle, moral progress is driven by pain (punishment, aido¯s, and remorse) associated with vicious acts rather than pleasure associated with virtuous acts. On this point the behaviorists seem right and Aristotle’s view seems counterintuitive. Aristotle should amend his view to include a role for positive as well as negative reinforcement. He should maintain that hope of reward as well as fear of punishment motivates the many to perform virtuous acts. Similarly, Aristotle should say that hope of pride as well as fear of shame motivates people at later stages of moral development to perform virtuous acts. Both Kohlberg and his apostate student, Gilligan, take moral progress to consist in advancing from less to more sophisticated moral reasoning and moral theories. Different stages are constituted by different views about which choices are right, how to determine which choices are right, and what makes these choices right. So Kohlberg and Gilligan agree with Aristotle that people progress in stages, and that at each stage some people progress to the next stage while others remain fixated, but they disagree with Aristotle (and with each other) about what the stages are.25 From Aristotle’s point of view, the cognitive development approach ignores the first five stages. For Aristotle, moral reasoning and moral theories are not significant components of moral development, except perhaps in the last stage where the student learns why virtuous acts are virtuous. 25

Although Aristotle, Kohlberg, and Gilligan claim that men and women are morally different, they disagree on the difference. Kohlberg and Gilligan maintain that men and women tend toward different ways of moral reasoning and different moral theories. But Aristotle says that the deliberative faculty of women is “without authority” (Politics 1160a12–13). I take this to mean that men and women do not differ with respect to reasoning and moral theories. Instead, women are simply fixated at the level of incontinence, but men can advance further. Women are (some of) the innately incontinent people of passage [E].


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Aristotle thinks that a person is not necessarily at the same stage in each sphere. A person can be naturally virtuous with respect to the sphere of wealth, yet incontinent with respect to sensual pleasure, for example. But because Kohlberg and Gilligan focus on the cognitive, they seem to be committed to the view that moral progress cannot be sphere specific. If a person generally uses stage three reasoning about wealth, he or she will also generally use stage three reasoning about sensual pleasure. On this point we can learn from Aristotle, for his view seems obviously true. Aristotle and the cognitivists disagree not only about the nature of the stages, but also about the manner through which learners progress. Kohlberg and Gilligan hold that reasoning with learners is useful at any stage, but Aristotle claims that habituation must precede teaching, that virtuous action is a necessary precondition of intellectual moral progress. People cannot move from one stage to the next through mere argument until they reach the penultimate stage. No argument will boost someone from the many into the generous-minded, for example. One cannot persuade someone to switch from the pursuit of pleasure, money, etc., to the pursuit of virtue. Here the cognitivists seem to have the more plausible position. Common sense, backed by many studies and the experience of many parents, says that both teaching and habituation proceed simultaneously, supporting and enhancing each other. Teaching the knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous facilitates rather than presupposes habituation. Parents should help their children of all ages and stages understand as well as practice morality. In addition to reinforcing considerate behavior, parents might start explaining the golden rule in simple terms well before kindergarten. Ethics 101 should not provide the learner’s first lessons in moral theory. Moreover, some incontinent people clearly acquire the knowledge of why virtuous acts are virtuous without first acquiring habits of virtuous actions and passions. We watch this happen in our ethics classes. They somehow complete the teaching stage of moral development without completing the habituation stage. These incontinent people constitute a counterexample to Aristotle’s claim that effective teaching presupposes successful habituation. These differences among Aristotle, the behaviorists, and the cognitivists have some interesting implications for moral education. On the behaviorist view, training in ethics should consist primarily in positively reinforcing learners for moral behavior. Give them responsibility when you think they will choose rightly, and praise them for their right choices. According to Kohlberg and Gilligan, training in ethics should consist in directed discussions of moral dilemmas, for people improve their moral reasoning and thus advance to higher stages by engaging in such discussions. But according to Aristotle’s account of moral development, such praise and discussions are largely useless. The praise might make some people happy; the discussions might help the naturally virtuous to justify their true beliefs. But only terrifying descriptions of the penalties for wrongdoing would help the many; only moving exhortations and scoldings would help the generous-minded; the incontinent would progress only through actually making choices; and the continent progress only by practicing the right passions. Thus, if Aristotle’s account of moral development is correct, we should

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replace our praise of good choices with a policy of reproaching students for their peccadilloes to enhance their feelings of aido¯s. We also should replace our present ethics classes with scary stories of punishment and stirring sermons preaching dedication to the life of virtue. Finally, we should require our students to attend the right sort of concerts and plays. Aristotle is a philosopher from whom we have much to learn, but we had better not swallow his whole account of moral development.

17 Aristotle’s Losers: The Vicious, the Brutish, Natural Slaves, and Tragic Heroes Introduction Aristotle and his commentators focus upon the moral exemplars and those making progress toward virtue. After all, Aristotle says, “We are inquiring . . . in order to become good” (1103b27–8). Yet Aristotle thinks that there are some people who cannot become good. Who are these people and why are they incorrigible? Aristotle’s taxonomy of those he considers to be the dregs of humanity repays investigation. It is different from, and arguably better than, the contemporary common-sense classification.

The vicious The most familiar incorrigible characters in Aristotle’s taxonomy are the vicious: [A] [A sick person] may, perhaps, be ill voluntarily, through living incontinently and disobeying his doctors. In that case it was then open to him not to be ill, but not now, when he has thrown away his chance, just as when you have let a stone go it is too late to recover it; but yet it was in your power to throw it, since the moving principle was in you. So, too, to the unjust and to the self-indulgent man it was open at the beginning not to become men of this kind, and so they are such voluntarily; but now that they have become so it is not possible for them not to be so. (1114a15–21)

On the basis of passage [A], it might be thought that the vicious are incorrigible because they have entrenched bad habits of action and passion. But this cannot be the whole explanation of why the vicious are incorrigible. Aristotle says, [B] Men do many things against habit and nature, if reason persuades them that they ought. (1332b6–7) It is easier to change a habit than to change one’s nature. (1152a29–30)

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Rather than uncharitably attributing to Aristotle the implausible claim that habits are unchangeable, let us take passage [A] to be an overstatement corrected by passage [B]. Passage [B] shows that Aristotle recognizes that habits are difficult, but not impossible to change. Since habits can be altered, people can overcome very entrenched habits to become good. Overeaters sometimes internalize good eating habits; Scrooges sometimes become liberal; and so on. Moreover, the incontinent have the same passions and perform the same actions as the vicious, yet Aristotle assures us that the incontinent can be cured:1 [C] The self-indulgent man . . . has no regrets; for he stands by his choice; but an incontinent man is subject to regrets. This is why . . . the self-indulgent man is incurable and the incontinent man curable . . . Vice is unconscious of itself, incontinence is not. (1150b29–36)

Passage [C] not only shows that the incorrigibility of the vicious cannot be attributed solely to their bad habits, it also offers an alternate explanation. The incontinent realize that they feel and act wrongly, and this realization pains them. Presumably, their pain motivates the incontinent to change their ways. But the vicious feel no regrets, and therefore make no progress, because they lack the knowledge of their own moral failings. They have no desire to change, because they believe that they are already feeling and acting rightly. Some of the vicious think that they are courageous when they are really cowardly, for example. When they run from battle, they think that they are being realistic, while those who remain are acting rashly. Others recognize that they are cowardly, but they nevertheless believe that this character trait is actually in their own best interest. They think that courage is a vice and cowardice is a virtue.2 Both groups think that they are actually virtuous (1108b23–6; 1110b28–30; 1140b17–20).3 Passage [C] suggests that the vicious are incorrigible because they do not recognize that they are vicious. And their failure to know themselves is a result of their false beliefs about virtue and vice.

1

Could it be that the actions and passions of the incontinent differ from those of the vicious, not in type or intensity, but in entrenchedness? Aristotle says nothing to suggest this, nor does it fit the facts. We all know people who have been incontinent with respect to something, small or large, for years. 2 Some of these vicious people avoid pejorative connotations by redefining character traits. They might say that they are courageous (for courage is the best character trait governing fear and confidence, and they think that they have the best), but they mean by “courage” the character trait that is usually meant by the term “cowardice.” 3 At one point Aristotle suggests that the vicious take the pleasures of the moment to be their end (1146b24). He must be over-generalizing here, for some vicious people clearly make long-term plans, deferring present pleasures for the sake of future gains. As I will expound below, it is the natural slaves and the brutish rather than the vicious who lack deliberation. Sherman maintains that while the virtuous perform virtuous acts (at least partially) for their own sake, the vicious perform the acts they mistakenly believe to be virtuous solely for the sake of further ends such as power or gain. See Sherman, The Fabric of Character, 115–16. But there is no reason to deny that a person with mistaken beliefs about how to act can take his or her actions to have intrinsic value. Nor is there any reason to deny that such a person is vicious. Teetotalers may intrinsically value the declining of a drink and Nazis may intrinsically value the killing of a non-Aryan, yet both sorts of people are vicious.

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But this explanation of the incorrigibility of the vicious cannot be the whole story, either. Even very firmly held beliefs can be changed. Ideologues can be persuaded of the error of their ways and go on to make moral progress (1146a31–4). Nor will combining these two explanations work. Even bad habits of action and passion, coupled with misconceptions about values and virtues, cannot completely block people from becoming good. Furthermore, Aristotle maintains that people can become good by doing good acts and feeling good feelings. But habituation works the same way in both directions, so people can become bad by doing bad acts and feeling bad feelings. If Aristotle were to maintain that people with entrenched bad habits and bad beliefs cannot become good, then he would have to allow that people with entrenched good habits and good beliefs cannot become bad. But Aristotle does not take the incorrigibility of the vicious to entail the incorruptibility of the virtuous. He says, [D] It is from the same causes and by the same means that every virtue is both produced and destroyed . . . by doing the acts that we do in our transactions with other men we become just or unjust, and by doing the acts that we do in the presence of danger, and being habituated to feel fear or confidence, we become brave or cowardly. (1103b6–17)

Indeed, Aristotle indicates that virtuous people can become so wicked that their friends cannot save them (1165b13–22).4 Moreover, just as the incontinent are counterexamples to the thesis that bad habits alone render people incorrigible, so Aristotle provides counterexamples to the thesis that bad habits plus wrong belief prevent moral rehabilitation. Indeed, he maintains that most people (“the many”) are counterexamples.5 Aristotle says that [E] [Arguments] are not able to encourage the many to nobility and goodness. For these do not by nature obey the sense of shame, but only fear, and do not abstain from bad acts because of their baseness but through fear of punishment; living by passion, they . . . have not even a conception of what is noble and truly pleasant, since they have never tasted it. (1179b10–16)

This passage states that, if it were not for the threat of punishment, the many would habitually perform wrong acts and feel wrong passions. Moreover, they have mistaken conceptions of happiness. “The many . . . think it is some plain and obvious thing, like pleasure, wealth, or honor” (1195a22–3). Thus they have false beliefs about which acts are conducive to happiness and which character traits are good to have. The many have wrong views about values and therefore about virtues. In particular, they have views that block them from seeing their own failings. They “do not by nature obey the 4

In NE I.10 Aristotle indicates that, although happiness and virtue may be damaged, they do survive the loss of the goods of fortune. But this does not commit Aristotle to the claim that virtue cannot be lost in other ways. 5 Garrett argues convincingly that for Aristotle the many constitute a character type within Aristotle’s taxonomy with distinct, definable psychological attributes. See Garrett 171–89. I disagree with Garrett about some of the details of his description of the many, however, for he seems to think of the vicious as a subset of the many. See ch.15.

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sense of shame.” Unlike the incontinent, the many feel no regret when they act wrongly. They do not experience a conflict between their desires and their choices. Their false beliefs harmonize with their bad passions. The incontinent realize that they are incontinent, but like the vicious, the many think that they are virtuous. Yet unlike the vicious, the many can be cured. Aristotle contrasts the many with the incorrigible in the following passage: [F] The many6 obey necessity rather than argument, and punishments rather than what is noble. That is why some think that . . . punishments and penalties should be imposed on those who disobey and are of inferior nature, while the incurably bad should be completely banished. (1180a4–10)7

The many respond to punishments and are not “the incurably bad.” Therefore, they can become good. Aristotle’s main thesis about moral progress is that people become good by performing good acts (1113b5–14). So presumably, “punishments and penalties” begin the process of curing the many by forcing them to perform good acts. Since the many are people with bad habits of action, passion, and belief, and the many can make moral progress, it cannot be the case that the vicious are incorrigible simply because of their bad habits of action, passion, and belief. Luckily, passage [F] also offers an alternative explanation of why the many are curable and the vicious are not. The difference between the vicious and the many, the crucial additional trait that (together with their bad habits) explains the incorrigibility of the vicious, is that not even “punishments and penalties” will force the vicious to act well. To illustrate, suppose Zack believes that if he robs a liquor store, he will probably go to prison. If Zack is incontinent, he will be unable to resist the crime, but he will know that he should resist because theft is unjust and injustice is wrong. If Zack is one of the many, then he will think that robbing the store is not wrong, but he will refrain from fear of prison.8 However, if Zack is vicious, then he will not only think robbing the store is morally unobjectionable, he will also not be deterred by the risk of prison. He will not make the minimally rational choice to avoid serious harm. Does Aristotle really think that anyone is so stubborn? Aristotle says of the vicious, [G] He who lives as passion directs will not hear argument that dissuades him, nor understand it if he does. (1179b26–8)

Passion-directed people won’t even hear or understand the arguments! Such people are not merely undeterred by argument: they are oblivious. Presumably, it is these people that Aristotle calls “strong-headed” (1151b5). He says that Ross translates this occurrence of hoi polloi as “most people.” I take Aristotle to be distinguishing here between those who perform good acts when threatened and those who do not perform them despite threats, rather than between those who are cured by performing good acts and those who are not cured. 8 Doesn’t everyone know that theft is wrong? Everyone knows that theft is illegal and that it is said to be wrong. But many people do not believe that theft is really wrong. Some rationalize that theft is okay if it doesn’t hurt anyone, so shoplifting from big corporations and stealing from wealthy individuals is justifiable, for example. 6 7


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[H] It is to reason that [the strong-headed] refuse to yield. (1151b10–11)

As we might say, the vicious are bull-headed and will not listen to reason. If you try to persuade or even threaten them, you soon notice that you cannot even engage them in discussion. Oh, they may let you talk, but they do not listen. They may respond to your statements, but the responses are evasions. Their minds are made up. How can the vicious be so stubborn? Is it plausible that anyone could be so intractable? What is the explanation of their obstinacy? Various mental mechanisms might create and sustain the stubbornness of the vicious. Many paths lead to vice. On one interpretation of the Protagoras, for example, Plato is suggesting that vicious people are in denial. No matter what Zack says he believes, at some level Zack actually believes that he will get away without suffering the consequences. He has an adolescent, magical thinking, it-can’t-happen-to-me attitude. Denial leads to rationalization. The reasoning ability of the vicious is co-opted to produce rationalizations for vicious acts. Aristotle suggests a different mechanism. He maintains that certain pleasures and pains destroy the ability of the vicious to recognize the right principles of action. Their ability to see the truth is corrupted (1140b13–20). The reasoning ability of the incontinent is bypassed or overpowered, and as we will see below, the reasoning ability of the brutish is absent. By contrast, the vicious are able to set priorities and carry out plans; they are simply not open to receiving the right beliefs about action. A potential problem for taking the vicious to be unable to make moral progress is posed by Aristotle’s statement that [I] the bad man, if led into better ways of living and talking would progress . . . toward being better. (Cat. 13a23–5)

Di Muzio seeks to reconcile this passage with passages [A] and [C] where Aristotle seems to be saying that the vicious cannot improve. Di Muzio maintains that in passages [A] and [C], Aristotle is asserting only that the vicious cannot make moral progress by mere wishing, by persuasion, or by punishment. Instead, Di Muzio maintains that the vicious are sometimes driven to action in accord with virtue by feelings of self-loathing, and this, in turn, may gradually produce moral improvement.9 Aristotle does say that bad men experience regret and self-loathing. He says, [ J] Those who have done many terrible deeds and are hated for their wickedness even shrink from life and destroy themselves. And wicked men seek for people with whom to spend their days, and shun themselves . . . [T]heir soul is rent by faction, and one element in it by reason of its wickedness grieves when it abstains from certain acts, while the other part is pleased . . . [B]ad men are laden with regrets. (1166b11–25)

This is a problematic passage since Aristotle asserts that the vicious feel no regrets at passage [C]. Perhaps in passage [ J] Aristotle is using “bad men” to refer to the incontinent

9

G. Di Muzio, “Aristotle on Improving One’s Character,” Phronesis 25 (2000): 205–19.

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rather than the vicious. After all, he describes these people as experiencing internal conflict and being pleased as well as pained by abstaining from bad acts. Moreover, the only strategies for avoiding self-loathing Aristotle mentions in passage [ J] are socializing with others and suicide. He does not mention virtuous action. So we have a complex problem. Passages [I] and [ J] seem to conflict with passages [A] and [C]. I resolve the tension between passages [ J] and [C] by suggesting that the vicious do not regret their actions, although they may regret their situation. That is, even if the vicious are discontent with the way things have turned out in their lives, they do not make moral progress, because they do not believe that they have acted wrongly. They blame their lack of friends, their drinking problems, their consumer debt, etc. on other people or on misfortune rather than on their own bad actions. Thus, when they look around for things to change in their lives, they do not change their actions. What makes them vicious (rather than merely members of the many) is that their minds are closed to the possibility that acting virtuously would improve their lives. As for passage [I], the context of the passage is that Aristotle is using bad and good character, along with sickness and health, as examples of contraries that can change from one into the other. Just as the sick can become healthy, so the bad can become good. Now I suggest that in passage [I] Aristotle is again not using “bad men” to refer to the vicious. Here he is using the term broadly to refer to all sorts of bad character types, some of which (e.g. the incontinent) can become good, others (e.g. the vicious) cannot, just as “sickness” includes both curable and irreversible disease. So both passage [I] and passage [ J] can be rendered compatible with the thesis that moral progress is impossible for the vicious. We can now begin to construct a taxonomy of the non-virtuous. The vicious are incorrigible because they have entrenched habits of vicious action arising from (1) vicious passion, (2) vicious beliefs, and (3) strong-headedness. They have (1) feelings that are not in accord with virtue, (2) false beliefs about virtue, and (3) they will not listen to reason even enough to be deterred by punishment. Aristotle correctly perceives that these faults are independent variables: a person may have any one or two without the others. Aristotle describes people who have only some of these three faults. The many have vicious passions and wrong beliefs, but they are not strongheaded. They can be motivated by the external negative reinforcement of punishment to perform virtuous acts. The incontinent have vicious passions, right beliefs, and are strong-headed. They are not deterred from wrongdoing by bad consequences (including punishment), but they can be motivated to act virtuously and thus improve morally by the internal negative reinforcement of regret. People with virtuous passions, wrong beliefs, and strong-headedness might be called inversely incontinent. Huck Finn seems to be such a person. Although Huck believes he has a duty to support slavery and that he will burn in Hell if he does not support slavery, Huck refuses to turn an escaping slave


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(who is his friend) over to the authorities.10 He bases his act on his noble friendship rather than his false moral theory, despite the threat of severe punishment. Strangely, one of the faults of the inversely incontinent counteracts the other. The inversely incontinent reliably perform virtuous acts, and thus improve morally, because they are strong headed. Their virtuous passions triumph over their wrong beliefs because they won’t accept their own (bad) reasoning. Thus, people with any two of the three faults can make moral progress. The many and the incontinent advance when externally or internally pressured to act out of character, but the inversely incontinent advance by acting in character. What of those with only one of these faults? The continent, of course, have right beliefs and vicious passions and are not strong-headed. They reliably perform virtuous acts and so make moral progress. Aristotle does not mention people who have virtuous passions, wrong beliefs, and are not strong-headed. Such people might be called the inversely continent. According to Bennett, Heinrich Himmler is inversely continent. Although he finds the task emotionally sickening, Himmler forces himself to destroy the Jews out of duty.11 The inversely continent act wrongly because they follow their bad reasoning instead of their good passions. But perhaps their inner conflict leads to regret, and they become better just as the incontinent do. These character types may be displayed in the following chart. Vicious passions

Vicious beliefs

Strongheaded

The vicious

√

√

√

The many

√

√

The incontinent

√

The continent The inverse continent

√ √

The inverse incontinent

Unable to deliberate

√

√ √

Tragic heroes Only one other permutation of these three faults is possible. Are there people lucky enough to have virtuous passions and right beliefs, but stubborn enough to refuse to heed calls for change even when threatened with harm? The protagonists of Sophoclean tragedies fit this niche. They do not have vicious habits, but they persist in following their chosen course of action whatever the cost, deaf to rational argument. As Knox says, 10 11

Aristotle mentions an inversely incontinent person, Neoptolemus (1151b19–21). See Bennett 6–8. Bennett 8–9.

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The assault on the hero’s will usually takes the form of argument, of an appeal, not to emotion, but to reason. . . . The hero, as his friends and enemies see him, needs to hear, to be taught. . . . [I]t is difficult to tell him anything at all; he will not listen. . . . To friends and enemies the hero’s mood appears as overboldness, rashness, insolence, audacity. . . . There is no dealing with such incorrigible natures.12 Vicious passions The tragic heroes

Vicious beliefs

Strongheaded


√

Aristotle does not describe the tragic hero in this way. However, attributing to Aristotle this picture of the tragic hero would resolve a well-known interpretive problem in Aristotle’s Poetics. On the one hand, Aristotle thinks that the protagonists in tragedies have a flaw or mistaken belief (hamartia) that somehow is part of the explanation of why the catastrophe occurs. On the other hand, Aristotle seems quite insistent that the flaw or mistake be something other than a vice (Poetics 1452b35–1453a18).13 Perhaps Aristotle’s view is that tragic heroes are very stubborn people with right moral beliefs and good habits of passion and action. They do not improve, both because they are already virtuous and because they are strong-headed. Being unwilling to change one’s course of action even to avoid severe penalty, might plausibly be construed as a flaw or mistake, but not a vice. After all, as Sophocles shows, this sort of inflexibility is admirable in one way, yet terrible in another.14

Natural slaves Like the vicious, natural slaves are Aristotelian incorrigibles. Aristotle’s account of natural slavery has been severely criticized for being self-contradictory and morally repulsive.15 I shall argue that on both counts the criticism is largely undeserved. 12

B. Knox, The Heroic Temper (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1964) 12, 13, 18, 23, 25. Translating hamartia as “mistake” seems to avoid this interpretive problem. But this translation does not capture the fact that for Aristotle the catastrophe must somehow arise from the protagonist’s character. If the protagonist’s hamartia is a mistake, then it must be the sort of mistake that the protagonist is prone to make. And that reinstates the original interpretive problem. See A. O. Rorty, “The Psychology of Aristotelian Tragedy.” In Essays on Aristotle’s Poetics, ed. A. O. Rorty (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992) 10–11; N. Sherman, “Hamartia and Virtue.” In Essays on Aristotle’s Poetics, ed. A. O. Rorty (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992) 177–96. 14 I bring up the tragic hero more for completeness of my taxonomy than out of the expectation that my two paragraphs will definitively settle anything. 15 Commentators have been exceptionally hostile to Aristotle’s account of slavery. When, for example, Aristotle seems to argue against evolution in Physics II.8 or reduce friendship to self-love in NE IX.4, he is generally criticized, but not (almost) universally excoriated. Perhaps commentators resent the fact that advocates of slavery have appealed to Aristotle’s authority. But many good doctrines have been used to justify very wicked practices. The distortion and misuse of Aristotle’s account should not be held against it. Perhaps our own shameful history of slavery has made us hypersensitive to anything slavery-related. As soon as the word “slavery” is mentioned, we go ballistic and attack. I shall argue that what Aristotle means by “natural slavery” is not anything like what we mean by “slavery.” The institution he defends is not the institution we abhor. 13


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Aristotle begins in Politics I.4 by describing what it is to be a slave. A slave, says Aristotle, is a human being (1254b16; 1259b27–8) who is also a possession used for action (1253b32). Contemporary readers sometimes bridle at this description because it sounds so cold and callous. However, characterizing the slave as “used for action,” or a “living tool” (1253b32) does not dehumanize the slave. Free people are routinely and unobjectionably treated as means to each other’s ends. After all, Aristotle mentions that the lookout is a living tool for the pilot (1253b29–30). The degrading component of Aristotle’s description is that the slave is a possession. But Aristotle can hardly be faulted for making explicit the fact that slavery is a property relation. Together, these two characterizations (“used for action” and “possession”) simply define slavery. Whether slavery is unnatural or unjust are further questions. And Aristotle raises these questions explicitly in passage [K]. He asks, [K] [whether] anyone is [a slave] by nature or not, and whether it is better and just for anyone to be a slave or not. (1254a17–18)

Aristotle links these questions. He answers that it is better and just for a person to be a slave if and only if that person is a natural slave. Who are the natural slaves? Disagreement about which people are Aristotelian natural slaves ranges from Simpson who maintains that the vicious, the many, and in general, “the morally deficient” are all natural slaves, to Fortenbaugh who maintains that “there are no natural slaves in the world,” so Aristotle’s account of natural slavery is merely theoretical.16 Aristotle says that a person is a natural slave only if the best sort of thing he or she can do in life is physical labor (1254b17–19). More precisely, [L] He who participates in reason enough to apprehend [reason], but not to have [it], is a slave by nature. Whereas the lower animals cannot even apprehend reason; they obey their passions. (1254b22–4) The [natural] slave has no deliberative faculty at all. (1260a12)

So the crucial difference between natural slaves and other people is that natural slaves lack reason. Yet Aristotle allows that natural slaves can work as estate managers (1255b35–6), befriend their owners (1161a32-b8; 1255b13–14), and have a share in virtue (1106b36–1107a2). This is puzzling. How can a person do these things without some practical reasoning ability? Aristotle’s distinction between natural slaves and lower animals suggests an answer. Natural slaves are able to act and feel rightly because they accept and act upon reasoned instruction from their masters. [M] The master ought to be the source of this virtue in the slave. (1260b3–4)

16 P. Simpson, A Philosophical Commentary on the Politics of Aristotle (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1998) 34, 44. W. W. Fortenbaugh, “Aristotle on Slaves and Women.” In Articles on Aristotle 2: Ethics and Politics, ed. J. Barnes, M. Schofield, and R. Sorabji (London: Duckworth, 1977) 137. See W. Ambler, “Aristotle on Nature and Politics: The Case of Slavery,” Political Theory 15 (1987): 390–410.

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Of course, Aristotle is not suggesting that natural slaves are persuaded to follow certain courses of action, for that would require the judgment that natural slaves lack. Instead, presumably the natural slaves, unlike the vicious, respond to the threat of “punishment and penalties.” But unlike the lower animals that merely “obey their passions” (i.e. that are merely conditioned by negative reinforcement), natural slaves “apprehend reason.” They can understand the reasoning behind the punishment. They can learn why suchand-such a task should be done in such-and-such a way or why such-and-such a passion should be felt in such-and-such a situation. Thus, Aristotle recommends that erring slaves should be “admonished” or “reasoned with” rather than simply punished (1260b5–7). Natural slaves can perform acts requiring reason because they not only obey, but also understand the orders give by their masters.17 As Deslauriers says, “natural slaves, although they lack a faculty of deliberation, can acquire human virtue by borrowing the phrone¯sis of the free man, and thereby cultivating rational desire.”18 The dual stipulation that natural slaves (1) cannot reason themselves, but (2) can accept the rational decisions of others, situates their psychology within Aristotle’s taxonomy of character types. It distinguishes natural slaves from better character types (e.g. the virtuous and the continent) who do both, from animals and the brutish who do neither, and from the vicious and perhaps tragic heroes who have the complementary deficiency of being able to reason for themselves, without being open to the reasoning of others. The fact that natural slaves are unable to determine how to act and feel, the fact that they cannot think for themselves, has the following three implications. First, since means and intermediate ends are determined by deliberation, natural slaves are unable to make plans and carry them out. Less obvious is the implication that, since people without a modicum of reason are unlikely to gain and maintain the right beliefs about ethics, natural slaves left to their own devices will typically have vicious or very vicious beliefs. Third and perhaps most important, the passions of natural slaves are ungoverned by their reason. The reason of a good person rules his or her anger, or fear, or sensual desire, etc., but the natural slave’s passions are “out of control.”19 On the bright

17 Clearly, natural slaves are not simply dim-witted people. Swanson suggests that natural slaves possess understanding, the ability to judge what others say (1143a12–15), but not the ability to reason on their own. Heath argues that they can do almost all sorts of reasoning except that “their actions will not be guided by a stable architectonic conception of the good life.” I doubt this is their only problem. Aristotle would not have described natural slaves as lacking a deliberative faculty if he thought that they were incapable only of this sort of global deliberation. See M. Heath, “Aristotle on Natural Slavery,” Phronesis 53 (2008): 251; J. Swanson, The Public and the Private in Aristotle’s Political Philosophy (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992) 33–4. 18 M. Deslauriers, “Aristotle on the Virtues of Slaves and Women,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 25 (2003): 229. 19 Aristotle says that the peoples of Asia have reason, but are slavish because they lack spirit (1327b24–33). At first glance, this seems incompatible with Aristotle’s claim that natural slaves lack practical reason. Garver tries to resolve the tension by attributing to Aristotle the view that the Asians’ lack of spirit prevents them from fully developing practical reason. See E. Garver, “Aristotle’s Natural Slaves: Incomplete Praxeis and Incomplete Human Beings,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 32 (1994): 177–8. My suggestion reverses Garver’s. I think that Aristotle’s view is that Asians’ lack of practical reason causes them to be spiritless. That is,


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side, though one cannot persuade natural slaves, one can reason with them. Explain what they should do; back it up with threats; and they will do it and understand why. After many repetitions of such admonitions, they will presumably come to have the right passions, too. Thus natural slaves act, believe, and feel wrongly when left on their own, but when ruled they act, believe, and eventually feel rightly. Of course, some people deliberate better than do others. The functioning of the deliberative faculty is a matter of degree. But natural slaves are very severely impaired. They “are as different from other men as the soul from the body or man from beast” (1254b16–17).20 Presumably, this extreme comparison means that, unless natural slaves are guided by the reasoning of others, their actions and passions are not just wrong, but wildly inappropriate. They are not merely mediocre farmers, for example. Rather they are so disorganized that they cannot even get the crops planted. Left on their own, they may starve. Similarly, with respect to their passions, natural slaves do not just offend people with angry remarks, settle for jobs beneath their abilities, and run from battles they could easily win. Natural slaves are much worse off. Without supervision backed by force, their flaring anger will get them killed in barroom brawls, or their ridiculously low self-esteem will lead them into abusive relationships, or their irrational fears will prevent them from ever leaving their houses. Very vicious passions

Vicious or very vicious beliefs

Free natural slaves

√

√

Recently enslaved natural slaves

√

Long enslaved natural slaves

Strongheaded

Unable to deliberate √ √ √

Indeed, Aristotle observes that natural slaves are so mentally deficient that they are much better off as slaves (1254b19–20; 1255b6–7; 1255b12–14).21 This, of course, is Aristotle’s defense of natural slavery. Since natural slaves are happier (closer to flourishing) enslaved than free, it is not unjust to enslave them. Slavery is a benefit, not a harm, the passions involving spirit are inappropriately low in Aristotle’s Asians because they are unable to determine rationally what the appropriate levels should be. Their passions are adrift without guidance. 20

This is an overstatement. Natural slaves fall between most other men and beasts. In his preliminary sketch of the subject matter of politics, Aristotle says that natural slaves need someone to deliberate for them in order to survive (1252a30–1). Clark concludes that natural slaves “will (whatever the social situation) in fact be manipulated and controlled by others.” See S. R. L. Clark, “Slaves and Citizens,” Philosophy 60 (1985): 33. If natural slaves will be slaves no matter what, the only interesting question is whether good people or bad will enslave them. However, we should not attribute to Aristotle the view that the lack of practical reason in a person constitutes a potentially fatal authority vacuum that someone will soon fill by enslaving that person. After all, on Aristotle’s view some barbarians remain free natural slaves throughout their long lives. Unfortunately, people who would be better off enslaved can manage to live in freedom. 21

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for natural slaves.22 So Aristotle does endorse slavery, but only for natural slaves, and the criteria are very strict. First, people who can deliberate are not natural slaves, even if they deliberate badly. Second, no one is a natural slave unless he or she is better off enslaved than free. Both conditions must be satisfied. Neither deliberators who would benefit from slavery nor non-deliberators who would not benefit from slavery are natural slaves. In Politics I.6 Aristotle goes on to maintain that enslaving anyone except natural slaves is unjust. It is wrong to enslave a person unless he or she is both unable to deliberate and better off enslaved. So Aristotle’s account establishes a standard for judging slavery. As Schofield says, “Aristotle’s theory of natural slavery is at least potentially a critical theory. A slave owner who pondered it seriously would have to ask himself: ‘Is my slave really a natural slave?’”23 And if the answer is “no,” then justice requires that the slave be freed. Aristotle is no apologist for the status quo. Far from endorsing the practice of slavery prevailing in his day, Aristotle condemns it severely.24 He distinguishes the practice he is defending, enslaving natural slaves, from the prevailing practice, enslaving prisoners of war (1255a6–7).25 He does not simply justify his own practice while keeping silent about the prevailing practice. Instead, Aristotle makes it clear that he considers the prevailing practice to be unjust. He says that those who assert that slavery is unjust are right insofar as they object to actual rather than natural slavery (1255a3–4). Aristotle then sketches and rebuts the two arguments used by defenders of the prevailing practice of slavery. Defenders observe that victors must be superior to the vanquished in some respect; otherwise they would not be victorious. Defenders infer that that the victors are more virtuous than the vanquished, and conclude that the victors deserve to rule the vanquished. Aristotle scornfully rejects this argument, observing that it presupposes that justice is merely the rule of the 22 Both Heath and Lockwood attribute to Aristotle the view that natural slaves benefit only in a very indirect sense. A slave is just a part of his or her master rather than a separate self. So a benefit to the master is, by definition, a benefit to the slave. Lockwood and I doubt that this is a viable line of thought. It seems like the fallacy of division to me. Moreover on this account, slavery is beneficial not only to natural slaves, but to all slaves. On my interpretation, slaves and masters lead separate lives, so a benefit to one is not necessarily a benefit to the other. Something benefits a slave insofar as it improves the slave’s life. See Heath 265–7; T. Lockwood, “Is Natural Slavery Beneficial?” Journal of the History of Philosophy 45 (2007): 207–21. 23 M. Schofield, “Ideology and Philosophy in Aristotle’s Theory of Slavery,” Aristoteles’ “Politike”: Akten des XI Symposium Aristotelicum (Gottingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1990) 11. 24 Despite his claims to the contrary, Aristotle is sometimes taken to be attempting to justify the actual practice of slavery in Greece. See Annas, The Morality of Happiness, 154; P. A. Brunt, Studies in Greek History and Thought (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993) 376, 380–1; R. Kraut, Aristotle (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002) 277–305, especially 285–6. Others insinuate that he defends natural slavery because he believes slavery to be necessary to support the polis. See Clark 33–4; Garver 180–1; R. Schlaifer, “Greek Theories of Slavery from Homer to Aristotle.” In Slavery in Classical Antiquity, ed. M. I. Finley (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1960) 198–9; N. Smith, “Aristotle’s Theory of Natural Slavery.” In A Companion to Aristotle’s Politics, ed. D. Keyt and F. Miller (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991) 109; Williams, Shame and Necessity, 112–15. 25 If everyone taken in war were justly enslaved, then enslaving the undeserving through warfare would be impossible. But Aristotle says that people should not “study war with a view to the enslavement of those who do not deserve to be enslaved” (1333b38–40).


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stronger (1255a12–21). Defenders of the prevailing practice also say that slaves are taken in accordance with the law, and therefore deserve to be enslaved. Aristotle rejects this argument, too. He observes that people are unjustly enslaved when taken in unjust wars. Moreover, Aristotle provides a reductio ad absurdum of the argument. He notes that a corollary of the defender’s argument is that noble people might be rightly enslaved if they or their parents were taken in war. Then Aristotle says that no one would accept this consequence (1255a21–8). Overall, Aristotle aligns himself with the critics of the status quo, and dismissively rejects the arguments of its defenders.26 Does Aristotle’s account of natural slaves apply to anyone? On my interpretation, natural slaves are numerous. Many people cannot deliberate by themselves, but can accept the deliberation of others, and would be better off if forced to do so. Many dysfunctional people cannot begin to make it on their own out in the world, but can achieve much higher levels of function and happiness when forced to live under strict, comprehensive supervision. Indeed, most of us know people like this. Aristotle’s offensive phrase, “natural slave,” refers not only to some of the people now living in institutions or dumpsters, it also refers to some unfortunate people we occasionally encounter among our family, friends, and students. Natural slaves are mentally ill people. Now not every mentally ill person is a natural slave. In general, natural slaves are those mentally ill people who need what we in the modern world euphemistically call “highly structured environments.” Thus, natural slaves are predominately people with personality disorders, although Aristotle might include some people of very low intelligence, some psychotics, and so on. Obviously, Aristotle does not arrive at his account of natural slaves and natural slavery through an investigation of disease and a concern with therapy. Instead, his starting point is the prevailing practice of slavery, and his goal is to find a modified version of the prevailing practice that would be just. My claim is that Aristotle ends up condemning an institution of exploitation and endorsing a basically benign arrangement that provides external structure to those extremely dysfunctional people who will greatly benefit from it. Unfortunately, Aristotle retains the term “slave:” he does not reject the implication that people can be property, even though the practice he endorses is very far from actual ancient Greek slavery and even farther from eighteenthand nineteenth-century American slavery. Not only does Aristotle’s description of natural slaves match a subset of the people we call mentally ill, Aristotle’s proposal for treating such people does not differ substantially from the way in which we actually treat some of these people today. We too commit certain people to institutions and make them perform various tasks against their will. Enslaving natural slaves is Aristotle’s way of providing palliative care for people with certain personality disorders.27 The transformed practice does benefit 26

For a detailed analysis of the argument in Politics I.6, see Schofield 23–7. Slavery seems, at first glance, too extreme to be considered a therapy. However, other treatments for the mentally ill at the time “included chaining the patients, drugging them, starving them, keeping them in 27

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the caregiver/owners, but it also benefits the patient/slaves. Natural slavery is Aristotle’s infelicitously named version of a for-profit, involuntary commitment facility for the mentally ill. Recasting natural slavery as a sort of palliative therapy disarms some of the objections to Aristotle’s endorsement of natural slavery, but another pair of objections arises from Aristotle’s statement that natural slaves should be ruled tyrannically rather than monarchically (1254b4–5). After all, children have an underdeveloped rational faculty, yet they are royally ruled. Why not natural slaves? Two aspects of tyrannical rule seem objectionable. First, while the subjects of the king are ruled voluntarily, those of the tyrant are ruled involuntarily. Smith bases his criticism of Aristotle upon this difference. Smith concedes that when natural slaves are free, they are so bestial that tyrannical rule might be justified. Capturing them is not treating them unjustly. However, the fact that the enslaved natural slave can achieve a measure of virtue leads Smith to maintain that tyrannical rule is not justified when the slave is enslaved and has the benefits of his or her master’s reason. Enslaved natural slaves should be freed. They should not remain ruled against their will.28 I must disagree with Smith. After medication reduces the patient’s blood pressure to normal, the doctor does not discontinue the medication, for without it the patient’s blood pressure would rise again. The patient needs the medication to maintain his or her normalcy. Similarly, if tyrannical rule renders the natural slave somewhat virtuous, it does not follow that the owner should then free the slave, for without the slavery the natural slave would no longer have the benefits of his or her master’s reason and would, therefore, revert to his or her former state. Natural slaves lack the deliberative faculty, after all. They need the slavery/therapy to maintain their virtue. Unlike being a child, being a natural slave is a treatable, but ultimately incurable condition. If a slave somehow becomes able to sustain a modicum of virtue on his or her own, then he or she was not really a natural slave in the first place, and it follows from Aristotle’s view that the slave should be freed. Thus Aristotle’s recommendation that slaves be offered emancipation as a reward (1330a32–3) is neither a contradiction within his account nor a cynical maneuver calculated to enhance the efficiency of exploitation. Instead it is evidence of his concern for the interests of the enslaved. Manumission is a mechanism for correcting misdiagnosis. Indeed, Aristotle is even more careful of the interests of the enslaved/committed than are we in the modern world. We commit mentally ill people if they are a danger to themselves or to others. So some people are committed even though commitment is not in their best interests. Aristotle, however, sanctions slavery only when it is in the best interest of the slave.

the dark, making them drunk, and flogging them.” See G. E. R. Lloyd, The Revolutions of Wisdom (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987) 25. Treatment of mental illness throughout history has often been associated with social control and subordination. 28 Smith 142–55. See also E. Schűtrumph, “Aristotle’s Theory of Slavery—A Platonic Dilemma,” Ancient Philosophy 13 (1993): 112–13.


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The second objectionable aspect of tyrannical rule is that, while monarchs rule for the sake of the overall advantage, tyrants rule for their own sakes. The fact that slaves are tyrannically ruled means that the slavery relationship is essentially in the interest of the master and only incidentally in the interest of the slave. Parents wish their children well for their own sakes, but masters look out for the well-being of their slaves only because slaves are useful to masters (1278b32–7). Doesn’t this show that natural slavery, unlike therapy for the mentally ill, is exploitive?29 I think not. Contemporary society not only practices involuntary commitment, it also accepts the idea that there is nothing wrong with caring for the sick (including the committed) solely in order to make money, gain respect, advance science, etc.30 Workers and owners of involuntary commitment facilities may serve the interests of their patient merely as a means to other goals. I do not mean to impugn the motives of health care professionals. Doubtless, most work long hours and endure a great deal of emotional hardship with comparatively little economic compensation because they care deeply for their patients. My point is merely that contemporary society does not require this sort of dedication. Health care professionals who competently care for, but not about, the mentally ill are not castigated as exploiters. Those doctors or nurses who, like most people, see their work as just a way to earn a living, are not thereby considered wicked. Actually, the slave–patient analogy is even closer. The performance of certain tasks is therapeutic for certain mental illnesses. If gardening turns out to be beneficial to some patients, for example, then contemporary society finds it acceptable for a mental health institution to use these patients as gardeners instead of paying a professional gardener. Of course, the fact that we endorse something does not make it right. The reason for allowing masters to profit from the labor of their natural slaves, and mental health institutions to profit from the labor of their patients is that the labor is in the best interests of the slaves and patients. A victimless practice is not exploitive. At the risk of redundancy let me emphasize that Aristotle denounces the slavery of his day for its injustice, just as we do. The practice he advocates instead (which he unhappily calls “natural slavery”) turns out to be the practice of involuntary commitment and treatment of some of the mentally ill, a morally defensible practice. Aristotle’s statement that slavery is in the best interest of the natural slave is often dismissed as mere rationalization. It smells like the defense of slavery offered by nineteenth-century southern plantation owners. But we must follow the principle of charity in interpreting

29 Brunt objects that in cases where the interests of the slave and master conflict, the slave’s interests will be sacrificed, especially if the master is not an exemplar of Aristotelian virtue (Brunt 374–5). However, Aristotle takes pains to deny the existence of conflicts of interest in cases where the slavery relationship is just. Presumably, Aristotle would condemn as unjust a relationship in which conflicts of interest arise (1252a34; 1254b4–9; 1255b4–15). 30 Indeed, I argue elsewhere that a disposition to care for one’s patients is a role vice rather than a role virtue for health care professionals. See H. Curzer, “Is Care a Virtue for Health Care Professionals?” Journal of Medicine and Philosophy 18 (1993): 51–69.

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Aristotle’s account of slavery just as we follow it when interpreting the rest of Aristotle’s corpus. If we can attribute to Aristotle a reasonable, non-repugnant view, rather than accusing him of intellectual dishonesty or gross moral insensitivity, we should do so.31

The brutish Aristotle seems uninterested in brutishness (the¯riote¯s). He just uses it as a foil to assist in the elucidation of vice and incontinence. Nevertheless, Aristotle says enough to see that the brutish are incorrigible and that they fill an important niche in his taxonomy. Aristotle contrasts brutishness with vice in three ways. First, brutishness is “beyond the limits of vice” (1148b34–1149a1). Just as the actions and passions of the vicious are more extreme than those of the virtuous, so the actions and passions of the brutish are even more extreme than those of the vicious. Over and under-eaters are intemperate; compulsive eaters and anorectics are brutish.32 The stingy and the profligate are illiberal; misers and compulsive spenders are brutish. People who fear too much or too little are cowardly and rash; agoraphobics (1149a7–8) and the fearless (1115b26–7) are brutish. Like natural slaves, the brutish are dysfunctional. But some people with extremely extreme dispositions are neither brutish nor natural slaves. Aristotle says, [N] For a man who has [brutish habits] . . . to be mastered by them is not simple incontinence but that which is so by analogy. (1148b34–1149a3)

Aristotle wants to reserve the term “incontinence proper” for those who experience the same passions as the intemperate. In this passage Aristotle’s primary concern is to distinguish incontinence proper from other character traits in which passion seems to overcome reason. His point is that people who deliberate properly, but are overcome by very extreme passions are not, technically speaking, incontinent. An unmentioned implication of this passage is that people mastered by passions beyond vice are not, technically speaking, brutish either. They might be called brutishly incontinent. Unlike the properly brutish, brutishly incontinent people deliberate properly. They act wrongly, for their reason is mastered. But the reason of the brutish is not mastered for the simple reason that the brutish lack reason. This leads to Aristotle’s second contrast between the vicious and the brutish: 31 To keep Aristotle’s claim about natural slaves in perspective, consider what Kant and Mill might say about such people. Since by hypothesis natural slaves cannot deliberate, they cannot make choices. Thus, by one Kantian criterion, they are not persons. Lacking autonomy, they are not entitled to have their autonomy respected. Similarly, Mill does not take his principle of liberty to apply to children or barbarians because they are unable to make the right sort of choices. “Those who are still in a state to require being taken care of by others must be protected against their own actions as well as against external injury. . . . Despotism is a legitimate mode of government in dealing with barbarians.” See J. S. Mill, On Liberty, ed. E. Rapaport, (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1978) 9–10. Aristotle’s claim that people with severely impaired reasoning ability may be justly coerced is not alien to Kant or Mill. 32 Aristotle lists different, though equally serious, eating disorders (1148b19ff.).


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[O] [In the brutish] it is not that the better part has been perverted, as in [a vicious] man—they have no better part. (1150a2–3)

The vicious can deliberate, but cannot obey the deliberations of others. Natural slaves cannot deliberate, but can obey. But the poor brutish can neither deliberate nor obey. Like natural slaves, the brutish have vicious or very vicious beliefs and very immoderate passions because they lack the ability to deliberate. The brutish are worse off than the natural slaves, however. Since they can neither reason themselves nor accept the reasoning of others, they are not only incorrigible, they cannot even benefit from the palliative therapy of natural slavery. To summarize Aristotle’s taxonomy of people with very vicious passions: people who are unable to deliberate are either brutish or natural slaves depending upon whether they are strong-headed or not. Both have vicious or very vicious beliefs. Both are incorrigible. On the other hand, some people with very vicious passions are able to deliberate. The brutishly incontinent and their strong-willed counterparts, the brutishly continent, have virtuous beliefs. Although Aristotle does not mention them, we might call the remaining possibilities, those who have vicious or very vicious beliefs, the inversely brutishly continent and the inversely brutishly incontinent. Like their non-brutish counterparts, all four of the character types with vicious passions and the ability to deliberate can make moral progress. Very vicious passions

Vicious or very vicious beliefs

Strongheaded


The brutish

√

√

√

√

The brutishly incontinent

√

The brutishly continent

√

√

The inverse brutishly continent

√

The inverse brutishly incontinent

√

√

Aristotle’s third contrast concerns the different origins of brutishness and vice. Although vice is an endpoint of moral development, a dead end, it is not a beginning point. People become vicious by choice. Vicious people cannot be rehabilitated, but they are responsible for becoming vicious. Brutishness, however, results from trauma, disease, birth defect, or socialization into a corrupt society rather than from choice (1148b17–31). Although Aristotle does not mention it, an important corollary is that brutish people are not responsible for their brutishness. So the brutish are irrational people with weird actions, passions, and beliefs, through no fault of their own. Clearly the brutish, like natural slaves, are people who contemporary medicine would call mentally ill. This is born out by the fact that Aristotle’s examples of brutishness (phobias, eating disorders, sexual problems, and compulsive

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self-mutilation) are all arguably mental illnesses (1148b19ff ). Aristotle does not use the term “mental illness” for the brutish (or for natural slaves), of course. His notion of mental illness is madness, a general notion encompassing various serious thought disorders. Nevertheless, Aristotle’s account of the brutish (and natural slaves) shows that he recognizes the existence of what contemporary medicine now calls personality disorders. He does not err by treating such traits as mere vices.33 As I mentioned earlier, Aristotle both presupposes that enslaved natural slaves have some practical reasoning ability, and denies that natural slaves can deliberate. The apparent contradiction is resolved by noticing that the slave incorporates the reasoning of the master into his or her own psyche. A parallel problem arises for brutishness. The brutish are not people who run around on all fours, barking, because they lack the rational faculty. People with phobias, eating disorders, etc. are by no means completely lacking in reason. Some of the brutish do horrible things such as eating fetuses; others, like the compulsive nail biters, have more mundane problems. Indeed, some of the brutish lead lives that are very similar to the lives of the mentally healthy. They graduate from college, hold jobs, raise children, etc. All of the brutish, even those doing horrible things, reason in many ways. How can Aristotle say that the brutish have no rational part? My solution stems from Aristotle’s treatment of a seemingly unrelated topic. Aristotle begins his discussion of the reciprocity-of-virtues by distinguishing between proper and natural virtue. Roughly speaking, proper virtue is natural virtue plus practical wisdom. He next maintains that a person with one proper virtue has them all. But Aristotle acknowledges that this reciprocity-of-virtue does not exist at lower levels of moral development. It is possible for a person to possess some of the natural virtues, but not others (1144b34–1145a2). Commentators have focused upon Aristotle’s reciprocity-of-proper-virtue claim, wondering what Aristotle means by it, how he argues for it, what its implications are, whether it is correct, etc. Aristotle’s claim that natural virtues are not necessarily co-present has received less attention, but it too has important implications. The non-reciprocity-of-natural-virtue means that a person’s moral development can be uneven. He or she might be naturally virtuous with respect to some spheres of human life, while being less-than-naturally-virtuous with respect to others. A person might be naturally courageous, but merely continent with respect to anger, and incontinent about sensual pleasure, for example. Now I suggest that a person might also be natural virtuous with respect to some spheres, while being brutish with respect to others. Aristotle’s view that moral development can be uneven allows him to acknowledge that brutishness is not a global problem preventing any semblance of a human life. Instead, it is a very severe but localized problem within an overall normal human character. People can lack the For an excellent discussion of the brutish in Aristotle, see J. Thorp, “Aristotle on Brutishness,” Dialogue 42 (2003): 673–94. Thorp agrees that we would probably now classify Aristotle’s examples of brutish as forms of mentally ill. 33


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ability to reason and the ability to listen to reason about certain things, without lacking these reasoning abilities about everything. Thus, when Aristotle says that the brutish have no rational part, he means that they cannot reason within a certain sphere. This uneven distribution of reasoning ability within the character of a single individual enables many of the brutish to lead more or less normal lives. Their illness is limited to only some spheres of life. Some of the brutish are only just far enough beyond vice to be mildly mentally ill. They decompensate, but only in certain situations. They are “eccentric,” but only about certain things. They have “blind spots” or “buttons” or “issues” with respect to which they are “difficult,” but they are otherwise quite reasonable. Others deviate so far from the mean that they do horrible things. Yet even these brutish people are reasonable with respect to many aspects of their lives. Natural virtue is not the only character type that is disunified across the different spheres of human life. Presumably, a person might be continent or incontinent with respect to some spheres while being vicious or one of the many with respect to other spheres. Note that the non-reciprocity-of-natural-virtue and other less-than-perfectlyvirtuous states of character offers an alternative or additional solution to the interpretive problem (mentioned above) that Aristotle expects natural slaves to do things that require deliberation, while denying that natural slaves can deliberate. If a natural slave is a person whose rationality is severely compromised with respect to some things, but not others, then natural slaves will be able to function well in many respects, though remaining dysfunctional in some respects.34 Aristotle’s reciprocity-of-proper-virtue thesis is controversial, but his non-reciprocityof-natural-virtue thesis seems obviously true. It fits our everyday experience. Vicious or dysfunctional people are typically bad or weird about only some things. They may be very far from the norm with respect to these things, and the problems may tend to spill over into other areas. Nevertheless, many people who cope terribly with some spheres of human life, cope adequately or even well with others. Some of the person’s actions and passions are fine, but others are ungoverned (and sometimes ungovernable) by reason. Many people can deal with most of life, but not with money or alcohol, for example. They prepare eight-course formal dinners, write philosophy papers, build and maintain loving relationships, and stand fast in battle, yet they go on wild spending sprees or drinking binges. They are naturally virtuous or continent about most things, but incontinent or one of the many, or vicious, or naturally slavish, or brutish in the spheres governed by liberality and temperance. The non-reciprocity-of-natural virtue not only follows naturally from Aristotle’s remarks about the reciprocity-of-virtue, it also dovetails with common sense. Yet it is

34 Does my suggestion imply that, according to Aristotle, people who are natural slaves with respect to any sphere may be committed, even if they are fine with respect to most spheres? May we enslave all anorectics and arachnophobics? Certainly not! Remember that a person may not be enslaved unless slavery is in his or her best interest.

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easy to miss because Aristotle’s use of phrases such as “the continent,” “the vicious,” and “the brutish” suggests that a person’s character is the same in every sphere. Aristotle’s terminology suggests that a continent person is continent with respect to everything; a vicious person is vicious with respect to everything; and so on. If my suggestion is right, however, we should take phrases such as “the continent,” “the vicious,” and “the brutish” to be relative to some aspect of human life. We should recognize that when Zoe is said to be vicious, that does not mean that she is vicious with respect to every sphere, but rather that she is vicious with respect to some sphere. Zoe may be continent qua risk-taking, vicious qua pleasure-seeking, brutish qua money-managing, and so on. The non-reciprocity-of-natural-virtue has an interesting implication for moral development. Although the vicious, the brutish, and the natural slaves have great, incurable character flaws, they may still make moral progress with respect to spheres other than those in which they are vicious, brutish, and slavish. Aristotle’s reciprocityof-proper-virtue thesis commits him to the view that they will never achieve proper virtue in any sphere, of course. And indeed vice, brutishness, and slavishness of any sort tend to poison other aspects of one’s life. Cowards and phobics find it difficult to act fairly in risky situations. Intemperate people and people with eating disorders are sorely tempted to spend money inappropriately in grocery stores. And so on. Nevertheless, the coward or phobic may be one of the many with respect to justice; the intemperate person or the person with an eating disorder may be incontinent with respect to liberality. And the many and the incontinent can make moral progress. In general, people who are hopeless about some things can become better about other things. Thus, Aristotle is much more optimistic about the possibility for moral improvement than might be thought.

That was then; this is now People who do the right thing despite temptation are called “virtuous” today, but Aristotle calls such people “continent,” reserving the term “virtuous” for people whose passions and beliefs as well as their actions are right. Similarly, people with wrong feelings, actions, and beliefs who act rightly only under threat of punishment are called “vicious” today, but Aristotle calls such people “the many.” He will not call people “vicious” unless they will neither force themselves, nor be forced by others to act rightly, and are, therefore, incorrigible. Aristotle has more stringent standards for virtue and vice than does contemporary common sense. Contemporary common sense and Aristotle agree that the mentally ill are not responsible for their condition, and therefore they deserve pity and pardon (1109b31–2). By contrast, the vicious are responsible for their vices and therefore deserve blame and punishment. Aristotle explains this distinction by maintaining that the mentally ill lack the ability to deliberate, while the vicious have (and misuse) this ability. As the current vacillation over the status of alcoholism illustrates, contemporary


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common sense is unsure about how, in practice, to distinguish between mental illness and vice. Aristotle’s answer is that they differ by degree. Mental illness yields extreme versions of vicious actions, passions, and beliefs. The wicked are bad; the sick are worse. Contemporary psychiatry and Aristotle both distinguish between cognitive disorders and personality disorders. Aristotle pragmatically divides the category of personality disorders according to whether the patient can be helped. Lacking psychotherapy and psychopharmacology, Aristotle’s method for helping people with personality disorders is to provide a very structured environment. People with seriously compromised rationality who are benefited by such an environment, people who can act and feel rightly only so long as they are guided by the rationality of others, are Aristotle’s natural slaves. The rest of the people with personality disorders are the brutish. Distinguishing the types and causes of moral incorrigibility is an extremely important project for anyone interested in moral improvement of oneself or others. Although Aristotle’s way of pigeonholing the morally incorrigible is different than that of contemporary common sense, his classification scheme is reasonable and humane rather than ridiculous and horrid. We can learn from it. Vicious passions

Vicious beliefs

Strongheaded

The vicious

√

√

√

The many

√

√

The incontinent

√

The continent

√ √

The inverse incontinent


√

√ √

The inverse continent

√

The tragic heroes very vicious passions

vicious or very vicious beliefs

Free natural slaves

√

√

Recently enslaved natural slaves

√

strongheaded

unable to deliberate √ √ √

Long enslaved natural slaves The brutish

√

The brutishly incontinent

√

The brutishly continent

√

√

√ √

The inverse brutishly continent

√

The inverse brutishly incontinent

√

√

√

18 Happiness and Luck (NE I and X.6–8)

Introduction The NE begins and ends with an attempt to identify two related things: (a) happiness or flourishing (eudaimonia), which is sometimes called the human good (to anthro¯pinon agathon), and (b) the life (or lives) that ultimately aim(s) at happiness. As he often does, Aristotle begins by assembling various views worthy of consideration (endoxa) about his quarry. These opinions might be divided into two groups: (a) a list of lives characterized by their ultimate aims and considered by some to be happy, which I shall call candidate lives, and (b) various facts about happiness which I shall call criteria. Aristotle assumes that the criteria are more or less correct. This enables him to rule out candidate lives one by one when their ultimate aims fail to meet the criteria (I.1–8). Aristotle does not identify his quarry by a process of elimination, however. After eliminating most of the candidate lives, he arrives at what he disarmingly calls an outline (tupos) of his own view of happiness (I.7–8). He then argues that his outline harmonizes with common sense in various ways (I.8), and with his account of luck (I.8–12). After investigating moral virtue (I.13–V) and the associated matters of intellectual virtue (VI), continence and incontinence (VII.1–10), friendship (VIII-IX), and pleasure (VII.11–14, X.1–5), Aristotle returns to the questions, “What is happiness?” and “Which lives are happy?” (X.6–8). A successful interpretation of Aristotle’s account of happiness must insure three things. First, the principle of charity requires that Aristotle’s account of happiness be plausible. Second, the candidate lives that Aristotle ends up endorsing as happy in X.6–8 must meet the criteria in I.1–8. Third, these lives must be compatible with his view of the relationship between happiness and luck in I.8–12. I’ll argue that the interpretations currently on offer attribute to Aristotle an implausible account of happiness, fail to meet the criteria, and conflict with Aristotle’s account of luck. I shall present my own interpretation, and argue that it succeeds where the others fail.1

1 Aristotle’s account of happiness has been thoroughly (perhaps overly) debated in many articles and books. I apologize for the fact that I shall not be able to do justice to the ingenious arguments and proposals of numerous commentators.

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Candidate lives Aristotle’s line of thought might have been clearer had he listed all of the candidate lives2 and criteria first, and then begun the elimination process. Instead, Aristotle uses the criteria to eliminate candidate lives while both the list of candidates and the list of criteria are still under construction. I shall reorganize a bit for expository reasons. In I.4 Aristotle lists three ultimate ends: sensual pleasure, wealth, and honor. In I.5 he mentions the life of enjoyment, the political life, and the contemplative life, yielding the following incomplete chart. Types of Life

Goal or End

life of enjoyment

sensual pleasure

???

wealth

political life

honor

contemplative life

???

Aristotle argues that honor (or fame or respect), the apparent goal of the political life, cannot be happiness. Nor can the mere possession of virtue. However, morally virtuous activity3 is a plausible candidate for happiness, so the life ultimately aimed at morally virtuous activity is a plausible candidate for the happy life. More precisely, morally virtuous activity includes (a) habitually virtuous passions, (b) the accompanying exercise of the intellectual faculty of practical reason whose virtue is practical wisdom (phrone¯sis), and (c) the actions that flow from virtuous passions and practical wisdom (courageous acts, temperate acts, liberal acts, etc.). Aristotle frames this as a redescription: the political life seems to aim at honor or at virtue (being honorable), but it actually aims at morally virtuous activity (activity worthy of honor). Because in this post-Nixon world, “political life” is an incongruous name for the life that aims at morally virtuous activity, I shall rechristen this life, the ethical life. Aristotle is on the verge of ending his chapter when he notices (as if prompted by some alert student) that his chart has obvious gaps. He abruptly states that the end of the contemplative life is contemplation (theo¯ria), which is the exercise of the intellectual faculty of theoretical reason (nous), whose virtue is philosophical wisdom (sophia). He also christens the life aimed at wealth, the life of moneymaking. In NE I Aristotle seems to say that he is working out what the happy life is. But in NE X.6–8 he says that there are two happy lives. All commentators (myself included) agree 2 I take Aristotle to be comparing whole lives rather than aspects of a life, contra D. Keyt “The Meaning of BIOS in Aristotle’s Ethics and Politics,” Ancient Philosophy 9 (1989): 16; Reeve, Practices of Reason, 157–9. 3 Aristotle generally (but not always) uses “virtue” to refer to moral virtues such as courage, temperance, justice. In other chapters I too use “virtue” in this way. However in book I, Aristotle tends to use “virtue” rather broadly to refer to both moral and intellectual virtues including philosophical wisdom. For clarity in the current chapter, I shall also use “virtue” broadly, and use “moral virtue” to refer to courage, temperance, justice, etc.

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that the secondarily happy life is the ethical life which aims at morally virtuous activity, but neglects contemplation to a significant degree. However, there is considerable dispute about the supremely happy life. Aristotle says that it is the contemplative life. Some commentators are content to accept that Aristotle’s supremely happy life is the contemplative life, understood as the contrary of the ethical life, a life that ultimately aims at contemplation alone, but significantly neglects morally virtuous activity. But other commentators, unhappy about attributing this neglect to Aristotle’s supremely happy life, maintain that he implicitly introduces, and eventually endorses another candidate life, a life that ultimately aims at a composite good which includes both contemplation and morally virtuous activities as well as all other intrinsically desirable goods (or perhaps all other intrinsically desirable activities). They christen this life, the mixed life, and maintain that it, rather than the contemplative life, is Aristotle’s supremely happy life. Yet other commentators believe that Aristotle waffles or changes his mind about the nature of the supremely happy life.4 I shall call commentators who take Aristotle to maintain throughout the NE that the supremely happy life is the contemplative life described above, intellectualists,5 and commentators who take Aristotle to believe consistently that the supremely happy life is the mixed life, inclusivists.6 4 J. Ackrill, “Aristotle on Eudaimonia.” In Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, ed. A. Rorty (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980) 16–17, 31–3; W. Hardie, “The Final Good in Aristotle’s Ethics.” In Aristotle, ed. J. Moravcsik (New York: Doubleday, 1967) 299–302; Nussbaum, The Fragility of Goodness 373–7. There are other possibilities. I shall not address the possibility that X.6–8 is ironic, for example. See J. Moline, “Contemplation and the Human Good,” Noûs 7 (1983). 5 The term “intellectualism” is widely, though not consistently used, so some commentators who meet my definition reject the appellation. Bush, for example, describes his interpretation as neither intellectualist nor inclusivist, but I think that it is an intellectualist interpretation according to my definition. See S. Bush, “Divine and Human Happiness in Nicomachean Ethics,” Philosophical Review 117 (2007): 49–75. Other commentary which advocates the intellectualist interpretation as I define it include, Aquinas, Commentary on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, 633; R. Burger, Aristotle’s Dialogue with Socrates (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008) 188–203; S. R. L. Clark, Aristotle’s Man (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975) 145–62; J. Cooper, Reason and Human Good in Aristotle (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1975); J. Cooper, “Plato and Aristotle on ‘Finality’ and ‘(Self)-Sufficiency.’” In Knowledge, Nature, and the Good, ed. R. Heinaman (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004) 143–7; R. Heinaman, “Eudaimonia and Selfsufficiency in the Nicomachean Ethics,” Phronesis 33 (1988): 45; A. Kenny, “Aristotle on Happiness.” In Articles on Aristotle: Ethics & Politics, ed. J. Barnes, M. Schofield, and R. Sorabji (London, 1977) 25–32; A. Kenny, Aristotle on the Perfect Life (Oxford: Clarendon Press 1992); A. Kenny, “The Nicomachean Conception of Happiness,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy, supp. (1991): 67–80; Kraut, Aristotle on the Human Good; G. Lawrence, “Aristotle and the Ideal Life,” Philosophic Review 102 (1993): 1–34; Lear, Happy Lives and the Highest Good, 188–207; G. Van Cleemput, “Aristotle on Eudaimonia in Nicomachean Ethics I,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 30 (2006): 127–57; N. White, “Goodness and Human Aims in Aristotle’s Ethics.” In Studies in Aristotle, ed. D. O’Meara (Washington: Catholic University of America Press, 1981) 225–45. 6 Commentary which advocates the inclusivist interpretation as I define it include; Bostock 7–25, 188–209; Broadie 388–419; D. Charles, “Aristotle on Well-Being and Intellectual Contemplation,” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, supp. 73 (1999): 205–23; J. Cooper, “Contemplation and Happiness: a Reconsideration,” Synthese 72 (1987): 211; R. Crisp, “Aristotle’s Inclusivism,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 12 (1994): 119–36; D. Devereux, “Aristotle on the Essence of Happiness.” In Studies in Aristotle, ed. D. O’Meara (Washington: Catholic University of America Press, 1981) 260; T. Irwin, “The Structure of Aristotelian Happiness,” Ethics 101 (1991): 382–91; Joachim 287; D. Keyt, “Intellectualism in Aristotle.” In Essays in Ancient Greek Philosophy, ed. J. Anton and A. Preus (Albany: SUNY Press, 1983) 364–87; J. Purinton, “Aristotle’s Definition of Happiness (NE I.7, 1098a16–18),” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy

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Goal or End

life of enjoyment

sensual pleasure

life of moneymaking

wealth

political life/ethical life

morally virtuous activity

contemplative life

contemplation

mixed life

contemplation, morally virtuous activity, and other intrinsically valuable things

Is the chart now complete? Aristotle’s criteria implicitly rule out several currently popular candidate lives. One might have no aim, no plan, but simply react to whatever comes up with spur-of-the-moment choices. This spontaneous life might seem like an unlikely candidate, but it has an impressive credential: it is followed by much of mankind. Other commonly chosen lives include the religious life, characterized perhaps by aiming at the right relationship with God, the social life which aims at good relationships with one’s family and friends, and the life of accomplishment, whose goal is the achievement (not the process of achieving) of some particular thing(s) (e.g. scientific discoveries, successful businesses, works of art). Less commonly chosen, but more admired are the life of psychic correctness, aimed at the right state of mind (e.g. inner peace, universal love, resoluteness), and the life of self-improvement. Although Aristotle does not believe that the life ultimately aimed at honor is the political life, many people do lead such a life. I shall call it the life of renown. Finally, no list should ignore the life that ultimately aims at power which I shall call the tyrannical life (Politics 1324b2–3). Types of Life

Goal or End

spontaneous life

none

religious life

right relationship to God

social life

good relationships with people

life of accomplishment

accomplishment

life of psychic correctness

right state of mind

life of self-improvement

self-improvement

life of renown

honor

tyrannical life

power

There are doubtless other lives worthy of consideration, although not a huge number. To be a plausible candidate, a life must have a certain sort of unity. The life aimed at 16 (1998): 264; T. Roche, “Ergon and Eudaimonia in Nicomachean Ethics I: Reconsidering the Intellectualist Interpretation,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 26 (1988): 175–94; D. Scott, “Primary and Secondary Eudaimonia,” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, supp. 73 (1999): 235–40; M. Walker, “Aristotle on Activity ‘According to the Best and Most Final’ Virtue,” Apeiron 44 (2011): 91–110; S. White, “Is Aristotelian Happiness a Good Life or the Best Life?” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 8 (1990): 103–43; J. Whiting, “Human Nature and Intellectualism in Aristotle,” Archiv fur Geschichte der Philosophie 68 (1986): 70–95.

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moneymaking-plus-right-relationship-with-God is not a plausible candidate, for example, because its goal is incoherent. Should Adeline become an embezzler? If Adeline is leading the moneymaking life, the answer would be “yes;” if she is leading the religious life, “no.” But aiming at moneymaking-plus-right-relationship-with-God does not help Adeline decide. “You cannot serve God and mammon” (Matthew 6:24).

Prima facie problems Both the intellectualist and inclusivist interpretations are problematic. I shall argue that each misinterprets several criteria, and each proposes happy lives that fail to meet some of the criteria. A common problem is that both describe the happiness criteria such that only one thing can meet these criteria, despite the fact that Aristotle describes two happy lives in X.6–8, each of which aims at a different sort of happiness. According to the intellectualists, the criteria imply that happiness is contemplation; according to the inclusivists the criteria imply that happiness includes both contemplation and morally virtuous activity. But the secondarily happy life aims at neither of these; it aims at morally virtuous activity sans contemplation (1178a9ff ). Neither the intellectualists nor the inclusivists can readily accommodate Aristotle’s assertion that the ethical life is a happy life.7 Perhaps this is what has driven some commentators to deny that the secondarily happy life aims at happiness at all. However, just as Aristotle calls one life “the moneymaking life” because it aims at wealth, and another life “the life of enjoyment” because it aims at sensual pleasure, so Aristotle calls lives “happy” because they aim at happiness.8 An important objection to the inclusivist interpretation is that Aristotle never mentions the mixed life in the NE. Instead, he argues at length that the aim of the supremely happy life is contemplation in X.6–8, and asserts this thesis occasionally elsewhere (e.g. 1144a1–6). On the other hand, a powerful objection to the intellectualist interpretation is that the bulk of the Nicomachean Ethics, Eudemian Ethics, and Politics presuppose that practical wisdom and moral virtue play a central role in any happy life.9 Indeed, Aristotle explicitly rejects the possibility that a good human life might lack these things: [A] The function of man is achieved only in accordance with practical wisdom as well as with moral virtue. (1144a6–7)

Intellectualists may insist that only X.6–8 expresses Aristotle’s considered view, for he addresses the question of the composition of the supremely happy life most explicitly and thoroughly there. But this requires us uncharitably to accept that throughout the 7

Bush makes this point against the intellectualists, but the inclusivists are equally guilty. See Bush 51–60. Lear argues that morally virtuous activity is approximately contemplation. Charles argues that it is analogous or focally related to contemplation. See Charles 213–18; Lear, Happy Lives and the Highest Good 207. For a critique, see Bush 51–60. 9 See also Rhetoric I.5 and MM I.2. 8

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Nicomachean Ethics Aristotle sloppily assumes that practical wisdom and moral virtue play a central role in the happy life, veers away from this thesis in X.6–8, and then veers back to it in X.9 and on into the Politics. The contemplative life as some intellectualists understand it allows for, or even requires contemplators to do immoral things in order to increase and/or enhance contemplation. It would be uncharitable to interpret Aristotle to be endorsing such a life. Such an endorsement would be morally revolting, and would contradict the whole thrust of the NE. In particular, it would clash with Aristotle’s statement that some acts (e.g. theft) are always wrong (1107a14–15). This has driven some commentators to deny that Aristotle urges people leading the supremely happy life to maximize contemplation.10 However, Aristotle says, [B] [We] must, so far as we can, make ourselves immortal, and strain every nerve to live in accordance with the best thing in us. (1177b33–34) Happiness extends, then, just so far as contemplation does, and those to whom contemplation more fully belongs are more truly happy, not accidentally, but in virtue of the contemplation. (1178b28–31)

These passages are clear instructions to maximize contemplation. Inclusivists are uncharitable to Aristotle in a different way. Even when goods are described in a course-grained manner, there are too many intrinsically valuable goods for most people to attain within a single life. Contemplation and morally virtuous activities are such goods. So are sensual pleasures in moderation, worthy accomplishments, a circle of good friends, a good reputation, raising a family, etc. Now Aristotle says, [C] [Happiness is] very generally shared; for all who are not maimed as regards their potentiality for virtue may win it by a certain kind of study and care. (1099b18–20)

Except for a few birth-defective, sick, or injured people, everyone can achieve happiness.11 Yet numerous people with a healthy potential for virtue and a modicum of luck do not have a reasonable shot at all of the intrinsically valuable goods. These goals take time, energy, and other psychological resources. Most people just cannot get it all done. They end up shortchanging family for career, or career for family, or both for pleasure, etc. To say that supreme happiness requires leading the mixed life is setting the bar higher than Aristotle does in passage [C].

10 See for example, Kraut, Aristotle on the Human Good, 80; Lear, Happy Lives and the Highest Good, 201–4; H. Richardson, “Degrees of Finality and the Highest Good in Aristotle,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 30.3 (1992): 349–52. 11 Aristotle thinks that fully virtuous people are rare, but not because opportunity is rare. Rather it is because people who take advantage of their opportunities are rare.

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Contemplation and the contemplative life In light of the importance of contemplation and the contemplative life to Aristotle’s ethics, it is remarkable how little he says about them outside of the Protrepticus.12 Thus, interpretations of what Aristotle means by contemplation are particularly perilous. Nevertheless, I shall take the risk of taking a stand. In X.6–8 Aristotle describes the contemplative life primarily by contrasting it with the ethical life’s needs for certain goods. [D] [a] [The contemplative] life would be too high for man; for it is not in so far as he is man that he will live so, but in so far as something divine is present in him. . . . [b] The liberal man will need money for the doing of his liberal deeds, and the just man too will need it for the returning of services . . . and the brave man will need power if he is to accomplish any of the acts that correspond to his virtue, and the temperate man will need opportunity. . . . [c] But the man who is contemplating the truth needs no such thing, at least with a view to the exercise of his activity . . . [d] but in so far as he is a man and lives with a number of people, he chooses to do virtuous acts; he will therefore need such aids to living a human life. (1177b26–1178b7)

Part [a] of passage [D] praises the activity of contemplation as well as cautioning us not overdo it. Part [c] says that the activity of contemplation does not require many of the goods of fortune (money, power, opportunity, and other goods that are “external” to one’s character and significantly vulnerable to the vagaries of fortune). But as parts [b] and [d] of passage [D] say, insofar as contemplative people live with others—insofar as they behave as the political animals they are rather than as hermits—they should engage in morally virtuous activity, and so they need various goods of fortune. The contemplative life includes morally virtuous activity and depends upon goods of fortune. Taking my cue from passage [D], I shall claim that the intellectualists and inclusivists are each half right. Aristotle’s supremely happy life is the contemplative life as the intellectualists maintain, yet the inclusivists are right to insist that practical reason and moral virtue are thoroughly and appropriately exercised in the supremely happy life. On my interpretation, the contemplative life is not a life that includes less morally virtuous activity than the ethical life.13 Instead, it is just a particularly reflective version of the ethical life. The difference between a contemplative person and an ethical person is not that each exercises a part of the soul that the other neglects, that one is a thinker while the other is a doer. Both are doers of the very same morally virtuous activities. They perform the same acts stemming from the same appropriate passions, desires, and practical reasoning. The difference is that contemplative people contemplate while doing these things, and also do some contemplating in their spare time, because trying to understand things is what makes them happy. It is what a later era might call the 12 See M. Walker, “The Utility of Contemplation in Aristotle’s Protrepticus,” Ancient Philosophy 30 (2010): 135–53. 13 For a further defense of my interpretation, see H. Curzer, “The Supremely Happy Life in Aristotle’s Ethics,” Apeiron 24 (1991): 47–69.

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meaning of their lives. By contrast, ethical people do the same things without much theoretical reasoning; they gain happiness primarily from morally virtuous activity, itself. Nor are contemplators and ethical people necessarily thinking about completely different things. The difference between theoretical and practical reasoning is not primarily that they concern different objects, but rather they express different orientations toward the world. For example, being a well-off, liberal person, Beauregard is troubled by the plight of the poor and decides to donate $1,000 to help the homeless in his community. He researches various strategies for ameliorating homelessness, determines the most effective strategy for his community, locates a coalition of community groups efficiently pursuing this strategy, and writes a check. Virtuous activities such as this make Beauregard’s life a happy life. When he is not busy, Beauregard relaxes by reading mindless adventure novels. Cambria, a similarly circumstanced contemplative person, goes through the same process and writes the same check. But as she goes about these activities, Cambria also finds herself musing about things. Perhaps she wonders what the experience of homelessness is like, whether there are more homeless people than there used to be, why some people are afraid of the homeless, etc. In addition to acting on her desire to help the homeless, Cambria might take an interest in, and try to understand the phenomenon of homelessness. Her musings are not always linked to her actions; sometimes she muses on climate change, topology, or the civil war while going about her day. Unlike Beauregard, when she is not busy, Cambria sometimes becomes absorbed in thought, intent upon understanding something while oblivious to what goes on around her. Her musing and absorbed thinking make Cambria’s life a happy life. I shall call musing while doing other things reflection and intense focused thought concentration. So the difference between Beauregard, the ethical person, and Cambria, the contemplator, is just Cambria’s reflection while acting and her concentration while not acting. By denying that they are contemplators I do not mean to imply that ethical people are anti-intellectual, clueless do-gooders. They are knowledgeable about what they need to know in order to accomplish their good deeds, and that is quite a lot. Beauregard needs to understand the causes and consequences of homelessness, for example. But ethical people seek knowledge primarily in order to use it. Their focus is on getting things done. Means/ends reasoning dominates their thinking. They understand in order to act. By contrast, contemplators have the same useful knowledge, and engage in the same means/ends reasoning, but they also seek knowledge for its own sake, even if it is useless knowledge. Their reasoning is theoretical as well as practical. Although they do good deeds, their focus is on understanding the world. In a sense which I shall explain below, they act in order to understand. Although they disagree about whether the contemplative life is the supremely happy life, many intellectualists and inclusivists implicitly agree about the nature of contemplation and the contemplative life. They believe (1) the only objects of contemplation to be esoteric, and consequently (2) the only activity of contemplation to be intense

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concentration. One cannot think deep, difficult thoughts while watching TV, or waiting on a customer, or working on the railroad; one must set aside time and focus one’s attention in order to concentrate. If contemplation is only concentration upon esoteric objects, then (3) contemplation is available only to a few learned, gifted, privileged intellectuals at most, and (4) the simultaneous exercise of contemplation and morally virtuous activity is difficult or impossible. On the basis of this concentrationinterpretation, intellectualists and inclusivists might join forces to advance two objections to my view. While rebutting their objections and then counterattacking, I shall further develop my reflection-and-concentration-interpretation of contemplation and the contemplative life. Contemplation and its objects: An objection to my interpretation The contemplative life is not the ethical life plus contemplation. These two lives are quite different because they are concerned with different sorts of things rather than the same sorts of things in different ways. Distinguishing theoretical and practical reason Aristotle says, [E] There are two parts which possess reason—one by which we contemplate the kind of things whose principles cannot be otherwise, and one by which we contemplate variable things. (1139a5—8; see also 1143b19–21) We must not follow those who advise us, being men, to think of human things, and being mortal, of mortal things. (1177b31—33; see also 1141a33–b8)

These passages seem to indicate that contemplation is not about matters of human life such as homelessness, because homelessness is a variable, human thing. Reply: Can Cambria really contemplate things like homelessness? In ordinary Greek the term, theorein literally means, “to look at” and has the mundane meaning, “to reflect upon” or “to understand.” In this ordinary sense, even practical reasoning can be called contemplation (theo¯ria) (1140b7–11). Since the contemplative life aims at the exercise of theoretical reason (nous), we need not linger over the ordinary sense. Aristotle sometimes uses “contemplation” to mean roughly, “seeing the unchanging universal within the numerous, changing particulars.” In this moderately technical sense, one can contemplate universals of any sort. In particular, one can contemplate the species form of human beings and some of the first principles of ethics (1143a35–b5). Aristotle also uses “contemplation” in a narrowly technical sense in which the objects of contemplation are limited to the universals of mathematics, physics, metaphysics, and theology (Meta 1026a18–19).14 Now when Aristotle says that the contemplative life aims at contemplation, which sense of “contemplation” does he have in mind? Aristotle’s corpus came to medieval Europe swaddled in Muslim commentary.

14 See D. Roochnik, “What is Theoria? Nicomachean Ethics Book 10.7–8,” Classical Philology 104 (2009): 69–82.

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Similarly, the corpus was bequeathed to the modern West swaddled in medieval Christian commentary. Unwrapping baby Aristotle has been an ongoing project for hundreds of years. In particular, medieval Aristotelians took the contemplative life of the NE to aim at the contemplation of God and His heavens, distracted as little as possible by the hurly-burly of ordinary life. Our medieval legacy has emphasized certain passages supporting this picture.15 Nevertheless, a look at the unwrapped Aristotle reveals evidence for an alternative picture in which contemplation is not so esoteric, and people leading the contemplative life are not so unworldly. First, Aristotle’s insistence in passage [E] that the objects of contemplation are unchanging universals does not imply that he is using “contemplation” in the narrow sense, because the objects of contemplation are unchanging universals in the moderate sense as well as in the narrow sense. Second, Aristotle sometimes says that people and “human things” are the objects of the contemplation aimed at by the contemplative life. For example, Aristotle’s explanation of why friends are useful includes the claim that happiness consists partially in contemplating the morally virtuous activities of one’s friends (1169b30–1170a4). Here the objects of contemplation are not esoteric. Instead, they are unchanging universal truths about human nature and ethics, seen through the particular choices of one’s friends. Aristotle is using “contemplation” in the moderate sense to describe the contemplation which is the aim of the contemplative life.16 Arguably, homelessness is a manifestation of similar unchanging truths. Particular homeless people come and go, but “the poor you will always have with you” (Matthew 26:11). Thus, Cambria really can contemplate homelessness. Third, I take Aristotle to understand the relationship between theoretical and practical reason roughly in the following way. Deliberation, the core of practical reasoning, is about what the deliberator can change. “No Spartan deliberates about the best constitution for the Scythians” (1112a28–9). Practical reasoning concerns a somewhat larger, vaguely demarcated sphere: it is about accomplishing things. Perhaps the sphere of practical reasoning includes all human affairs, so that Spartans can reason practically about the Scythian constitution, but not the weather. Theoretical reasoning concerns an even larger sphere. One can contemplate unchangeable as well as changeable things because theoretical reasoning is about understanding things rather than about changing things. Thus, Spartans can contemplate, not only the best constitution for Sparta and for Scythia, but also the Pythagorean Theorem, and perhaps even fictional objects such as Homer’s Sirens. Of course, when one contemplates changeable things, one does not contemplate them qua changeable. One thinks about something

15 One cannot simply ignore these passages, but some are open to alternative readings, others can be backgrounded, etc. Of course, this is a project beyond the scope of the current work. 16 Rorty also takes the contemplation which is the end of the supremely happy life to be moderately rather than narrowly technical. See A. Rorty, “The Place of Contemplation in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics.” In Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, ed. A. Rorty (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980) 377–94.

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differently when one is trying to understand it than when one is trying to change it. Theoretical and practical reasoning are different ways of reasoning, even when they are about the same objects. By contrast, the concentration-interpretation takes theoretical and practical reason to have disjoint spheres, to operate upon different sorts of objects. In particular, changing, human things can be thought about only by practical reason. We cannot try to understand human things except insofar as we think about changing them. This is an implausible view with which Aristotle should not be saddled. Fourth, intellectualists and inclusivists attribute to Aristotle the claims that people who aim at contemplation alone or contemplation plus other intrinsically valuable goods are happier than people who aim solely at morally virtuous activity, other things equal. When contemplation is understood as concentration upon esoteric objects, these become implausible claims. People who spend lots of time concentrating on the objects of mathematics, physics, metaphysics, and theology do not seem generally happier than other morally virtuous people.17 By contrast, my interpretation attributes to Aristotle the sensible claim that thoughtful, morally virtuous people are happier than non-thoughtful, morally virtuous people, other things equal. Contemplation and concentration: Another objection to my interpretation In X.6–8 Aristotle assumes that the aim of the supremely happy life is a leisure activity. He then argues that contemplation is a leisure activity but morally virtuous activities are not, and concludes that contemplation, rather than morally virtuous activity, is the aim of the supremely happy life (1177b4–12). Now the fact that that contemplation requires leisure (schole) suggests that it is a sort of concentration rather than an activity like reflection that could easily go on alongside other activities. After all, one must set aside time to concentrate, but reflection needs no such protected time. Reply: A person of leisure (someone with leisure time, engaged in leisure activities) is not a person with lots of unscheduled time, withdrawn from the hurly-burly of an active life. The days of many retired or independently wealthy people of leisure are filled with projects and appointments. What makes Dudley a man of leisure (in Aristotle’s day as in our own) is that his commitments are freely chosen rather than forced upon him by necessity. He is not burdened by cares or needs. Contemplation is a leisurely activity because contemplation is the sort of activity that is chosen solely for its own sake rather than to meet basic needs. Contemplation requires freedom from care, not free time. Thus, the fact that contemplation requires leisure does not imply that contemplation is a sort of concentration.

17 Religious people seem to have a higher “life satisfaction” than non-religious people, but this seems to be the product of social aspects of religion (particularly friendships within congregations) rather than any sort of concentration on God. See C. Lim and R. Putnam, “Religion, Social Networks, and Life Satisfaction,” American Sociological Review 75.6 (2010): 914–33.

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Further evidence for my reflection-and-concentration-interpretation is found nearby: [F] [Contemplation] is the most continuous [activity], since we can contemplate truth more continuously than we can do anything. (1177a21–2)

Passage [F] makes sense if contemplation includes reflection, for we can move through life reflecting almost all of the time. But passage [F] is problematic if contemplation is limited to concentration, for we can certainly do many things more continuously than we can concentrate. Thus contemplation does not require concentration. Contemplation and elitism: An objection to the concentration-interpretation If contemplation is a sort of concentration upon esoteric objects, it is limited to those who have plenty of time, education, and intellectual capacity, a privileged intellectual elite. Some interpreters may simply accept this implication. After all, Aristotle is certainly an elitist in some ways. Others may minimize this implication by observing that intellectual virtue, like moral virtue, is a matter of degree and a threshold concept. Human lives range between the excesses of completely contemplative (a god’s life) and completely uncontemplative (an animal’s life). To be a contemplator is to be close enough (but not too close) to the divine end of this continuum. But Aristotle’s assertion in passage [C] that the potential for happiness is “very generally shared” is hard to reconcile with the elitist implications of the concentration-interpretation. Intellectualists might argue that Aristotle’s view is that almost everyone can lead the secondarily happy life, while only a few can lead the supremely happy life. But Aristotle does not say this. My reflection-and-concentration-interpretation allows me to avoid the repugnantly elitist implication completely. I can accept Aristotle’s insistence that the supremely happy life is contemplative without taking his distinction between two sorts of happiness to be a manifestation of his elitism. On my view, contemplators are more thoughtful than ethical people, but that does not make them necessarily more clever, more creative, more knowledgeable, more important, etc.18 Aristotle’s statement that contemplation is a better sort of happiness than morally virtuous activity implies that contemplators are happier people, but not that they are better people. Medieval monks pictured contemplators as monks. As academics, it is tempting to picture contemplators as academics, or at least members of the intelligentsia, somehow contributing to mankind’s store of knowledge. However, when Aristotle challenges himself in VI.12 to say why theoretical reason is desirable (i.e. to specify the end of contemplation), he does not even mention that it might lead to knowledge. Instead, he describes contemplation as desirable solely for its own sake and not for any of its results (1177b1–2, 19–20). People leading the contemplative life contemplate a lot and enjoy 18 Thoughtfulness and intellectual prowess are obviously separable. Some thoughtful people are neither knowledgeable nor creative, or clever, and vice versa.

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it, but they do not necessarily come to answers or insights, let alone to the right answers or insights. Contemplation and competition: Another objection to the concentration-interpretation Aristotle not only urges us to maximize contemplation in passage [B] above, he also instructs us to maximize morally virtuous activity in passage [G] below, with no suggestion that maximizing one might interfere with maximizing the other: [G] Each one has just so much of happiness as he has of virtue and practical wisdom and the actions of these. (Politics 1323b21–3) Always, or by preference to everything else [the happy person] will do and contemplate what is virtuous. (1100b19–21)

Aristotle says in passage [D] that supremely happy people are morally virtuous. Morally virtuous people do not shirk their duties. Indeed, Aristotle considers and rejects the idea of minimizing morally virtuous activity in order to maximize contemplation (Politics 1325a16–34). But can people leading contemplative lives fulfill their moral obligations? One advantage of my reflection-and-concentration-interpretation is that it explains how contemplation and morally virtuous activity do not necessarily compete for an agent’s time, energy, and other psychological resources. If reflection is a sort of contemplation, then morally virtuous people may engage in contemplation while carrying out almost every aspect of every sort of morally virtuous activity. One can reflect while eating temperately, donating liberally, speaking truthfully, etc. One can even reflect while marching courageously to and from battle, although probably not during the heat of battle, itself. With the exception of a few actions requiring intense concentration, reflective contemplation and morally virtuous activity can go on simultaneously, so maximization of contemplation poses no significant obstacle to morally virtuous activity. By contrast, if contemplation is limited to concentration, then maximizing contemplation would seem to require minimizing morally virtuous activity, since morally virtuous activity reduces the time, energy, and other psychological resources available for concentration, and vice versa. Advocates of the concentration-interpretation might reply that even if morally virtuous people were perfectly morally virtuous, the ethical life would include time for concentration. Ethical people cannot engage in morally virtuous activity at every instant: they need breaks. Their lives contain long stretches of time in which no morally virtuous activity is feasible. This down time is available for concentration. Moreover, moral virtue is a matter of degree and a threshold concept (1117b9–11; 1120b9–11; 1123b26–30; 1168a33–5; 1172a10–14; 1173a20–2).19 So morally vir-

19

Unlike many interpreters, I do not believe that Aristotle sketches an ideal for us to try to approximate. I argue against the idealization interpretation of Aristotelian virtue in H. Curzer, “How Good People Do Bad Things: Aristotle on the Misdeeds of the Virtuous,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 28 (2005): 233–56.

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tuous people are not perfectly virtuous, but merely good enough. They usually, but not always act, feel, and desire in medial, moral ways. So even if contemplation was incompatible with perfect moral virtue, actual morally virtuous people would have the extra time to contemplate. Even with these maneuvers, the concentration-interpretation remains problematic, for it allows morally virtuous action into the supremely happy life only grudgingly. It implies that one should minimize one’s pesky moral duties (avoiding friendships with needy people, for example) and just barely satisfy the remaining duties, in order to maximize one’s contemplation while remaining above the “good-enough” threshold. By offering an account of contemplation on which there is no significant competition between contemplation and morally virtuous activity, my reflection-andconcentration-interpretation avoids this counterintuitive conclusion. Interim summary My interpretation of Aristotle’s supremely happy life avoids the prima facie problems mentioned earlier. I differ from the intellectualists by insisting that contemplative people are more than merely minimally morally virtuous. Thus, on my interpretation, Aristotle’s claim that the supremely happy life is contemplative does not make the NE an incoherent or morally repugnant book. I differ from the inclusivists by insisting that the aim of the supremely happy life is not contemplation plus other intrinsically valuable goods, but just contemplation alone. Contemplation is the part of their lives that makes supremely happy people happy. Thus, Aristotle is expressing his considered view when he says that the supremely happy life is the contemplative life in X.6–8. He is not inexplicably forgetting to endorse an impossible-to-achieve mixed life. What leads both intellectualists and inclusivists astray in their different ways is their shared understanding of contemplation as concentration, aimed at esoteric objects, reserved for a privileged intellectual elite, and competing for time, energy, and other psychological resources with morally virtuous activity. By contrast, I take the activity of contemplation to be reflection as well as concentration, and the objects of contemplation to be primarily the matters of ordinary human life. Therefore, the practice of contemplation is limited mostly by fortune and choice rather than by intellectual ability, education, and free time. And the simultaneous activity of contemplation and moral virtue is quite possible. My interpretation gives Aristotle a less elitist and more plausible view.

Here I shall just mention that in I.6 Aristotle rejects the procedure of taking an unachievable ideal, “as a sort of pattern [so that] we shall know better the goods that are good for us, and if we know them shall attain them” (1097a2–3). True, the specific ideal to which Aristotle is objecting in this passage is a Platonic Form, but his argument does not depend on the separateness of the ideal.

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Criteria and candidate lives Aristotle begins book I by sketching some criteria in rather vague, incomplete ways, but then returns to them with growing precision and depth as book I continues. He uses these criteria both implicitly and explicitly to reject certain types of life and build his own account of happiness. An examination of these criteria will bring to light further problems for the intellectualists and inclusivists and further support for my alternative interpretation. In I.1–2 Aristotle gives one of his reasons for seeking to identify happiness. He rhetorically asks, [H] If, then, there is some end of the things we do, which we desire for its own sake (everything else being desired for the sake of this), and if we do not choose everything for the sake of something else . . . clearly this must be the good and the chief good. Will not the knowledge of [happiness], then, have a great influence on life? Shall we not, like archers who have a mark to aim at, be more likely to hit upon what we should? (1094a18–24)

So the point of trying to discover which lives are happy is to give people guidance in life. Aristotle’s claim is that knowing the nature of happiness will help people determine what choices they should make because happiness is not only intrinsically desirable, it is also the ultimate end or goal of all instrumentally desirable things. Passage [H] implicitly rules out the spontaneous life of just drifting through life without a plan, taking things as they come. Aristotle is more explicit in the Eudemian Ethics. “Not to have ordered one’s life in relation to some end is a mark of extreme folly” (EE 1214b10–11). The ultimate end criterion also rules out a life aimed at an unstructured collection of items. Such collections are incoherent; they fail to give guidance on the big decisions in life. This poses a problem for the inclusivists, for like the life aimed at moneymakingplus-right-relationship-with-God, the mixed life lacks sufficient unity to give clear guidance. Should Esmeralda try to become a helpful sort of person, the sort of person who would give up a weekend of concentration-contemplation to help a friend move? If she is leading the ethical life, the answer would be “yes;” if she is leading the contemplative life, “no.” But the ultimate aim of contemplation-plus-allother-intrinsically-valuable-goods-especially-including-morally-virtuous-activity does not help Esmeralda decide. The mixed life fails to meet Aristotle’s very first criterion. Inclusivists might defend their view by claiming that the mixed life has an internal priority structure that provides a principled way of choosing among conflicting goods.20 However, there is no direct textual evidence of such structure. True, this is an argument from silence, and such arguments are generally suspect. But when something is crucial and complex, complete silence on the matter is at least suspicious.21 Alternatively,

20 21

Keyt, “Intellectualism in Aristotle,” 368–72. See Kraut, Aristotle on the Human Good, 242; Van Cleemput 129.

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inclusivists might acknowledge that the mixed life does not resolve such conflicts, but maintain that it gives significant, if incomplete guidance. It resolves most conflicts, at least partially. Passage [H] merely requires that aiming at happiness make a person “more likely” to hit the target, after all. However, the mixed life gives very little guidance on almost every big decision (career choice, marriage partner, etc) since almost all of the goods that people are tempted to pursue are parts of the mixed life’s comprehensive end. In I.4 Aristotle implicitly concurs with most people when they “identify living well and faring well with being happy” (1095a19–20). Aristotle is making three important points: happiness is a sort of activity (or actuality, the actualization of a potential); it is good (living well); and it presupposes good fortune (faring well). The goodness criterion is rather vague, but is elaborated in I.6 where Aristotle explores different sorts of goodness, and in I.7–8 where he argues that happiness is pleasurable, virtuous activity. Similarly, the good fortune criterion is elaborated in I.8 where Aristotle explores the role of the goods of fortune in the happy life, and in I.9–12 where he presents his account of happiness, virtue, and luck. The activity and good fortune criteria reappear in I.5. In I.5 Aristotle says, [I] Most men, and men of the most vulgar type, seem (not without some ground) to identify the good, or happiness, with pleasure; which is the reason why they love the life of enjoyment. . . . Now the mass of mankind are evidently quite slavish in their tastes, preferring a life suitable to beasts. (1095b14–20)

I take Aristotle to be rejecting the life of enjoyment on the grounds that people should lead a life suitable for humans, rather than a life suitable for beasts. But why would a life suitable for beasts, a life aimed at sensual pleasure, fail to make people happy? Again the criterion is vague, but elaborated later in I.7. Aristotle is implicitly assuming the thesis that happiness requires the appropriate exercise of distinctively human abilities. Also in I.5, Aristotle introduces three criteria which he uses to show that honor is not happiness: [ J] [Honor] is thought to depend on those who bestow honor rather than on him who receives it, but the good [i.e. happiness] we divine to be something of one’s own and not easily taken from one. Further, men seem to pursue honor in order that they may be assured of their merit. (1095b24–8)

In the first part of passage [J], Aristotle advances the criteria that happiness is mostly up to the agent to achieve, and that it is not easily lost. Honor fails to meet these criteria, so the happy life is not the life of renown. In the last part of passage [J], Aristotle gives a further, somewhat elliptical objection to the life of renown. He observes that people pursue honor for the sake of something else. From this he derives the conclusion that honor is not happiness, presumably by applying the implicit criterion that happiness is not instrumentally good.

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Aristotle is not just rejecting the sort of life led by media-obsessed celebrities; he is also rejecting a better-credentialed version of the life of renown, the life aimed at respectability. A good reputation is a sort of honor. Although a good reputation is a good thing, Aristotle does not think that it should be one’s ultimate end, because one’s reputation is in the hands of others, and because a good reputation is not desirable solely for its own sake. Aristotle goes on to argue that happiness is not the state of being virtuous: [K] Possession of virtue seems actually compatible with being asleep, or with lifelong inactivity, and, further, with the greatest sufferings and misfortunes; but a man who was living so no one would call happy, unless he were maintaining a thesis at all costs. (1095b32–1096a2)

Aristotle advances the criteria that happiness is incompatible with lifelong inactivity and incompatible with great misfortunes. Arguably, these are reformulations of the activity and good fortune criteria introduced in I.4. The fact that the state of being virtuous (possessing, but not exercising the virtues) fails to meet these criteria enables him to reject the idea that the happy life aims at being virtuous. A common contemporary belief is that one should strive to be a better person. But Aristotle cautions that one should not make self-improvement one’s ultimate aim. Our goal should not be to be good, but rather to act, feel, and think well. The activity criterion rules out some popular lives. In particular, it rules out the religious life and the social life, for I have defined them as aiming at relationships, and relationships are not actions.22 Similarly, the life of accomplishment fails to meet the activity criterion because accomplishments are not acts. Since happiness is an activity, it cannot be the feeling of pleasure or a state of mind, either. The action criterion also poses a problem for those inclusivists who maintain that happiness is the composite good consisting of all intrinsically valuable things, since many of those things as well as the composite, itself, are not actions.23 At the end of I.5, Aristotle brusquely rejects the life of moneymaking. He says, [L] Wealth is evidently not the good we are seeking; for it is useful24 and for the sake of something else. (1096a6–7)

That is, Aristotle uses the criterion implicitly assumed in passage [J] that happiness is not instrumentally desirable to reject the idea that the happy life aims at wealth. Aristotle’s view seems to be that wealth is both an end and a means (1097a25–28; EE 1248b18–19), but happiness is an end rather than a means. He could easily use the fact that power, like wealth, is instrumentally desirable to reject the tyrannical life, too.25

22 Lives aiming at “participating in” rather than “being in” relationships with God and people would not be ruled out by the action criterion. 23 Heineman makes this point in great detail. See R. Heinaman, “Eudaimonia as an Activity in Nicomachean Ethics I.8–12,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 33 (2007): 221–53. 24 Ross has “merely useful,” but there is nothing corresponding to “merely” in the Greek of passage [L]. 25 I suggest that Aristotle should make the stronger claim that wealth and power are mere means, and use the intrinsically desirable criterion to reject them.

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The end-like-without-qualification criterion Aristotle begins I.7 by advancing a criterion deployed by Plato (Philebus 20c–3c) and borrowing (and reordering) a Platonic classification of goods (Republic 357b–8a). He says that happiness is end-like without qualification (teleion haplos)26 and describes this criterion in the following passage. [M] Now we call that which is in itself worthy of pursuit more end-like than that which is worthy of pursuit for the sake of something else, and that which is never desirable for the sake of something else more end-like than the things that are desirable both in themselves and for the sake of that other thing, and therefore we call end-like without qualification that which is always desirable in itself and never for the sake of something else. Now such a thing happiness, above all else, is held to be; for this we choose always for itself and never for the sake of something else, but honor, pleasure, reason, and every virtue we choose indeed for themselves (for if nothing resulted from them we should still choose each of them), but we choose them also for the sake of happiness. (1097a30–b5)

Aristotle maintains that happiness is not solely desirable for the sake of something else. Nor is it both desirable for the sake of something else and desirable for its own sake, as are “honor, pleasure, reason, and every virtue.” Instead, happiness is desirable solely for its own sake. Something might meet this criterion in two ways. Intellectualists maintain that happiness is intrinsically, but not instrumentally valuable. It is an ultimate end, the termination of a means/ends chain of goods. Hence they tend to translate teleion as “final,” and take “honor, pleasure, reason, and every virtue” to be means to happiness. Inclusivists maintain that happiness is the largest of nested sets of goods. It is allinclusive with respect to goods, the termination of a part/whole chain of goods. Hence they translate teleion as “complete,” and take “honor, pleasure, reason, and every virtue” to be parts of happiness. I side with the intellectualists, here. First, this criterion is a combination of criteria found in I.2 and I.5 which are most naturally taken as features of a final end rather than an all-encompassing whole. When Aristotle uses the criterion in passage [J] to rule out the lives of moneymaking and renown, his objection is that money and honor are means rather than that they are insufficiently inclusive. Similarly, Aristotle rules out the life of enjoyment in X.6 on the grounds that sensual pleasure is a means as well as an end (1176b34–1177a1). Second, Aristotle says that contemplation is not chosen for the sake of a further end (1177b1–2, 19–20). Yet on the inclusivist interpretation, contemplation, like other components of happiness, is chosen for the sake of the

26 In different contexts, teleion may be appropriately translated as final, complete, or perfect, but since the translation is contested here, I shall use the clumsy, but literal term “end-like” in this chapter and in passage [M] below. I wonder whether translating teleion as “perfect” has fostered the idealization interpretation of Aristotelian virtue despite the well-known fact that as a translation of teleion, “perfect” does not mean “flawless,” but rather means approximately “the fruition of a process.”

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whole. Finally as I mentioned earlier, Aristotle says nothing about happiness being a holistic entity or how to make choices among incompatible components. The inclusivist interpretation of the end-like-without-qualification criterion fails, leaving the intellectualist interpretation in possession of the field. But on the intellectualist interpretation, the end-like-without-qualification criterion spawns some problems. By identifying two happy lives in X.6–8, Aristotle designates two different activities as end-like-without-qualification. But this seems impossible. Aristotle seems to be saying both that (a) contemplation and morally virtuous activity are each desirable solely for their own sake, and also that (b) each is desirable for the sake of the other. Problem #1: Courageous people stand fast in battle, not only because that is the courageous thing to do, but also to save the city. Temperate people eat right, not only because that is the temperate thing to do, but also to be healthy. And so on. Morally virtuous acts are not performed solely for their own sake. So how can morally virtuous activity be a sort of happiness and meet the end-like-without-qualification criterion? Although Aristotle thinks that people’s ultimate aim in life ought to be happiness, he does not recommend that people pursue happiness directly by making it the aim of their every action. Instead, he recommends an indirect approach. First, when thinking about how to become happy, Fauntleroy might recognize that one sort of happy life is the ethical life and decide to pursue this life. The way to pursue the ethical life is to acquire, maintain, and exercise the moral virtues and practical wisdom. Virtues are developed via a complex moral development path.27 The exercise of the moral virtues (plus enough luck and a long enough life) will make Fauntleroy (secondarily) happy. Virtues include dispositions to desire and value certain things. Once Fauntleroy has the moral virtues (or even moves a few steps along the moral development path toward acquiring these virtues), he performs morally virtuous acts because these acts are the right things to do, and also in order to achieve various characteristic goods and avoid characteristic harms. At this point, happiness is no longer Fauntleroy’s only motive, or even his primary motive.28 Indeed, Fauntleroy performs morally virtuous acts even if they run counter to his own interests (although with a modicum of luck this will be uncommon). That is part of what it means to be morally virtuous.29 Thus, Aristotle is a virtue-egoist, but not an act-egoist.30 At the level of choices among types of life and the 27

See ch.15 and ch.16. This is not a strictly temporal sequence. Before choices, after setbacks, on New Years, and at other turning points, people step back from their day-to-day choices and think about whether to change or retain their character traits. They make these decisions on the basis of self-interest, tempered by their current character traits. See ch.2. 29 Whiting offers a different solution to problem #1. She says both that (a) acts should be classified independent of the agent’s motive, and that (b) performing a virtuous act for itself is performing it to accomplish a certain aim. But isn’t the aim of an act part of the agent’s motive? See J. Whiting, “Eudaimonia, External Results and Choosing Virtuous Actions for Themselves,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 65.2 (2002): 274–81. 30 Heinaman and Roche agree that Aristotle does not think that all people ought to aim at happiness. They also agree that acts can be rational, good, etc., without aiming at happiness. But their reasons are somewhat different from mine. They maintain that sometimes agents who have no reasonable shot at 28

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character traits associated with them, self-interest rules, but at the level of individual situations, one’s values, passions, and actions flow from virtues.31 The moral development path begins with a commitment to leading the ethical life, the choice to try to become a morally virtuous person. Now some people seek to acquire, maintain, and exercise the moral virtues in order to be well-liked, or to contemplate, or to please God, etc. By contrast, people trying to lead the ethical life perform morally virtuous activity not as a vehicle for achieving some further good, but just because the ethical life itself is a sort of happiness. This is what Aristotle means by claiming that morally virtuous activity is desirable solely for its own sake. He does not mean that each morally virtuous act is chosen solely because it is in the agent’s selfinterest, or solely because it is the right thing to do. Problem #2: Aristotle says that “the end of contemplation is truth” (Meta 993b20). But the end-like-without-qualification criterion implies that as the ultimate aim of the supremely happy life, contemplation is desirable solely for its own sake. How can these statements be reconciled? Like the ethical life, the contemplative life is obtained in stages. The first stage is a commitment to lead the contemplative life, to become a contemplator, to acquire, maintain, and exercise the virtue of philosophical wisdom. Again, some people might do this in order to become knowledgeable, or famous, or wealthy, etc. By contrast, people trying to lead the contemplative life become contemplators, not as a vehicle for achieving some further good, but just because contemplation is a sort of happiness. So contemplation is desirable solely for its own sake, in the same way that morally virtuous activity is desirable solely for its own sake. Contemplation is desirable solely for its own sake in another sense, too. When going for a stroll one might wander aimlessly or plan to return to one’s starting point, but one might also pick a destination—say, the marketplace. Alternatively, one might walk purposefully to the marketplace. The difference is that if a stroll is interrupted a few yards short of the marketplace, it will be a success, but a similarly interrupted purposeful walk will be a failure. (Strolling is an energeia; purposeful walking is a kine¯sis.) Now contemplation is like strolling: it is complete at every moment, achieving its aim at every moment. The point of contemplation, like the point of strolling, is the journey rather than the destination, even if the contemplation consists in wondering about some particular thing rather than merely free-associating. The wonderful thing about happiness should not aim at it. Instead, such agents should aim at avoiding wretchedness. Since Heinaman and Roche still hold that people always act in a self-interested way, Aristotle is an act-egoist on their view. See R. Heinaman, “Rationality, Eudaimonia and Kakodaimonia in Aristotle,” Phronesis 38 (1993): 31–2, 40; T. Roche, “In Defense of an Alternative View of the Foundation of Aristotle’s Moral Theory,” Phronesis 37 (1991): 49, 74–6. 31 This two-level account also explains how Aristotle can use happiness to ground his account of what makes right acts right without blatantly counterintuitive consequences. Rather than maintaining that acts are right if they aim at the agent’s happiness, Aristotle can maintain that an act is right if it is what a morally virtuous person would do when acting in character. This grounds rightness in happiness since a virtue is a character trait most conducive to happiness within a certain sphere of human life.

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contemplation is not that it leads to something further (although it might, incidentally). Rather it is desirable solely for its own sake. Paradoxically, contemplators try to understand things not in order to understand them, but just to exercise their understanding. Problem #3: How can morally virtuous activity be both a means to contemplation and also desirable solely for its own sake? Aristotle thinks that moral-virtues-plus-practical-wisdom are more conducive to contemplation than vices, continence, incontinence, and other states of character.32 This is perhaps what Aristotle means when he says, [N] [Practical wisdom] does not use [philosophical wisdom] but provides for its coming into being; it issues orders, then, for its sake, but not to it. (1145a8–9)

People seeking to lead the contemplative life thus try to acquire moral virtues and practical wisdom because morally virtuous activity is instrumental to contemplation. (Of course, once they have moral virtues, people seeking the contemplative life act from those virtues.) So morally virtuous activity is desirable solely for its own sake by people seeking to lead the ethical life, and as a means by people seeking to lead the contemplative life.33 Problem #4: How can contemplation be both a means to morally virtuous activity and also desirable solely for its own sake? Although morally virtuous activity is instrumental to contemplation, contemplation is not instrumental to morally virtuous activity. Thus, people seeking to lead the ethical life do not try to acquire philosophic wisdom. Contemplation does not play an instrumental role in their lives, because it plays no role in their lives.

The self-sufficiency criterion Aristotle specifies that happiness is self-sufficient (autarkes), and goes on to describe the self-sufficiency criterion in the following passage. [O] The self-sufficient we define as [a] that which when isolated makes life desirable and [b] lacking in nothing; and such we think happiness to be; [c] and further we think it most desirable of all things, without being counted as one good thing among others—if it were so counted it would clearly be made more desirable by the addition of even the least of goods. (1097b14–18; see also 1172b28–35)

The self-sufficiency criterion consists of three interrelated aspects. Happiness (a) “makes life desirable,” (b) makes life “lacking in nothing,” and (c) is the “most desirable of all things.” Inclusivists observe that since happiness, by itself, makes life lacking in 32

See Lear, Happy Lives and the Highest Good, 197–8. Whiting offers a different solution to problem #3. She says both that (a) agents choose things for the sake of their eudaimonia, and that (b) in doing so they do not aim at their eudaimonia. I find this puzzling. See Whiting, “Eudaimonia,” 284. 33

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nothing, happiness must include all intrinsically good things.34 Naturally, it makes life desirable. Moreover, if some intrinsically good thing was not already contained in happiness, then happiness plus that thing would be more desirable than happiness alone, and then happiness would not be the most desirable of all things. Intellectualists contest the above translation, claiming that the phrase, “when isolated” means approximately, “when not combined with other goods.” Thus, they take Aristotle’s claim to be that happiness alone is enough to make life desirable. It is the most desirable single good, although combining it with other goods would make an even more desirable combination. Happiness makes life lacking in nothing because it is good enough to make anyone possessing it happy, but this does not mean that happiness cannot be improved upon.35 I side with the intellectualists about the interpretation of this criterion. Trying to satisfy condition (b), the inclusivist interpretation of the self-sufficiency criterion maintains that there can be only one self-sufficient thing, namely the composite of all intrinsically good things. But Aristotle lists two happy lives, and therefore two selfsufficient things in X.6–8. The ethical life is a happy life: it aims at happiness. Since its aim is morally virtuous activity, morally virtuous activity must be a sort of happiness. But morally virtuous activity does not fit the inclusivist interpretation of the selfsufficiency criterion for it does not include all goods. Contemplation at least is missing. Another problem is that the inclusivist interpretation implies that happy people cannot be made happier by the addition of more goods, but in passage [W] below, Aristotle distinguishes between happy lives and happier lives containing more of the goods of fortune. Indeed, common sense says that everyone’s life could be better than it is, so if happiness cannot be improved by the addition of something, then no one is happy. Irwin tries to meet this last criticism by claiming that Aristotelian happiness merely requires sufficient tokens of the intrinsically valuable types of goods. Happiness does not include every particular good item, but rather it includes enough of every sort of intrinsically good item. Happiness does not include every single cream puff, for example, but it includes enough sensual pleasures.36 However, Irwin’s move will not save the inclusivist interpretation of passage [O]. One problem is that his solution is not found in the text. Moreover, adding, subtracting, or trading for better tokens can change happiness levels. For example, making a new friend or losing an old one can

34

Those inclusivists who try to satisfy the action criterion by including only actions in happiness, fail to satisfy the self-sufficiency criterion because they omit intrinsically valuable items that are not action. Conversely, inclusivists who include all intrinsically valuable items satisfy the self-sufficiency criterion, but fail the action criterion. 35 Self-sufficiency in I.7 is very different than it is in X.6–8 where Aristotle describes contemplation as more self-sufficient than morally virtuous activity because it requires fewer goods of fortune (1177a27–34). In passage [O], Aristotle’s claim is that a person needs nothing more than happiness to make a life happy, but in X.6–8 his claim is that a person needs only a few things to achieve happiness. Passage [O] is about what happiness will do for you; X.6–8 is about what you must do for happiness. 36 See T. Irwin, “Permanent Happiness: Aristotle and Solon,” Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 3 (1985): 99.

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change a person’s happiness level, even if he or she remains well above the necessary number of friends. Problem: The self-sufficiency criterion says that happiness is the most desirable thing. But since Aristotle labels two lives as happy in X.6–8, it seems that two different activities are each “most desirable.” How is that possible? How could one of these most desirable goods be only secondarily happy? My interpretation solves this problem in the same way that it solved the parallel problem raised by the end-like-without-qualification criterion. I maintain that each sort of happiness is most desirable for a different sort of person. For thoughtful people, the most desirable activity is contemplation, while morally virtuous activity is the most desirable activity for people who are not particularly thoughtful. Although it would be better to be a thoughtful sort of person because thoughtful people are happier, other things being equal, some people are just not the thoughtful sort.

The peculiarity criterion Happiness appears rather late in Aristotle’s notorious function argument (1097b25–1098a17). I take Aristotle to be assuming that happiness is an exercise of distinctively human abilities. It is an activity (or activities) peculiar to humans. This peculiarity criterion is the criterion used in I.5 to rule out the life of enjoyment. People and other animals enjoy the exercise of their distinctive abilities, and when they fail to exercise these abilities through neglect or impediment, they are miserable. Think of tigers or convicts crammed into tiny cages. Pleasure is not happiness, but I suggest that the link between peculiarly human activities and pleasure lends plausibility to the thesis that exercising peculiarly human abilities is necessary for happiness. Intellectualists take the peculiarity criterion to mean that happiness consists in the exercise of an ability that humans do not share with animals, a non-compound activity that animals do not perform. Now animals flee danger, enjoy sensual pleasure, cooperate with friends, etc. At a general level, only contemplation is uniquely human.37 Hence, intellectualists maintain that happiness is contemplation, the exercise of theoretical reason. On the other hand, inclusivists take Aristotle to be identifying the compound of reasoning-plus-the-acts-that-animals-do as peculiar to humans. They take the peculiarity criterion to mean that happiness consists of this combination. This brings the peculiarity criterion into harmony with the inclusivist claim that happiness is the mixed life.

37 Some commentators balk at the claim that only contemplation is peculiar to humans. For example, Whiting suggests that prostitution is also a uniquely human activity. But intellectualists could reply that prostitution is a combination activity including both reason and the animal activity of sex. But on the intellectualist interpretation, the peculiarity criterion demands a non-compound activity. See J. Whiting, “Aristotle’s Function Argument: A Defense,” Ancient Philosophy 8 (1988): 34.

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Both intellectualists and inclusivists are mistaken about the peculiarity criterion. First, their interpretations say that the peculiarity criterion by itself is sufficient to determine which activity is happiness. But Aristotle clearly thinks that a further criterion (the virtue criterion below) is needed. Second, morally virtuous activity is the aim of the secondarily happy life, yet fails to meet the peculiarity criterion on both interpretations, for morally virtuous activity does not include contemplation.38 Intellectualists face two further problems. First, in X.6–8 Aristotle explicitly states that a life consisting of contemplation sans morally virtuous activity is peculiar to the gods (1178b21–3). So insofar as contemplation resembles this divine activity, as the intellectualists insist, contemplation is not peculiar to humans.39 Second, in the function argument, Aristotle asserts that not only reason, but also the part of the soul which “has a rational principle in the sense of being obedient to one” is an ability peculiar to humans. In I.13, Aristotle identifies this part of the soul as passion. Thus, if Aristotle is identifying single activities rather than the compound ones, then feeling has as good a pedigree as reasoning to be considered happiness. Inclusivists and intellectualists agree that Aristotle considers happiness to be the exercise of the abilities that make us human. Most consider our humanity to be a combination of reason, plus the abilities we share with animals.40 But some intellectualists try to avoid the implication that feeling is a peculiarly human activity by taking Aristotle to be speaking literally when he identifies humans with their theoretical reason:41 [P] [We] must, so far as we can, make ourselves immortal, and strain every nerve to live in accordance with the best thing in us . . . This would seem, too, to be each man himself, since it is the authoritative (kurion) and better part of him. It would be strange, then, if he were to choose not the life of himself but that of something else . . . since intellect (nous) more than anything else is man. (1177b33–1178a7)

But elsewhere Aristotle explains how to understand the equation of people with their authoritative parts: [Q] Just as a city or any other systematic whole is most properly identified with the authoritative element in it (kuriotaton malista einai), so is a man. (1168b31–3)

Passage [Q] says that a person is his or her authoritative part in the same way that a city is its authoritative part. Of course, a city is its authoritative part only figuratively. We might say that Lubbock lowered taxes when in fact the Lubbock City Council lowered taxes, but no one believes that Lubbock consists solely of its city council. Analogously, a person is his or her authoritative part only figuratively. Aristotle’s point in passage [P] 38

See Bush 53. Ackrill 27. Kraut says Aristotle is distinguishing this activity merely from lower animals, and not from the gods, but Aristotle does not express this caveat. See Kraut, Aristotle on the Human Good, 316–17. 40 Charles takes Aristotle to believe that we have a single, two-part human nature, while Scott takes Aristotle’s view to be that we have two human natures. Charles 218–22; Scott 240–1. 41 Cooper, Reason and Human Good in Aristotle, 168–77; White, “Goodness and Human Aims,” 240. 39

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is that we should make a special effort to exercise our most important part. He is not saying that we literally are (and need only exercise) our most important part. Other intellectualists identify humans with their practical reason, passions, etc., maintaining that theoretical reason is a bit of the divine within humans, rather than a part of human nature.42 But this implies that people can lead the supremely happy life only by performing an activity which is not characteristic of humans. On this view, contemplation is a good obtainable by humans, but not a human good. This is a straightforward rejection of the peculiarity criterion. It also ignores Aristotle’s stated objective: “the good we were seeking was human good and the happiness human happiness” (1102a14–15). Although the inclusivists are right to observe that combining activities peculiar to other species may yield an activity peculiar to humans, they do not draw the right conclusion from this observation. There is no reason to think that what is peculiar to humans is either our best ability or the combination of all of our abilities. Instead, I suggest that what is peculiar to humans is any of our abilities, singly or in combination, insofar as they are blended with reason. Appropriately exercising any of our peculiar abilities makes us happy. Many of the abilities that humans share with other animals are transformed by the presence of reason in the human soul. Animals and people both retaliate, for example, but human retaliation is not merely a physical act; rather it is bound up with myriad meanings. Thus, even though at some merely physical level animals do the same things that humans do in the face of physical risk, sensual pleasure, etc., the ethical life nevertheless aims at peculiar human activities. Similarly, the contemplation performed by people leading the contemplative life is not the same as the contemplation performed by gods. Human contemplation is peculiar to humans because it is transformed by combining with the abilities humans share with animals. On my reflection-and-concentration-interpretation, the objects of human contemplation (human things) and the manner of human contemplation (reflection) are different than those of divine contemplation. And of course, human contemplation proceeds from human brains by human choices. The formal, final, efficient, and material causes of human and divine contemplation are different. Thus, even though both gods and humans contemplate, the (human) contemplative life aims at an activity peculiar to humans.

Finishing touches Aristotle ends the function argument with the following rather surprising claims: [R] Human good turns out to be activity of soul in conformity with virtue, and if there are more than one virtue, in conformity with the best and most end-like (aristen kai teleiotaten). (1098a16–18)

42

Bush 62–74; Joachim 50, 288–9.

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Aristotle has already assumed that happiness is an activity peculiar to humans. It is clearly not sufficient for happiness, which is why Aristotle eventually adds “in a complete life” and “with sufficient luck” to his sketch of happiness. Moreover, the first part of passage [R] says that happiness is not just any peculiar activity: it is a virtuous, peculiar activity. Merely exercising distinctively human abilities will not make people happy: these abilities must be exercised well. This virtue (or excellence) criterion rules out lives aimed at inappropriate ways of exercising our peculiarly human abilities. Here Aristotle is equating the activities which make people good with the activities that make people happy. Being a good human is attaining the human good. Now the sorts of activities that make people happy might really be just exactly those that make people good, but this is hardly obvious. I shall take no stand on whether the function argument shows that only peculiarly human activities performed in conformity with virtue constitute happiness. I shall just observe that this claim conflicts with the intuition underlying the peculiarity criterion. As I said above, the peculiarity criterion is plausible because exercising their peculiarly human abilities gives people pleasure. But this is true of many ways of exercising our peculiar activities. People need not exercise their peculiar abilities well in order to gain pleasure. Inclusivists take the last part of passage [R] to be a restatement of the end-likewithout-qualification criterion. Aristotle is repeating for emphasis that happiness is the composite good that includes all intrinsically valuable goods. On the other hand, intellectualists take passage [R] to be introducing a new criterion. Happiness is the best (in a sense to be specified in X.6–8) of the several activities which meet the other criteria. Inclusivists and intellectualists face complementary problems. Inclusivists find the term “best” to be puzzling, and passage [R] to be redundant. Intellectualists find the phrase “most end-like” to be puzzling, and passage [R] to be unargued. Intellectualists and inclusivists also face a common problem. Both are committed to the claim that the aim of the secondarily happy life, morally virtuous activity, is not best-and-mostend-like. I agree with the inclusivists that passage [R] does not present a new best-and-most-endlike criterion. Aristotle would not introduce a cryptic term, and explain it only hundreds of pages later. Instead, passage [R] repeats the end-like-without-qualification criterion; the activity of the most end-like virtue is end-like without qualification. Passage [R] repeats another criterion, too. Passage [O] says that the self-sufficient good is the most desirable good, the best good. Since the exercise of the best virtue is the best good (1177a12–13), passage [R] also repeats the self-sufficiency criterion: the activity of the best virtue is self-sufficient. Thus, passage [R] symmetrically refers to two criteria previously mentioned in I.7. Neither half of the passage is puzzling. But Aristotle is not just repeating himself. He is typically taken to be leaving open the question of how many virtues there are at this early stage of inquiry. Maybe there will turn out to be only one virtue, maybe several. Now viewed in isolation, this is not

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an unreasonable way to read passage [R]. However, Aristotle says similar things even after he has clearly settled the plurality question. He says that the best activities, “or one—the best—of these, we identify with happiness” at the end of a passage in which he distinguishes several virtues: practical wisdom, philosophical wisdom, justice, liberality, and “all other cases” (1098b23–1099a31). Indeed, he uses similar locutions long after he has completed his discussion of the virtues (1153b9–11; 1176a26–8; 1177a15–17). By this time, Aristotle can be in no doubt that there are several virtues. In light of these passages, I suggest that passage [R] should not be read as leaving the plurality question open. Instead, he is describing two sorts of happiness for two sorts of people. Some people have only one virtue (moral-virtue-plus-practical-wisdom); others have two (moral-virtue-plus-practical-wisdom and philosophical wisdom). Passage [R] says that if a person has only one virtue, then he or she will achieve happiness by exercising it. And if there is more than one virtue in a person, then that person will achieve happiness by exercising his or her best-and-most-end-like virtue (Politics 1333a27–30).43 This way of reading passage [R] eliminates the problematic claim that Aristotle is leaving open the plurality question. More importantly, it allows us to read passage [R] as anticipating Aristotle’s later claim that there are two sorts of happy lives. Philosophical wisdom is the best-and-most-end-like virtue in certain people, so they are made happy by contemplation. But some ethical people are not thoughtful people. Striving to understand something for its own sake seems pointless to them: it doesn’t make them happy. Perhaps Aristotle has such people in mind when he says, “Thinking (theo¯ria) itself is sometimes injurious to heath” (1153a20). Luckily, these people who have only moral-virtue-plus-practical-wisdom are not doomed to unhappiness; morally virtuous activity makes them happy. Aristotle goes on to add yet another criterion: [S] But we must add “in a complete (teleion) life.” For one swallow does not make a summer, nor does one day; and so too one day, or a short time, does not make a man blessed and happy. (1098a18–20)

How long is a complete life? Aristotle says that people can lose and regain happiness before they die (1101a8–13). Of course, to lose happiness one must first possess it. Thus, people can be happy during a period shorter than a lifetime. A complete life is not necessarily the time from birth to death, but rather it is a life long enough to come to some sort of fruition.44 This complete life criterion is an application of Aristotle’s homonymy principle. Just as something that looks like a hand is not really a hand unless

43 I agree with Lawrence that the contemplative life is the best life under one set of conditions, while the ethical life is the best life under a different set of conditions. But contra Lawrence, I do not think that the best conditions include being the best sort of creature (i.e. a god). Being human is not a drawback. Instead, the best conditions include being a thoughtful sort of person. See G. Lawrence, “Snakes in Paradise,” Southern Journal 43 (2005) 157. For objections to Lawrence’s view, see G. Lear, “Comments on Gavin Lawrence, “Snakes in Paradise: Problems in the Ideal Life,” Southern Journal of Philosophy 43 (2005): 166–8. 44 Thus, teleion might be better translated “perfect” in passage [S].

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it is part of a living human body, so virtuous, rational activity is not really happiness unless it is embedded in a complete life. If this activity occurs within an incomplete life, it merely looks like happiness, just as an amputated hand in a vat merely looks like a hand. Yet what makes happy people happy is not their longevity, but rather their virtuous, rational activity.

Criteria and common sense With passage [S] Aristotle seems to have completed his preliminary inquiry into happiness for he follows this passage with the closing remark, “Let this serve as an outline of the good” (1098a20–1). But as he goes on in I.8 to argue that his definition of happiness conforms to certain widely held beliefs, he introduces three new criteria which require an addition to his definition and present further challenges to both the intellectualist and the inclusivist interpretations: [T] The characteristics that are looked for in happiness seem also, all of them, to belong to what we have defined happiness as being. For [a] some identify happiness with virtue, [b] some with practical wisdom, [c] others with a kind of philosophic wisdom, [d] others with these, or one of these, accompanied by pleasure or not without pleasure; [e] while others include also external prosperity. (1098b22–6)

Aristotle says little about the identification of happiness with virtue, practical wisdom, and philosophic wisdom beyond insisting, as he did in I.4, that happiness requires virtuous activity rather than the mere possession of virtue. But if happiness includes the exercise of practical wisdom, then contemplation is not happiness. Part [b] of passage [T] threatens the intellectualist interpretation of the supremely happy life. Moreover, if happiness includes the exercise of philosophical wisdom, then morally virtuous activity is not happiness. Part [c] threatens both the intellectualist and the inclusivist interpretation of the secondarily happy life. My interpretation avoids these threats by maintaining that Aristotle has already advanced two different sorts of happiness: one sort for people with one virtue, and another sort for people with more than one virtue. A new criterion (a further specification of the goodness criterion in I.4) found in part [d] of passage [T] is that happiness is pleasant. Aristotle goes on to distinguish between what is pleasant relative to the desires or tastes of a particular person, and what is “by nature pleasant”: [U] To each man that which he is said to be a lover of is pleasant; e.g. not only is a horse pleasant to the lover of horses, and a spectacle to the lover of sights, but also in the same way just acts are pleasant to the lover of justice and in general virtuous acts to the lover of virtue. Now for most men their pleasures are in conflict with one another because these are not by nature pleasant, but the lovers of what is noble find pleasant the things that are by nature pleasant. (1099a8–13; see also 1173b20–5; 1176a1022)

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Aristotle claims that desires for things that are not “by nature pleasant” end up conflicting with each other. Now this particular claim may be contested, but no one would deny that some desires are not conducive to happiness. Although Aristotle, himself, does not do so, this point could be used to rule out a currently popular method for constructing lives. Some people today might find Aristotle’s initial assumption implausible. Why think that a single life is right for everyone? Why shouldn’t people tailor their lives to suit their different preferences? Make a wish list of all achievable things you desire. Then set priorities by assigning weights to these things. Third, render the list consistent and plausible by cultivating a few desires while modifying or eliminating a few others. Finally, develop a strategy for achieving your tweaked and pruned set of desires. This life-planning procedure rests upon several suspect assumptions including the following: (1) People can and should become aware of their major desires. (2) Happiness is primarily the satisfaction of these desires. (3) Different people are made happy by different things. In our post-Freudian world, assumption (1) seems immediately dubious. The plausibility of assumption (2) is called into question by the existence of desires that are not conducive to happiness such as the desires for conflicting pleasures mentioned in passage [U]. Indeed, assumption (2) is suspect, not only because of the prevalence of self-destructive desires, but also because happiness often arises from gaining undesired things. Assumption (3) is obviously true if objects of desire are characterized in a finegrained way. Some people like coffee; others tea. But the existence of a common human nature suggests that a common human happiness is characterizable in a coarsegrained way. Aristotle assumes a rather different procedure which might be called life-choosing. First, list the available types of life. Second, choose the best option, the best life for human beings. Third, learn to desire the ultimate end of the best life. Finally, develop a strategy for leading this life. Life-choosing rests upon different, and arguably more plausible assumptions than does life-planning: (4) People need not become conscious of their starting desires, but should instead try to adopt the right desires. (5) Happiness consists in the satisfaction of the right desires rather than one’s starting desires. (6) At a coarse-grained level, happiness is the same for everyone. The idea that we should choose our lives off the rack rather than tailor them to our own peculiar desires may be initially off-putting, but the fact that life-choosing rests upon more plausible assumptions than life-planning should at least earn Aristotle’s life-choosing procedure a second look.

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Finally, in part [e] of passage [T] Aristotle indicates that he agrees with the popular view that happiness includes some external prosperity. So far this is just a restatement of his earlier criterion that happiness requires moderate good fortune, but Aristotle goes on to specify the ways in which the goods of fortune relate to happiness: [V] Yet evidently, [happiness] needs the external goods as well; for it is impossible, or not easy, to do noble acts without the proper equipment. In many actions we use friends and riches and political power as instruments; and there are some things the lack of which takes the luster from blessedness, as good birth, satisfactory children, beauty. (1099a31–b3; see also 1099b25–7)

Passage [V] says that some goods of fortune (friends, riches, political power) are required for happiness because they are necessary means to the performance of morally virtuous acts. Other goods of fortune (good birth, satisfactory children, beauty) are not means to morally virtuous activity, but are nevertheless necessary conditions of happiness in some other way. Aristotle elaborates his account of the goods of fortune a bit later. (See below.) If morally virtuous activity were unnecessary, then the means to performing it might be unnecessary, too. So implicit in passage [V] (and explicit in passage [D]) is the assumption that morally virtuous activity is needed for happiness. Passage [V] does not imply that morally virtuous activity is happiness, or that it is part of happiness, but only that it is somehow required for happiness. Of course, morally virtuous activity is the aim of the secondarily happy life, so the puzzling part of passage [V] is how morally virtuous activity fits into the supremely happy life. I take Aristotle to be claiming that the moral virtues are the character traits most conducive to contemplation. Aristotle could have gone on to explain how people find it very difficult to contemplate if they lack courage, temperance, etc. He might have said that too much worry over the wrong things is distracting; too little worry over the right things will get one killed or injured. Pursuing sensual pleasure too much is unhealthy; pursuing it too little is stultifying. And so on. Aristotle does a bit of this at Politics 1323a27–34; I wish that he had done more.45 Morally virtuous activity is crucial to the supremely happy life in another way, too. When deploying the self-sufficiency criterion, Aristotle is careful to specify that it applies to a person who is a friend, family man, and citizen rather than to a loner (1097b8–11). Yet how could contemplation alone satisfy such a person? Surely it matters how a person embedded in these relationships acts, feels, and thinks. Aristotle has already specified that contemplation can make people happy only when accompanied by the goods of fortune in a complete life. I describe the enabling role of the goods of fortune as well as their enhancing role below. Here I suggest that morally virtuous activity plays the same roles using similar mechanisms. Like the goods of

45

Kraut says that Aristotle thinks he need not provide such an account because it is obvious to his audience. But Plato clearly thinks his audience is in need of such an account. See Kraut, Aristotle on the Human Good, 195.

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fortune, morally virtuous activity is required for people leading supremely happy lives to be happy, and perhaps paradoxically it enhances the happiness of already-supremely happy people, but it is not what makes them happy.

Interim summary Aristotle deploys numerous criteria to rule out some candidate lives and to build his own account of happiness. The following chart tracks the evolution of Aristotle’s criteria through I.8.46 I.2

I.4

intrinsically desirable

I.5 intrinsically desirable

ultimate end

I.7

I.8

end-like without qualification, most end-like

not instrumentally desirable sort of activity

incompatible with inactivity

good

virtuous

involves morally virtuous activity pleasant

incompatible with requires some good great misfortune fortune suitable life for humans

external prosperity

peculiar to humans

involves philosophic and practical wisdom

mostly up to the agent not easily lost self-sufficient, best in a complete life

I have argued that the inclusivists and intellectualists each misinterpret some criteria and misconstrue the supremely happy life. One part of my own interpretation is the reflection-and-concentration-interpretation of contemplation. Another part is my suggestion that contemplation is most end-like and most self-sufficient in some people while morally virtuous activity is most end-like and most self-sufficient in others. This is possible because the peculiarity criterion does not specify that only one (simple or compound) activity is peculiar to humans.

46 Aristotle continues to hone and add to his criteria, especially within X.6–8. See H. Curzer, “Criteria for Happiness in Nicomachean Ethics I.7 and X.6–8,” Classical Quarterly 40 (1990): 421–32.

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Happiness, virtue, and luck By emphasizing that the goods of fortune are necessary to the happy life, Aristotle uses I.8 to segue into the second main topic of book I, namely the relationships among happiness, virtue, and luck. A widely held view then and now is that happiness is just a matter of luck.47 The opposite view that happiness is completely independent of luck also has adherents. Unsurprisingly, Aristotle takes an intermediate position. With his good-fortune criterion and up-to-the-agent criterion, he has already taken a stand against these two extreme views, maintaining that luck is neither central nor irrelevant to happiness.48 In passage [W] Aristotle claims that luck plays a complex, important role, although virtuous activity is more central to happiness: [W] [a] Virtuous activities or their opposites are what determine happiness or the reverse. . . . [b] Small pieces of good fortune or of its opposite clearly do not weigh down the scales of life one way or the other, [c] but a multitude of great events if they turn out well will make life more blessed (for not only are they themselves such as to add beauty to life, but the way a man deals with them may be noble and good), [d] while if they turn out ill they crush and maim blessedness; for they both bring pain with them and hinder many activities. . . . [e] If [virtuous] activities are, as we said, what determines the character of life, no blessed man can become miserable; [f] for he will never do the acts that are hateful and mean . . . [g] though he will not reach blessedness, if he meet with fortunes like those of Priam. (1100b9–1101a8)

Passage [W] begins by asserting that [a] virtuous and vicious activities “determine” happiness and unhappiness, respectively. What does this mean? Part [a] seems to be advancing the Panglossian Thesis that a life filled with virtuous activities is always a happy life. Virtuous people are always happy, whether they possess or lack good fortune. Good fortune provides neither prerequisites nor components of happiness. However, non-virtuous people (the continent, incontinent, vicious, etc.) are unhappy. But Aristotle rejects the Panglossian Thesis explicitly and vehemently: [X] The happy man needs the goods of the body and external goods, i.e. those of fortune . . . Those who say that the victim on the rack or the man who falls into great misfortunes is happy if he is good are . . . talking nonsense. (1153b17–21)

Indeed, Aristotle often indicates that at least some of the goods of fortune are necessary for the happy life. Furthermore, parts [c] and [d] of passage [W] imply that the absence or loss of the goods of fortune not only hinders virtuous activity, it also directly detracts from happiness. As passage [V] says, some goods of fortune are necessary to happiness, but not instruments for virtuous activity. Clearly, Aristotle believes that lots of very bad luck will make a virtuous life unhappy.

47 Virtue and its exercise are also results of luck, but I shall bracket the issue of moral luck, here. See Nussbaum, The Fragility of Goodness, 327–40. 48 See Annas, The Morality of Happiness, 378–84; J. Cooper, “Aristotle on the Goods of Fortune,” Philosophical Review 94 (1985): 178–84; Nussbaum, The Fragility of Goodness, 318–42.

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Irwin attributes to Aristotle an Uplifting Thesis about happiness, virtue, and luck. Although lots of bad luck can make virtuous people unhappy, they are always less unhappy than non-virtuous people, even very lucky non-virtuous people. The reason is that goods of fortune are only good in the presence of virtue; in the hands of nonvirtuous people they are misused and cause misery. Thus, goods of fortune are not good for non-virtuous people.49 Irwin cites the following passage in support of the claim that goods of fortune are only conditionally good: [Y] Since the unjust man is grasping, he must be concerned with goods—not all goods, but those with which prosperity and adversity have to do, which taken absolutely are always good, but for a particular person are not always good. (1129b1–4; see also EE 1248b26–32; Politics 1332a21–25)

But this passage does not say that the goods of fortune are never good for non-virtuous people; rather, it says that they are “not always good” for particular people. The passage is perfectly compatible with the plausible thesis that the goods of fortune are good for most non-virtuous people (even most vicious people) most of the time. Indeed, the idea that the goods of fortune are never good for non-virtuous people is so counterintuitive that we should be reluctant to attribute it to Aristotle. For example, it is obvious that faithful friends and lots of money typically improve the lives of non-virtuous people. These goods are sources of enjoyment in many ways. Moreover, they may nudge non-virtuous people toward virtue. Some non-virtuous people won’t steal if they already have plenty of money, or if their friends might find out, for example. Moreover, there are no grounds for attributing to Aristotle the thesis that nonvirtuous people are always worse off than virtuous people. This claim also flies in the face of both testimony by, and observation of unfortunate virtuous people and fortunate non-virtuous people. And Aristotle is notoriously reluctant to reject massive amounts of testimony and observation. Indeed, no one would maintain that a virtuous person who has lost family, wealth, health, etc. is nevertheless better off than a nonvirtuous person who has lost none of these things “unless he were maintaining a thesis at all costs” (1096a2). Instead, Aristotle claims only that [e] the virtue of virtuous people saves them from the lowest depths of unhappiness (i.e. misery) when fortune turns against them. Someone might allow that some non-virtuous people are better off than some virtuous people, but insist that this occurs only in those rare cases when virtuous people “meet with fortunes like those of Priam.” While this Exception Thesis is not as incredible as the Uplifting Thesis, it is still pretty implausible. There are a fair number of smiling vicious people and even some smiling sociopaths in the world, and a fair number of down-on-their-luck, though not totally devastated virtuous people. The

49 Irwin, “Permanent Happiness,” 96–101; Rogers 308. Irwin avoids the term “unhappy,” but says that people who suffer great reversals of fortune lose their happiness.

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Exception Thesis says that the latter are all better off than the former because virtue is such a terrifically good good. But this is just wishful thinking. The view which I believe to be Aristotle’s own view might be called the Marginally Optimistic Thesis about happiness, virtue, and luck. Its first component is the familiar claim in part [a] of passage [W] that virtuous activity is necessary for happiness. Indeed, virtuous activity is a sort of happiness when accompanied by enough luck and a long enough life. The second component is the claim that [b] moderate amounts of good or bad luck (i.e. moderate changes in one’s goods of fortune) will make no significant difference to a person’s level of happiness. [c] Lots of very good luck (i.e. many goods of fortune) will make virtuous people significantly happier. So there are two levels of happiness: ordinary happiness and blessedness.50 [d] [g] On the other hand, lots of very bad luck will make virtuous people unhappy. [e] But bad luck will not make virtuous people miserable. So there are two levels of unhappiness: ordinary unhappiness and misery. [f ] Nor will bad luck induce virtuous people to do vicious things. This point recapitulates the assertion made in passage [V] that some goods of fortune are necessary for happiness, but not means to morally virtuous activity, for unhappy virtuous people have the means to exercise their virtue, but lack sufficient goods to be happy. The flip side of part [a] indicates that non-virtuous people do not lead happy lives. If they have a modicum of goods of fortune, then they are merely unhappy, but implicit in part [e] is the threat that non-virtuous people with lots of very bad luck are miserable.51 Happiness Level

Life contains

Evidence in [W]

Blessedness

Virtuous activity + lots of good luck

part [c]

Happiness

Virtuous activity + sufficient good luck

part [a]

Unhappiness

Virtuous activity + lots of bad luck

parts [d], [e], [g]

Unhappiness

No virtuous activity + sufficient good luck

part [a]

Misery

No virtuous activity + lots of bad luck

part [e]

Notice that the Marginally Optimistic Thesis allows that some virtuous people as well as some non-virtuous people are unhappy. This leaves open the possibility that virtuous people are not always happier than non-virtuous people. A non-virtuous person with some good luck may be better off than a virtuous person with lots of very bad luck. The Marginally Optimistic Thesis provides three reasons for choosing a virtuous life. First, since virtuous people cannot become miserable, but non-virtuous people can, those using a maximin principle of decision should opt for virtue. Second, equal blows of misfortune will leave virtuous people less unhappy than non-virtuous people because virtuous people will retain an important good, namely their virtue, that non-virtuous people lack. And equal good fortune will allow virtuous people, but Aristotle uses “blessedness” inconsistently. Sometimes it is synonymous with happiness; other times with great happiness. 51 Someone has to be miserable, and part [e] says that it is not the virtuous. 50

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not others to be happy. Thus, happiness-maximizers should also opt for virtue. Third, since virtuous people can achieve blessedness while non-virtuous people cannot, virtue is preferable in very good fortune. Thus, those using a maximax principle of decision should opt for virtue over vice. All three decision-making procedures imply that the virtuous life is the way to bet, although it is no sure thing. I suggest that Aristotle’s Marginally Optimistic Thesis about happiness, virtue, and luck is too optimistic. My own Realistic Thesis would allow that both virtuous and nonvirtuous people can experience the whole range of happiness levels. Job is miserable and Don Juan is blessed. The reasons to opt for virtue are that virtuous activity is intrinsically valuable, and that it makes the acquisition of the goods of fortune more likely. But I shall not argue for these claims here.52 Necessary non-means In passage [V] Aristotle distinguishes goods of fortune that are necessary means to virtuous activity from other goods of fortune that are not means, but are necessary for happiness in some other way. These necessary-non-means do not contribute to happiness, but their absence impedes happiness. He reiterates their existence in passage [W] by observing that some people are able to perform virtuous actions, so they have the means, yet they are unhappy because they lack certain other goods of fortune. Both the intellectualist and the inclusivist interpretations take the “lacking nothing” portion of the self-sufficiency criterion to mean that if Gardenia engages in the activity which is happiness for long enough, then she will be happy. Nothing else is required. Inclusivists say that happiness includes everything of intrinsic value. Things that are neither components of, nor means to happiness have no value. But taking the necessary-non-means to be components of happiness would be problematic, for most are neither activities nor intrinsically valuable. Intellectualists acknowledge that some things other than contemplation have intrinsic value, so they need not consider necessary-non-means to be components of happiness. However, intellectualists also say that such goods only increase the quality or quantity of happiness, which makes these goods into means. Some commentators take these necessary-non-means to provide opportunities for virtuous activity.53 But it is hard to see how goods of fortune such as good birth, satisfactory children, and beauty provide opportunities for virtuous activity without being means. Conversely, many opportunities are not goods at all. Wars provide opportunities for courageous activity; insults provide opportunities for good tempered activity; scarcity provides opportunities for just activities; and so on. The existence of necessary-non-means poses no problem for my interpretation. Aristotle is again deploying his homonymy principle. Good birth, satisfactory children, beauty, etc. are neither sources of happiness, nor are they means to happiness, but like 52 53

These theses about happiness correspond to theses about actions. See ch.2. Cooper, “Goods of Fortune,” 182–3; Kraut, Aristotle on the Human Good, 254–5.

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“a complete length of life,” the presence of these non-means allows virtuous activities to make people happy. How? While they do not directly constitute or forward happiness, these goods of fortune prevent distractions that would otherwise prevent happiness. When Gardenia possesses these goods of fortune, she is relaxed about them. They can fade into the background so that she can focus elsewhere. But when Gardenia lacks these goods, their absence is like a toothache that constantly demands her attention and makes her miserable, while blocking her from attending to the activities that might make her happy.54 If Gardenia is constantly obsessing over her reputation as a thief, her no-good son, and her hideously scarred face, she will find it quite difficult to contemplate or perform morally virtuous activities. Bonus goods In addition to the goods of fortune that are means to virtuous activity and the necessary-non-means, passage [W] describes a third sort of goods, namely goods of fortune that make happy lives happier. These bonus goods are over and above what is necessary for happiness: people can be happy without them. As mentioned above, the very idea that happiness can be increased poses a problem for inclusivists, for they understand the self-sufficiency criterion to say that since happiness already contains all intrinsically valuable items, nothing can improve it. One is happy or one is not: happiness is not a matter of degree. The claim that bonus goods make happy lives happier is also problematic for intellectualists. Unlike inclusivists, intellectualists can allow for degrees of happiness. But they cannot maintain that the bonus goods are sources of (additional) happiness. If bonus goods directly made Horace happier, then they would be parts of his happiness. But intellectualists deny that happiness has parts: only contemplation or morally virtuous activity can make people happy. Differences in the degree of happiness must consist in differences in the quality and/or quantity of contemplation or morally virtuous activity. So once Horace already possesses sufficient goods of fortune to lead a happy life, how will extra goods of fortune improve it? Intellectualists might claim that bonus goods forward happiness by providing more time and more comfortable settings. But here their concentrationinterpretation of contemplation betrays the intellectualists. Bonus goods do not contribute to concentration. Extra wealth requires more guarding; extra friends reduce one’s free time; extra status and good looks generate extra social interactions. And so on. Bonus goods also constitute temptations that can corrupt imperfectly virtuous people (Rhetoric 2.15–17). Overall, bonus goods make concentration more difficult. Like the intellectualist interpretation, my interpretation allows for degrees of supreme and secondary happiness. But unlike the intellectualists, I take the objects of contemplation to be primarily the ordinary matters of human life, and this enables me 54

I do not mean that Gardenia never attends to her status, children, and appearance if they are unproblematic; rather, my point is that she does not always attend to them. She has the psychological space to attend to other things.

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to give an account of how bonus goods of fortune can improve contemplation. Bonus goods do not enhance the ability to concentrate on esoteric objects of mathematics, physics, metaphysics, and theology, but they do help people to reflect on human things. Extra money enables Horace to travel, for example, and travel stimulates reflection upon other cultures. Extra status enables Horace to hobnob with people from a wider range of social classes which, in turn, stimulates reflection upon a wider range of social situations. Extra friends give Horace extra actions to think about, extra feedback upon his own actions, extra perspectives on everything, and so on.55

Conclusion Book I of the NE can seem quite disorganized. Its main thread is that Aristotle (a) lists criteria for what would count as a happy life, (b) lists types of life that are thought to be happy, and uses the criteria (c) to disqualify candidate lives and (d) to sketch a picture of happiness. But this thread is intertwined with (e) an explanation of the role of good and bad fortune in the happy life, (f ) methodological remarks about the study or science of ethics, (g) observations about moral development, not to mention (h) a digression on the metaphysics of value (I.6). The interpretive dispute between inclusivists and intellectualists also obscures the main thread. In this chapter I have tried to bring the main thread into clearer focus by describing the ways in which Aristotle hones and applies his criteria. I have also presented my own interpretation which synthesizes the inclusivist and intellectualist interpretations and adds a new account of contemplation. On my interpretation, Aristotle’s view is that contemplation makes thoughtful, ethical people happy, and morally virtuous activity makes other ethical people happy, but only when contemplation is accompanied by morally virtuous activity, morally virtuous activity is accompanied by sufficient goods of fortune, and all are embedded within a complete life. The intellectualists are right to insist that the supremely happy life aims at contemplation, but the inclusivists are right to insist that it does not neglect practical reason and moral virtue. I believe that the inclusivists and intellectualists are both mistaken about contemplation. On my interpretation, contemplation is not limited to intense concentration upon the esoteric objects, but also includes concentration and reflection upon the ordinary affairs of human life. This chapter has been a long slog through detailed exegesis of numerous passages. But sometimes pulling back from the details of a dispute reveals significant common ground. For example, as I mentioned while discussing the peculiarity criterion, according to some commentators, Aristotle sees two sorts of human nature within each person (theoretical reason and everything else). According to others, Aristotle sees each of us as containing a divine nature (theoretical reason) and a human/animal nature (everything else), or a divine/human nature (theoretical reason) and an animal nature 55 I take Aristotle to be saying that goods of fortune tend to hinder concentration, but aid reflection at 1178b4–7.

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(everything else), or a single nature with two parts (theoretical reason and everything else). While these differences are non-trivial, they are merely metaphysical. Similarly, although they quarrel fiercely about the details, many (though certainly not all) interpreters from both intellectualist and inclusivist camps are not really far apart. Some think that the supremely happy life involves a trade-off between morally virtuous activity and contemplation.56 Others think that the supremely happy life includes morally virtuous activity as a means to contemplation,57or as resembling contemplation,58 or as a constraint on contemplation. Their differences are non-trivial and non-metaphysical, but they share a similar picture of the supremely happy life: concentration-contemplation at the center, conflicting with morally virtuous activity around the edges. These views also share various problems. For example, the supremely happy life either (a) lacks a formula for choosing between contemplation and morally virtuous activity, or (b) has a formula—maximize contemplation—which yields an unsavory picture of people squeezing as much contemplation into their lives as they can at the expense of morally virtuous activity. My view is significantly different and more charitable. Aristotle acknowledges two sorts of people: those generally interested in understanding things, and those interested in accomplishing things. The former should opt for the supremely happy life (acquiring the moral virtues and practical wisdom on the way) because contemplation makes thoughtful people happy. The latter should opt for the secondarily happy life because morally virtuous activity makes everyone else happy. And there is nothing lacking or repugnant about the supremely happy life. In particular, it needs no mechanism for balancing contemplation and morally virtuous activity. Since contemplation consists of both concentration and reflection, it need not interfere with morally virtuous activity. Thoughtful people may strive to maximize both.

56 57 58

For the trade-off and constraint views, see Keyt, “Intellectualism in Aristotle,” 368–72. Kraut, Aristotle on the Human Good, 155–96; Reeve, Practices of Reason, 154–6, 172. Charles 211–23; Lear, Happy Lives and the Highest Good, 207.

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Index Note: Aristotle is “A” where mentioned in sub-entries. Cited works of A are under “Aristotle's works” Achtenberg, D. 155 n. Ackrill, J. 390 n., 411 n. aido¯s, see shame akrasia, see incontinence Alcibiades/Achilles/Ajax 138–9 alcoholism 70 n., 81, 82, 362, 386 ale¯theia, see truthfulness altruism 270–1 Ambler, W. 375 n. andreia, see courage anger (orge¯) 42, 74, 164, 237, 300, 360, 376 A defines 145, 148 bad-tempered people and 76, 156 complete rejection of 162 n. continence and 384 degenerate forms of 143 displaced to the wrong people 157 flaring 377 temper and 43, 45, 144, 149, 156, 159, 328 habitual absence of 153 hot-tempered people and 76, 156 imitations of 346, 347 incontinence with respect to 81, 144 moderate 77, 144 nemesis is a type of 243 n. one of the main causes of lack of 151 reasoning and 151 restraint does not moderate 345 retaliation and 145, 148, 150, 152, 153, 160–3 right 346, 347 sulky people and 76, 156 Annas, J. 27 n., 137 n., 266 n., 271, 272, 273, 285 n., 298 n., 325 n., 378 n., 419 n. Anton, J. 244 n., 311 n., 349 n. appetite (epithumia) 55, 315, 324, 326, 343, 352 doing at the bidding of 205, 237 incontinence with respect to 144 natural 69, 70 pain arising from 72, 180 appropriate ambition 6, 20, 66, 135, 136, 137, 140 n., 146, 147, 212 n., 225, 359 n. desire for honor is governed by 205 falsely modest people differ from those who lack 212 n. Aquinas, St Thomas 50 n., 71 n., 105 n., 122 n., 210 n., 297, 298 n., 390 n. arete¯, see virtue Aristotle's works

De Anima 57, 68 Eudemian Ethics 1 n., 20, 31, 35, 57, 106, 122 n., 133, 136, 138, 167, 176, 202 n., 206, 232–3, 243–4, 245 n., 251 n., 253, 255, 259, 262, 266, 270, 285, 294, 302, 306, 310–11, 329, 332 n., 349, 392, 402, 404, 420 Nicomachean Ethics 1, 2, 5, 12, 19–317, 350, 351, 390 n., 391 n., 392–3, 396 n., 397 n., 404 n., 418 n. Physics 374 n. Poetics 14, 347, 374 Politics 89, 92, 200, 226, 250 n., 251, 260 n., 274 n., 286, 304, 319, 323, 327, 346, 347 n., 360, 364 n., 375, 378, 379 n., 391, 392, 393, 400, 414, 417, 420 Posterior Analytics 138 Protrepticus 394 Rhetoric 1 n., 21, 30, 31, 35, 45, 59, 90, 127, 145, 146, 148–9, 151, 152, 160–1, 164, 168–9, 173, 190–1, 200–1, 243, 244, 245, 248, 311, 325–6, 331 n., 332 n., 334 n., 338, 392 n., 423 Topics 27, 150 n., 337 Ashford, E. 213 n. Aspasius 132–3 Augustine, St 229 n. autarkeia, see self-sufficiency authenticity 214–15, 217 bad passions 190, 285, 296 n., 314, 335, 348 acquiring the ability to triumph over 344 conflict between good principles and 343 conflict between reason and 172 continent people overcome 3 false beliefs harmonize with 370 incontinent blocked by 13 Bae, E. 134 Baracchi, C. 275 n. Barnes, J. 1, 375 n., 390 n. Baron, M. 275 n. beautiful, see noble beliefs 21, 73, 75, 95, 126, 203, 205, 304, 330, 332 bad 369, 370 better 360 common 404 emotions and 348 n.

438

INDEX

beliefs (cont.) erosion of 357 explanations tie down 310 extreme versions of 387 false 312, 368, 369, 370, 372 firmly held 369 mistaken 186, 214, 374 moral 343, 374 reconciling 270, 271 right/good 14, 174, 271, 321, 327, 361, 369, 371, 372, 373, 374, 376, 383, 386 shared 269, 272 standing up for 334–5 true 293, 301, 318, 320, 365 vicious 372, 373, 374, 377, 383, 387 virtuous 383 widely held 415 wrong 14, 137, 183, 369, 372, 373, 386 belly-gods 70 Benedict XIV, Pope 115 n., 119 n. benevolence 5, 83–108, 160, 279, 280 Bennett, C. 161 n. Bennett, J. 181, 355–7, 373 Blankenship, D. 48 n. Blustein, J. 213 n. boastfulness 147, 159, 198, 199, 204–5, 212, 229–30, 233 false modesty and 195, 196–7, 202, 206, 207 bodily pleasures 55, 66, 67, 68, 72, 315, 343 intemperate 73, 328 boorishness 167, 168–71, 173–5, 178, 182, 183 n., 192–3 Bostock, D. 43, 172, 196 n., 202 n., 226 n., 253 n., 255 n., 259 n., 265 n., 297 n., 298 n., 300 n., 311 n., 390 n. Brady, M. 25 n., 29 n., 41 n., 56–7, 58, 61 Brewer, T. 264 n. Broadie, S. 38 n., 49 n., 54 n., 304 n., 311 n., 326 n., 332 n., 349 n., 390 n. Brown, L. 100 n., 112 n. Brunt, P. A. 378 n., 381 n. brutishness (the¯riote¯s) 56, 65, 67, 69–70, 73, 78, 117, 162, 174, 228, 368 n., 376, 385 A's description of the causes of 362–3 continence and 81, 82, 383, 386 contrasted with virtue 127 cowardly acts and 44, 45, 63, 69 n. fearless phobics 54 n. incontinence and 47, 48, 53, 61, 81, 82, 127, 382, 383 incurable character flaws 386 nuanced categorization of 76 personality disorders and 14, 387

problems of 384 reasoning ability 371 Burger, R. 244 n., 390 n. Burnyeat, M. 13, 319–27, 331, 337, 338, 339, 340 Bush, S. 390 n., 392 n., 411 n., 412 n. Cairns, D. 333 n. Calhoun, C. 160 n., 161 n., 213 n. Card, C. 165 n., 218 n. Carlson, G. 81 n. Carroll, N. 348 n. Casey, J. 160 n. character friendships 216, 254, 260, 262, 263, 264, 268, 269, 276, 279 A distinguishes between other sorts and 265, 266, deviant 10, 274 distant 164 subdivided 249 wholesome 10 character traits 8, 23, 28, 75 n., 109–10, 115, 136–7, 217 A's taxonomy of 3, 10, 63, 65, 82, 118, 119, 121, 131, 133, 157, 162–3, 171–2, 203, 207, 223, 225, 226, 239 acquired by positive and negative conditioning 34 broad 87 evidence of 22 generally in one's best interest to have 102 incompatible 162 indicators of 183 information and 112 marginally virtuous and marginally vicious acts and 155 mistaken for virtue because they resemble virtue 62 morally significant/morally desirable 167, 171 non-virtuous 10 packages currently lauded as integrity 196 self-destructive 119 some good enough to qualify as virtue 108 trivial, morally neutral 7 unrelated 140 unsavory 226 n. see also under various headings, e.g. benevolence; brutishness; continence; courage; good temper; incontinence; insensibility; justice; liberality; magnificence; megalopsychia; self-indulgence; temperance; wittiness characteristic goods 36–9, 42, 43, 52 n., 63, 148, 406 characteristic losses 2, 105, 108, 347

INDEX

failure to avoid 63 characteristic passions 131, 173, 202–3, 206 A fails to specify for several virtues 172 interrelated 205 megalopsychia lacks 6 Charles, D. 390 n., 392 n., 411 n., 425 n. choice (prohairesis) 24, 28, 44, 69, 117 n., 157, 180, 182, 183, 204, 215, 269, 284, 318, 332, 406–7 A's view of 33 boundary constraints of 351 career 403 contemplation and 401, 412 correct 84, 339 counterproductive and contradictory 335 disposition to fail to act upon 217 doctrine of the mean deployed as an aid to 49 judicious 208 knowing the nature of happiness will help determine 402 learners' 326, 338 meaningful 30 natural slaves cannot make 382 n. not reliably right 312 objects of 248 problem within moral dilemmas 218–19 rational 370 reasoning and 95, 107, 204 right 13, 51, 62, 63, 81, 181, 339, 349, 351, 364, 365, 366 self-indulgent man stands by 344, 368 spur-of-the-moment 391 tough 312 tragic 119 n. vicious people and 230, 383 virtuous 324, 335 wrong 81, 181, 351 civility 8, 188–94 Clark, S. R. L. 377 n., 378 n., 390 n. cleverness 158, 294, 309 A's distinction between practical wisdom and 216 Cohen, T. 185 Coker, J. 244 n., 329 n. common desires 70 common good 226 n., 260, 267, 284 aiming at 10, 88 n., 247, 252, 253, 254, 270, 274 concern for 267 n., 268 conflating common goal and 253 completeness, see end-like Conan Doyle, A. 150 n. confidence, see fear and confidence; selfconfidence contemplation (theo¯ria) 14–15, 35 n., 38, 209, 303, 332 n., 409, 411, 414, 415, 422

439

bonus goods of fortune can improve 424 character traits most conducive to 417 chosen for the sake of the whole 405–6 concentration-interpretation 398, 399–402, 418, 423, 425 contemplative life and 389, 390, 393, 394–401, 402, 407, 408, 412, 414 n. desirable solely for its own sake 407 knowledge 206 maximized 393, 425 reflection-and-concentration-interpretation 318, 396, 399, 401, 412 trade-off between morally virtuous activity and 425 continence 3, 65, 73 n., 127, 162, 181, 207, 285, 315, 316, 326, 351, 355, 358, 359 n., 376, 385, 388, 408, 419 anger and 384 brutish 81, 82, 383, 386 buffoonish 186 characteristic passions and 131, 203 conflict between flawed passions and right beliefs 172, 174 courage and 19–64, 203, 361 difference between virtue and 331 friendliness and 190 incontinence and 81–2, 331, 343–4, 348, 352, 364 inverse 181, 182, 183, 357, 373, 383, 387 liberality and 361 megalopsychia and 131 natural virtue and 344–8 right beliefs and vicious passions 373 risk and 302 n., 386 temperance and 361 Cooper, J. 149, 150 n., 249 n., 253 n., 262–4, 265, 266–7, 298, 390 n., 411 n., 419 n., 422 Cooper, N. 122 n., 126 n., 137 n., 138 n. Cordner, C. 122 n., 126 n. Corlett, A. 161 n. courage (andreia) 1–3, 14, 72, 73, 94–5, 100, 102, 103, 105, 113, 131, 132, 136, 146, 147, 148, 157, 161, 172, 175, 179, 193, 214, 216, 224, 225, 236, 242, 272, 293, 300, 302–3, 305, 324, 359 n., 362, 389, 400, 406 A narrows/limits the spheres of 66, 68 acts in accord with 297 n., 312, 314 acts that are not cases of 199–200, 229, 237 anger is quite similar to 152 n. citizen-soldiers perform acts of 333 n. continence and 19–64, 203, 361 cowardly acts and 301, 368 external goals of 93 n. fear not limited to 149 five simulacra of 239

440

INDEX

courage (andreia) (cont.) friend may value another only for 249 harms of 180 heroic 134, 140, 142, 302 n. intellectual plus moral components of 295–6 interpersonal portion of 158 knowledge about the values involved in 298 lack of 417 megalopsychoi and 128, 133, 134 natural 302 n., 358, 361, 384 pain of 329, 330 paradigm sort of 89 progress toward 360 proper 302 n. recognizing acts of 299 right rule of 9, 34, 96, 158, 238 some people born with a knack for 306 temperance and 22, 25, 37, 51, 80, 81, 84, 103 n., 134, 217, 279, 293, 296, 324, 346, 363 tragedy and 347 wars provide opportunities for 422 courage-is-continence argument 56, 57, 58, 59, 61 cowardice/cowardly acts 23, 24, 25, 31 n., 38, 41, 48, 60, 68, 102, 131, 142, 147, 149, 153, 157–8, 224, 227, 228, 229, 238, 241 n., 272, 305, 337, 359 n., 363, 369, 386 avoidance of bad consequences 301 brutish 44, 45, 63, 69 n. courage and 301, 368 desire to perform 3, 61 evidence of 237 fear in continent people pushes them toward 64 motivation for 32, 59 overwhelming shame produced by 39 physical pain and 39, 54 rashness and 44, 45, 49–50, 51, 52–3, 54, 62, 63, 75, 95, 100, 156, 244, 299, 302 n., 382 urge to avoid danger by performing 57 n. see also liberal cowards Crete 286 Crisp, R. 49 n., 124 n., 127 n., 390 n. Crittenden, P. 319 n., 346 n. Curzer, H. J. 52 n., 54 n., 79 n., 100 n., 106 n., 112 n., 114 n., 117 n., 127 n., 218 n., 237 n., 284 n., 285 n., 341 n., 381 n., 394, 401–2 nn., 418 n. Davion, V. 218 n. De Sousa, R. 185 n. death 39, 46, 62, 63, 68, 120, 180, 237 acts likely to lead to 301, 329 avoidance of 2, 28, 30, 57, 59, 80 facing 24–6, 29 n., 30, 215

fear of 22 n., 30, 40, 54, 57, 58, 61, 203 noble 27, 28, 29 pointless 28, 30 risking 34, 272 thought of 26, 38, 216 useful 31 deficiency 44, 101, 159, 173, 232, 233, 242 complementary 14, 376 disposition to overcome 48 excess and 51, 53, 66, 82, 99, 100–1, 103, 104, 108, 144, 156, 174, 202, 341 replenishment of 69–70 deliberation 34, 56 n., 311 n., 349, 350, 351, 397 beasts lack 33 correct 339 natural slaves lack 368 n., 376, 379, 383, 385 rational 13 recognizing something as a threat requires 59 democratic friendships 10, 267, 268 DeMoss, D. 350 n. Depew, D. 37 n., 319 n., 347 n. desire 57, 137, 175, 272, 277, 295, 300, 319–26, 332–8, 340, 342, 345, 348, 349, 357, 358, 360, 362, 370, 395, 401, 402, 406, 415–16 anger defined as 145, 148 appropriate 136, 242, 246, 339, 394 deficient 75, 99, 241 deliberate 318 feeling the right amount of 72 inappropriate 58, 230, 242, 324 n. indiscriminate 70 masochistic 232 non-rational 352 rational 204, 352, 376 satisfaction of 148 sensual 376 temperate 73, 136 unsatisfied 37, 65, 71, 73, 331 n. vicious 285 see also excessive desire; also under “desire(s) for” entries desire for food/drink/sex 61, 69, 71 n., 73, 74, 77, 80, 175 indiscriminate 70 temperate 136 desire for gain 226 n., 227, 230, 231, 235, 239, 242 acts clearly motivated by 237 desire for pleasure 58, 65, 75, 264 sensual 9, 84, 172 desire for wealth 5, 83, 94, 95, 96, 99, 107, 109 boasting is motivated by 205 excessive 108

INDEX

desires for (misc.) enjoyment of jokes 172 fair/just share 9, 233, 245, 246 goods of fortune 138, 230, 242, 243, 246 happy life 311 honor 40, 136, 205 loss 231, 232 money 86, 227–8, 237 n. retaliation 152 revenge 242 safety 227, 228 truth 206 unjust share 9, 233 Deslauriers, M. 376 Devereux, D. 390 n. dikaiosune¯, see justice Di Muzio, G. 371 Diomede 235, 236 dishonesty 195, 335 intellectual 382 dishonor 40, 145, 146, 165, 197 avoiding 36 risk of 8 dispositions 103, 110, 111, 118, 205, 214, 217, 304 acquired 199 benign, inborn 297 compound 22 goal-directed 203 good 300 medial 43, 45 pained 244 terribly flawed 362 virtuous passions 318–20 distributive justice 9, 11, 123, 158, 239 n., 258 n., 287 right rule for 277, 278, 279, 280 doctrine of disjoint spheres 3, 21–4, 26, 62, 66, 84, 119, 165, 197, 210, 224, 225, 229, 398 A narrows the sphere of truthfulness by invoking 196 claim that threatens 109 incompatibility with 199, 204, 206, 228 n. violation of 32, 146, 147, 188, 237 doctrine of the mean 1–2, 9, 99, 112, 139, 163, 165, 223 A's remark that clashes with 228 n. character traits do not qualify as virtues by fitting 302 counterexamples to 108, 144, 166 courage and 19, 43, 45, 46, 47–55, 56, 62, 63–4 fleshing out in a way which allows for great virtue 6

441

justice and 231, 232, 233, 234, 235, 244, 245, 246 liberality and 83, 100–4 magnificence thought to fit 109 megalopsychia and 122, 129–31 reconciling greatness with 140 splendid actions and 141, 142 temperance and 65, 77–9, 82 truthfulness and 202, 204, 206, 212 Donne, J. 164 n. Downie, R. S. 161 n. Drefcinski, S. 107 n., 116 n., 231 n., 238 n., 246 n. Duff, A. 25 n., 29 n., 30 n., 57 n. eleutheriote¯s, see liberality end-like (teleion) 405 end-like (teleion) 15, 405–6, 412–14, 418 endurance (karteria) 57–8, 180, 181, 182, 183 n., 186 Engberg-Pedersen, T. 122 n., 207 n., 229 n. Engstrom, S. 154 n. enjoyment 35, 40, 42, 63, 65, 66 n., 70 n. role in A's account of temperance 72 see also life of enjoyment Enright, R. 161 n. epithumia, see appetite envy 22, 50, 149, 161, 215, 243–4, 245, 246 eudaimonia, see happiness eutrapelia, see wittiness excellence, see virtue Exception Thesis 41, 420, 421 excess 51, 53, 66, 82, 99, 100–1, 103, 104, 108, 144, 156, 174, 202, 341 excessive desire 9, 74, 96, 108, 226, 227–8, 231, 237 n., 243 mal-distribution motivated by 241–2 prodigal people 99 sensual pleasure 75, 84 false modesty 199, 201, 205, 212, 232 boastfulness and 195, 196–7, 202, 206, 207 fear (phobos) 20, 21, 24–5, 34, 56, 360 appropriate 22, 46, 95 courageous people feel 60 death 22 n., 30, 40, 54, 57, 58, 61, 203 ingratitude and 61, 203 n. lack of 22 pain 30, 33, 54, 57, 59, 149, 203 physical harm 33, 36, 44, 45, 105, 148 punishment 149, 333, 337, 364, 369 safety and 63, 64 fear and confidence 2, 29, 30, 43–4, 49–50, 60, 63, 101 n., 193, 203, 346 appropriate 33, 36, 46, 62, 180 being habituated to feel 369

442

INDEX

fear and confidence (cont.) best character trait governing 368 n. commonly experienced about the same object 31–2 courage can only be displayed in situations calling for 94–5 different sorts of 3 joke appreciation and 172 parameters of 46, 47 right amount about the right objects on the right occasions 46 right risks for the right reasons with the right blend of 312 virtuous acts always involve 105 fearless phobics 54 fearlessness 3, 31, 32, 50, 56–8 brave man and 22, 26 brutishness and 382 excessive 75, 101 n. Feinberg, J. 176 finality, see end-like fine, see noble Finley, M. I. 378 n. Finnigan, B. 95 n. Foot, P. 48 n., 242, 243 forgiveness 127 n., 143–66 Fortenbaugh, W. 155 n., 172, 173, 174, 191, 202–3, 204, 266 n., 311 n., 349 n., 375 Foster, S. 86 n., 94 n., 228, 230–1 Frank, D. 146 n. Frankfurt, H. 213 n. friendliness ( philia) 7, 22, 140, 147, 173–4, 175, 186, 196, 197, 204, 214–15, 225, 269, 330, 359 n. and civility 8, 188–94 friendship (philia) 8, 34, 66, 149, 175, 186, 194 A's account of 40–1, 88, 190–1, 216, 239 n., 247–8, 260, 262 benefits from 170 decision-making within 249–53 deviant 10, 253–4, 262, 264, 268, 274 equal and unequal 254–6 equalizing 258–60 goals of 248–9 imperfect 247, 248, 260 inconvenient or even dangerous 209 insults to 151 justice in 11, 275–89 monarchic/aristocratic 10, 256 perfect 247, 249, 265 pleasure 10, 248, 254, 260, 262–7, 268, 273 polis is a sort of 224 n. reciprocated friendly feelings constitute 173 slights of/to 145, 147, 164 utility 254, 262–7, 268, 273, 278

victims who do not defend 153 wholesome 10, 253, 254, 256, 262, 267, 268, 270 see also character friendships Gardiner, S. 116 n., 313 n. Garrard, D. 161 n. Garrett, J. 75 n., 332 n., 369 n. Garver, E. 37 n., 334 n., 376 n., 378 n. Gauthier, R. A. 121 n., 124 n. general justice 85, 86, 147, 157–8, 165, 227, 242 A distinguishes between virtue and 241 n. characteristic desires of 230 consists of social components of other virtues 9, 359 n. doctrine of the mean and 231, 232 particular justice and 9, 224–6, 228, 229, 231, 240–1, 243, 245, 246, 276–7 right rule for 144, 239 see also distributive justice; rectificatory justice generous-mindedness 13, 318–40, 342, 348, 351, 352, 358, 359, 365 gifts/giving 5, 61, 114, 115, 117 n., 250, 283, 330 liberality and 35, 83, 87, 88–93, 94, 100, 105, 107, 111 Gilligan, C. 364, 365 Glaucus 235, 236 goals characteristic 2, 189, 193, 202 common 10, 252, 253, 277 counter 36, 37, 80, 81, 148, 149 external 29 n., 36, 37, 80, 93 n., 148, 149, 302, 329, 331 n. failure to achieve 34 further 28, 29, 30 n., 31, 35 n. internal 34, 148, 149 noble 212 striving for 32 three-way distinction among 34 ultimate 12, 309, 349 valuable 28 worthwhile 30, 31 worthy 25 good temper (praote¯s) 8, 20, 25, 36, 41, 85, 140, 189 n., 225, 229, 328, 341, 359 n. A's account of 7, 46, 76, 98, 136, 143, 161, 165, 166 anger and 43, 45, 144, 149, 156, 159, 328 forgiveness and 143–66 injustice and 7, 145, 163 insults provide opportunities for 422 liberality and 264, 279 right rule of 9, 239 n. goods of fortune 103, 351, 403, 409, 417–23 bonus 424

INDEX

contemplative life depends upon 394 happiness and virtue survive the loss of 369 n. justice and 85, 147, 157, 224, 225, 230, 231, 232, 239, 242, 246 megalopsychia and 122–5, 129, 137, 138 necessary non-means 422 Gottlieb, P. 49 n., 233 n., 297 n., 308 Gould, C. 181 n. Govier, T. 161 n. Graham, J. 213 n. gratitude 5, 36–7, 83, 93, 216, 330 desire for 242 see also ingratitude gratitude-or-revenge suggestion 241–2, 243 Gravlee, S. 30 n., 31 n. greatness 6, 129, 131, 133, 134, 137 self-knowledge and 121, 130, 132, 139, 142 greatness of soul, see megalopsychia Griswold, C. 127 n., 161 n. Haber, J. 161 n. habituation 12, 59, 102, 295, 326, 340, 346, 347, 348 n., 349, 369 central/major role in moral development 306, 364 character is changeable through 216 desire to perform virtuous acts for their own sake arises from 323, 324, 325, 327, 336 disposition to feel appropriate passions must be instilled by 61, 304 free from danger 363 good dispositions acquired through 300 guided 319, 322, 323–4 incontinence through 344 moral development proceeds by 49, 215, 327 natural virtue acquired by 307 pleasure and 320 successful 355 teaching and 304, 305, 316, 319, 321, 322, 323, 345, 351, 365 Halper, E. 116 n., 313 n. Hampton, J. 161 n. happiness (eudaimonia) 12, 13, 14–15, 93, 95, 105, 232 n., 263, 268–73, 298, 333, 379, 392, 410 availability to the non-rich 112 character traits that are conducive to 352 disposition to sacrifice 103 internal goods are basically sufficient for 129 just acts tend to produce and preserve 225 luck and 302, 388–425 mistaken conceptions of 369 people lacking the understanding of 108 self-sufficiency and 140 sensual pleasure and 409 some vicious acts enhance 301

443

wealth and 103, 110, 111, 116 see also inclusivists; intellectualists Hardie, W. F. R. 51 n., 124 n., 126 n., 127–8, 130, 133–4, 135, 140, 234, 235 n., 241 n., 307 n., 326 n., 390 n. Hare, J. 93–4, 95, 96, 97, 104, 115 n. Harlfinger, D. 122 n. harm, see physical harm Harm Principle 176 Harris, W. 149 n., 160 n. Haylbut, G. 133 n. Heath, M. 376 n., 378 n. Hector 127 he¯done¯, see pleasure Hegeman, E. 162 n. Heidegger, M. 151 n. Heil, J. 20 n., 56 n., 57–8, 61, 181 n. Heinaman, R. 390 n., 404 n., 406–7 nn. heroic virtue 6, 12, 47, 115, 127–8, 129, 135, 140, 312, 352 n., 361 defined 142 magnificence and 109–20 megalopsychia is an account of 359 n. Hieronymi, P. 161 n. Himmler, H. 181, 355–7, 373 Hoagland, S. 218 n. hoarding 86 n., 89–90, 96, 108, 228, 313 abilities to resist the temptations 94 n. Homer 28, 69, 94, 121, 128, 137, 138, 139, 323, 397 greatness notion 6, 142 Iliad 128, 325 n. Homiak, M. 67 n. honesty 195–8, 202, 204, 207, 208, 217, 313, 359 across-the-board 8, 199, 200, 201, 210, 219 not always the best policy 41 unfailing 206 see also dishonesty honor 7, 9, 36, 56, 77, 79, 85, 86, 88, 90, 144, 164, 180, 197, 224, 259, 278, 333, 342, 369, 389, 391, 403, 405 actions motivated by gain of 227 defending in inflexible or extravagant ways 157 desire for 40, 205 friends sacrifice for each other 268 generalized inability to defend 160 n. good reputation is a sort of 404 many choose lives aimed at 13 particular justice and 228, 238 rectificatory justice applied to 165, 239 n. restoring to the victim 148 retaliation and 158–9 see also appropriate ambition; dishonor; megalopsychia

444

INDEX

Howe, Q. 56 n. Howland, J. 127 n. Hume, D. 311 Hunt, L. 88 n., 103 n. Hursthouse, R. 49 n., 53–4, 55, 79, 103 n., 105 n., 324 n. identity 214, 215, 218, 265 secret 211 n. illiberality 6, 66 n., 228, 231, 360 inclusivists 14, 15, 390, 393, 394, 395–6, 398, 401, 403, 405–6, 408–9, 410, 418, 422, 424, 425 peculiarity criterion 411, 412, 413 problems for 392, 402, 404, 415, 423 incontinence (akrasia) 12, 13, 33, 34, 46, 63, 113 n., 154, 162, 207, 214, 217, 239, 316, 324–5, 327, 331, 345, 351, 355, 367, 369, 370, 385, 388, 408, 419 anger and 81, 144 brutishness and 47, 48, 53, 61, 81, 82, 127, 382, 383 characteristic passions 131, 203 conflict between flawed passions and right beliefs 172, 174 contrasted with virtue 127 correlate 205 cowardly acts and 23 friendliness and 190 inverse 181, 182, 183, 186, 357, 373, 383, 387 Kantian version of 359 liberality and 358, 386 megalopsychia and 131 moves/advances to continence 331, 332, 335, 339, 342, 343–4, 348, 352 pretense at 335–6 reasoning ability 371 risk and 102, 302 n. same passions and same actions as the vicious 368 self-indulgence and 315, 359 n. sensual pleasure and 84, 85, 365, 384 subject to remorse 344 temperance and 65–82 vicious passions and right beliefs 372 voluntary action and 161 n. induction 319, 350, 351 ingratitude 3, 36–7, 180, 330 fear of 61, 203 n. liberal givers risk 105 inirascibility 144, 152, 156, 158, 161 n., 127 n. A describes 151, 154, 162, 163 slights and 150 undersensitive people 147 injuries 46, 57, 62, 63, 132

A's later inclusion in the sphere of courage 25 desire to avoid 59 escaping 2 external 382 n. fair compensation for 275 fear of 30, 33, 54, 106 n., 203 inevitable 30 insults and 9, 43, 160, 300 objects of 26 overwhelming shame that is worse than 39 painful to the brave man 38, 216 risk of 34, 272 striving to avoid 29 wrongful 162, 164 injustice 86 n., 143, 144, 150, 152, 159, 162, 163, 164, 196, 234 n. A distinguishes illiberality from 228 anger prods victims to avenge 152 apparent 145 appropriate response to 145 characteristic desires of 230 distinguishing illiberality from 228 general 224, 230, 231, 240, 246 impersonal 145, 146 positive content of 233 retaliation for 7, 157 tendency to feel excessive fear restrains from acts of 360 see also particular injustice insensibility 56, 65, 70 n., 71, 73, 78, 79 A combines hardness and 75 insults 151, 155, 164, 422 injuries and 9, 43, 160, 300 see also slights integrity 8, 335 truthfulness and 195–219 intellectualists 14, 15, 48, 390, 393–6, 398, 399, 401, 405, 406, 409–12, 418, 422, 424, 425 problems for 392, 402, 413, 415, 423 intemperance 4, 65, 66 n., 67, 71, 77, 79, 80, 84, 85, 97, 141, 147, 172, 183, 185, 186, 205, 229, 238, 331, 382, 386 A restricts to particular, acquired desires 70 abstaining from 72, 73 continent people tempted to perform 61 denial of 82 evidence for 237 nuanced categorization of 76 pains for 74, 184 presumable 97, 328 separating from brutishness 69 tendency to feel excessive fear restrains from 360 see self-indulgence

INDEX

intuition 103, 108, 224, 305, 319, 350, 351, 413 character captures 216 common-sense 9, 86, 223 irascibility 127 n., 151, 152, 154, 155, 156, 158, 161 n., 162, 163, 238, 341, 362 evidence of 237 excess might be a sort of 144 excessive fear restrains 360 mal-distribution is motivated by 241–2 slights and 150 see also inirascibility Irwin, T. 28 n., 101, 110, 111 n., 112, 116 n., 122 n., 135, 226 n., 265 n., 285 n., 297, 298, 357, 390 n., 409, 420 Jaeger, W. 128 n. Jaffa, H. V. 125 n., 126 n., 141 n. Jiang, X. 61 Joachim, H. H. 122 n., 126 n., 234 n., 259 n., 311 n., 390 n., 412 n. jokes 7–8, 36, 147, 167–87, 189, 190, 192–3, 278, 330, 345, 359 Jolif, J.Y. 124 n. judgment 137, 151, 204, 319, 322, 332 actions tend to sharpen 153 flawed 154 group 361 holding fast to 213 internalized 320, 338 natural slaves lack 376 necessarily perverted 360 passions shape 152 perception involves a fair amount of 150 justice (dikaiosune¯) A's principle of reciprocity in 89 friendship and 8–11, 275–89 liberality and 66, 84, 85–6, 225, 227, 228, 280 right rule for 34, 144 vices for 49 see also distributive justice; general justice; particular justice; poetic justice; rectificatory justice kalon, see noble Kant, I. 4, 83, 146 n., 155, 167, 287, 359, 382 n. karteria, see endurance Kelsen, H. 49 n. Kenny, A. 390 n. Keyt, D. 242 n., 319 n., 378 n., 389 n., 390 n., 402 n., 425 n. Kierkegaard, S. 151 n. Knox, B. 373–4 Kohlberg, L. 364, 365 Kolnai, A. 161 n. Konkoly, D. 71 n.

445

Konstan, D. 146 n., 263 n. Kosman, L. A. 345 Kraut, R. 28 n., 49 n., 116 n., 124 n., 264 n., 270–1, 272, 273, 332 n., 378 n., 390 n., 393 n., 402 n., 411 n., 417 n., 422 n., 425 n. Kristjańsson, K. 244 n., 340 n., 342 n. Lacedaimon 286 Lännstro¨m, A. 27 n. Lawrence, G. 390 n., 414 n. Lear, G. 25 n., 28, 35 n., 36 n., 57 n., 91 n., 332 n., 390 n., 392 n., 393 n., 408 n., 414 n., 425 n. Leighton, S. 26 n., 56 n., 58–9, 61, 100 n., 112 n., 155 n., 162 n., 338 n. liberal cowards 12, 22, 313, 358 liberality (eleutheriote¯s) 8, 20, 98, 128, 136, 146, 149, 203 n., 229, 237, 276, 358, 359 n., 385, 414 A's moderately extreme account of 119 benevolence and 83–108, 160, 279, 280 continence and 361 courage-is-continence problem resurfaces in 61 duties 288, 289 essence of 287 flatterers are lacking in 206 n. good temper and 264, 279 harms of 180 heroic 109, 115–16, 117, 119, 140 honesty about money is part of 210 idealization and 106–7 incontinence and 358, 386 justice and 66, 84, 85–6, 225, 227, 228, 280 magnificence and 4–6, 100, 109–12, 115–19, 135, 140 n., 147, 224, 234 monetary matters governed by 22, 25, 205, 214 motive doctrine and 104–6 natural 361 parameters A mentions with respect to 45 performed tragedy improves 347 progress toward 360 undermining 313 lies/lying 195, 197, 198, 200–1, 207, 211, 219 white lies 200, 211 life of enjoyment 389, 391, 392, 393, 403, 405 peculiarity criterion rules out 410 Lim, C. 398 n. Lloyd, G. E. R. 380 n. Lockwood, T. 378 n. Lord, C. 228 n., 319 n., 347 n. losers 14, 367–87 Losin, P. 54 n., 141 luck 351, 373 happiness and 302, 388–425

446

INDEX

luck (cont.) moral 335 n., 419 n. see goods of fortune lupe¯, see pain Lysander 138, 139 McDowell, J. 56 n., 154 n., 155 n., 284, 319 n., 334 n. McFall, L. 213 n. MacIntyre, A. 126 n., 243 n., 326 n. MacNaughton, E. 161 n. Magna Moralia 1 n., 92 magnificence (megaloprepeia) 27, 83, 90, 101, 103 heroic virtue and 109–20 liberality and 4–6, 100, 109–12, 115–19, 135, 140 n., 147, 224, 234 Marginally Optimistic Thesis 41–2, 421, 422 Matthew (Bible) 392, 397 mean, see doctrine of the mean megaloprepeia, see magnificence megalopsychia 2 n., 6, 20, 27–8, 35 n., 66, 83, 92, 121–42, 146, 147, 161 n., 183, 200–1, 214, 225 n., 232, 328 falsely modest people differ from those who lack 212 n. Mier, Abbot de 115 n. Mill, J. S. 167, 382 n. Miller, F. 260 n., 270 n., 285, 286, 319 n., 378 n. Mills, M. 244 n. moderation, see temperance Moline, J. 390 n. moral development 11–15, 33, 153, 200, 215, 291–425 typically uneven 23, 359, 384–386 moral virtue 1–219, 294, 296, 298, 300, 301, 311, 350, 351, 388, 389 n., 392, 393, 394, 400–1, 406, 407, 408, 414, 417, 424, 425 knowledge of the happy life is acquired by 349 practical wisdom requires and is required by 295, 307 responsibility for 362–3 value of 310 Moraux, P. 122 n. Moravcsik, J. 390 n. Moreall, J. 185 n. motivation 8, 9, 13, 24, 55, 58, 61, 95, 106, 107, 147–9, 152, 209, 212, 227, 229 n., 231, 320–1, 338, 340, 368 courage 33–42 cowardly actions 32 desire for gain 231, 235, 237 disinterested unjust actions 240 fear provides 59

habituation 336 mal-distribution 241–2, 243 pain of external punishment 339 passion 172–3, 174, 191, 203, 205, 206, 308, 345, 351, 355 poetic justice and particular justice 245 rash actions 32 reinforcement 364, 372 right 299 selfish 269, 271, 273 unselfish 252 n., 269, 271, 273 motivation doctrine 63, 203 Murphy, J. 161 n. Nathan, D. 347 n. natural slaves choices 382 n. deliberation lacking in 14, 368 n., 376, 379, 383, 385 incurable character flaws 386 personality disorders 379 reasoning 377, 383, 384 natural virtue 12, 23, 104, 106, 110, 133, 134, 293, 294, 295, 300–1, 305–7, 308, 312, 316, 317, 342, 384 children and animals possess 297 continence to 344–8 move to proper virtue from 310, 348–51 non-reciprocity of 357–60, 362, 385, 386 people with right habits have 13 Nehamas, A. 263 n. nemesis, see poetic justice Neoptolemus 181, 343, 357, 373 n. Nietzsche, F. 151 n., 215 Nisters, T. 21 n. noble (kalon) 26, 118 n, 248 Non-Reciprocity of Natural Virtue 357–60, 362, 385, 386 North, H. 77 North, J. 161 n. Novitz, D. 162 n. Nussbaum, Martha 68–9, 390 n., 419 n. O'Connor, D. 228 n., 236 n., 242 n., 252 n. Odysseus 181 Offence Principle 176 oligarchic friendships 10, 267, 268 O'Meara, D. 27 n., 390 n. orge¯, see anger Owens, J. 27 n. pain (lupe¯) 13, 21, 24, 36 A does not criticize self-indulgent people for feeling 72 anger defined as desire accompanied by 145, 148 expectation of 34

INDEX

fear may be defined as 149 moral progress through 336–9 role in A's account of temperance 72 sensual 37, 204 see also physical pain; proper pain Pakaluk, M. 26 n., 114 n., 116 n., 134, 265 n., 271 n. Panglossian Thesis 37–9, 41, 419 parameters 45, 47, 52, 53, 62, 72–4, 78, 248 44, 54, 71, 77, 75, 79, 99, 102, 103, 156, 157–60 duration 46, 156, 162 enjoyment 77 independent 98, 147, 165, 247 object 71, 98, 156, 163–5 occasion 54, 71, 77, 107 passion 43, 48, 97, 175 people 156, 157, 160–3 particular injustice 9, 225, 226, 227, 229, 230, 231, 233, 236 n., 239, 240 evidence for 237–8 mal-distribution motivated by 241–2 particular justice 147, 157, 225, 226–30, 231, 232, 233, 234, 235, 241, 246, 359 n. A distinguishes from general justice 9, 224, 245, 276–7 disinterested just actions and 240 particularly just actions and 236–9 separating liberality from 85, 86 passions 5, 20–4, 29, 34, 37, 42, 43, 48 ability to resist 343 actions tend to sharpen 153 admirable 25 appropriate 14, 304, 314, 394 continence and 61 courageous 26 flawed 46, 154 habituated 300 inappropriate 315 parameters of 43, 48, 71–7, 97 qualitatively different 31, 32 right 13, 46, 47 wrong 46, 47, 50 see also bad passions; characteristic passions; vicious passions; virtuous passions Payne, A. 264 n. Pears, D. 29 n., 34, 36, 60 n., 80, 81, 148 Pearson, G. 50–1, 54, 233 n., 239 n. peculiarity criterion 410–12, 413, 418, 424 perception 21, 136, 143, 150, 152, 162, 165, 203, 205, 303, 350, 351, 360, 361, 362 A emphasizes the role of 151 actions tend to sharpen 153 fear plays an important role in 59 flawed 154 practical wisdom gains its premises from 95

447

precision and 154–5 Persians 124 personality disorders 384 cognitive disorders and 387 incurable 14 natural slaves are predominately people with 379 Pettigrove, G. 161 n. philia, see friendship phobias 44, 45, 63, 383, 384 phobos, see fear phrone¯sis, see practical wisdom physical harm 27, 48, 102 attempt to save oneself from 28 avoiding 29, 36 choosing to endure 29 cowardly people strive to avoid 60 disposition appropriate for dealing with 22–3 harm fear of 33, 36, 44, 45, 105, 148 overcoming a desire to avoid 56 possibility of 57 n. risk of 26, 34, 36, 55, 63, 96, 224 seriousness and likelihood of 30 physical pain 25, 26, 37, 46, 62, 63, 180 A's later inclusion in the sphere of courage 25 action risking 34 cowardly acts and 39, 54 escaping 2 fear of 30, 33, 54, 57, 59, 203 inevitable 30 striving to avoid 29 Plato 38, 217 n., 296, 301, 347, 401 n. Laches 8, 21 Meno 293, 310 Philebus 405 Protagoras 293, 315, 371 Republic 89, 200, 216, 337, 405 Statesman 192 n. pleasure (he¯done¯) 10, 13, 24 expectation of 34 forbidden 238 moral progress through 319–21 noble 42, 212 presumably intemperate 97 proper 2, 3, 36–9, 42, 105, 148, 149, 180–2, 185, 186, 204, 212 proper 321, 326, 340 sexual 67 n., 82, 229 tactile 65, 68, 74, 77, 78, 80, 82 see also bodily pleasures; desire for pleasure; sensual pleasure poetic justice (nemesis) 6, 9, 85, 147, 223, 224, 243–4, 329 separating liberality from 85–6 Polansky, R. 49 n., 123 n. political life 389, 391 pornography 67 n., 347

448

INDEX

practical reasoning 59, 157, 203, 375, 389, 394, 412, 424 A's view of Asians' lack of 376–7 n. core of 397 enslaved natural slaves have some ability 384 knowledge of the happy life predominately provided by 349–50 theoretical and 395, 396, 397, 398 practical wisdom ( phrone¯sis) 11, 39, 46, 95, 107, 110, 160, 216, 230 n., 232–3, 280, 283, 285, 357, 384, 389, 393, 400, 406, 408, 414, 425 A defines each virtue independent of 132 duty and 284 each among many has share of virtue and 360, 362 ethical virtues inseparable from each other and from 133 function of man achieved only in accordance with 349, 392 happiness includes the exercise of 415 non-musical parts of tragedy enhance 347 n. not possible to be good in the strict sense without 132 reciprocity of virtue and 12, 293–317 self-knowledge a significant component of 140 temperance preserves 75 praote¯s, see good temper Preus, A. 244 n., 311 n., 349 n. Priam 124, 419, 420 Price, A. W. 266 n. pride, see megalopsychia prodigality 83, 96, 99, 102, 103, 104 n., 108, 117, 360 distinction between liberal and 234 liberal acts bordering on 107 magnificent people border on 119 meanness and 75, 88, 93, 95, 100–1, 120, 234 n. profligacy and 228 self-indulgence and 22 n., 84, 85 n., 228, 229 prohairesis, see choice proper pleasure/pain 37, 38, 39, 42, 105, 108, 182, 183, 185, 186, 212 characteristic loss produces 2 desire to avoid 204 different sorts of 3 to each virtue there corresponds 180 proper virtue 23 n., 104, 110, 133–4, 135, 140, 293, 308, 310, 312, 331, 342, 345, 348–51, 355 learner must make the transition from natural to 358 magnificence is not required for 116 natural virtue is inferior to 306

practical wisdom and 12, 295, 296, 298, 300, 301, 305, 307, 314, 315, 316, 357, 384 transforming to heroic virtue 352 n. see also Reciprocity of Proper Virtue Thesis prudence, see practical wisdom punishment 22, 70, 85, 114, 160, 277 n., 370, 371 acceptance of 165 bad-tempered people not appeased until they inflict 76, 156 courageous acts performed to avoid 333 n. deserved 164 external 338, 339, 340, 352 fear of 149, 333, 337, 364, 369 habituation motivated by 336 internalizing 13, 337, 339, 340 justly/fairly distributed 224, 240, 330 negative reinforcement of 372 rectification has nothing to do with 158 n. severe 373 threat of 336, 337, 342, 352, 366, 369, 373, 376, 386 unjustly/unfairly distributed 224, 240, 241 Purinton, J. 390 n. Putnam, R. 398 n. Pythagorean Theorem 397 Ramsay, H. 297 Rapaport, E. 382 n. Rawls, J. 299 n. reasoning 21, 33, 145, 150–1, 152, 153, 250, 376, 410, 411 ability of the vicious and the incontinent 371 anger and 151 bad 373 choice involves 95, 107, 204 desiderative 204 improvement of 341 means-ends 309, 395 moral 364, 365 moral virtue does not engage on its own 349 natural slaves and 377, 383, 384 part-whole 309 severely impaired ability 382 n. theoretical 395, 397, 398 uneven distribution of ability 385 see also deliberation; practical reasoning Reciprocity of Proper Virtue Thesis 11, 110, 112, 133–4, 135, 140, 294, 295, 296–7, 300, 301, 316, 317, 357, 358, 359, 361, 384, 385, 386 rectificatory justice 9, 11, 158, 159, 287 applied to honor 165, 239 n. right rule for 277

INDEX

Rees, D. A. 122 n. Reeve, C. D. C. 113 n., 155 n., 296 n., 311 n., 319 n., 321 n., 324 n., 346 n., 350 n., 389 n., 425 n. regret 80, 82, 84, 183, 217, 332 n., 344 n., 368, 370 A says bad men experience 371 adultery from lust without 205 inner conflict leads to 373 internal negative reinforcement of 372 reinforcement negative 337, 364, 372, 376 positive 320, 327, 340, 364 remorse 12, 13, 332, 337, 339 n., 344, 345, 348, 352, 364 repentance 160 n., 165, 230 reputation 7, 26, 138, 158, 198–9, 205, 208, 211 accurate 8, 207, 212 bad 320 constant obsessing over 423 false statements in situations unrelated to 210 good 393, 404 values and goals may affect 197 wrongs may earn 158 retaliation 147, 160–2, 360, 412 appropriate 9, 85, 145 complete rejection of 162 n. conspicuous 145, 149 counter 41 desire for 152 habitual absence of 153 honor and 158–9 importance of 7 injustice and 7, 157 minor 41 moderate 163, 166 successful 148, 150, 159 victims reclaim honor through 158, 159 revenge 76, 151, 156, 159, 217 anger undischarged by 153 excessive share of 223, 241–2 false beliefs about 312 justifiable 328 n. see also gratitude-or-revenge suggestion; vengeance Richards, N. 161 n. Richardson, H. 393 n. righteous indignation, see poetic justice right rule (orthos logos) 34, 74, 96, 144, 238, 277, 297 Roberts, R. 185 n. Roche, T. 391 n., 406–7 nn. Rogers, K. 28, 29 n., 36 n., 39 n., 420 n.

449

Roochnik, D. 396 n. Rorty, A. O. 29 n., 44 n., 236 n., 249 n., 297 n., 311 n., 319 n., 325 n., 345 n., 374 n., 390 n., 397 n. Ross, W. D. 25 n., 32 n., 49 n., 78 n., 94 n., 118 n., 126 n., 167 n., 172 n., 269 n., 370 n., 404 n. Rowe, C. J. 122 Sabini, J. 143 n. safety 85, 86, 147, 157–8, 224, 239 n., 338 brave man has given up hope for 26, 29 death is preferable to 39 desire for appropriate amounts of 9 excessive desire for 227, 228 fear can push people to guard 63, 64 sacrifice for sensual pleasure 299, 313–14 unfair share of 241 n. Sarch, A. 122 n., 127 n., 134 n. Scale Thesis 5–6, 110–12, 118 n. Schlaifer, R. 378 n. Schmidt, E. A. 122 n., 124 n. Schofield, M. 375 n., 378 n., 379 n., 390 n. Schütrumph, E. 380 n. Scott, D. 391 n., 411 n. Scythians 397 self-confidence 53, 134 self-indulgence 66, 67, 72–4. 75, 76, 78, 79, 180, 184, 205, 328, 343–4, 363, 367, 368 A combines softness and 75 alcoholism taken to be 81 n. evidence of 237 incontinence and 315, 359 n. paradigm cases of 68 prodigality and 22 n., 84, 85 n., 228, 229 unsatisfied desire 71 see intemperance self-knowledge 6, 123, 127 n., 129, 131, 133, 134, 137, 217 greatness and 121, 130, 132, 139, 142 practical wisdom and 140 self-love 270–1, 374 n. A's endorsement of 268 self-sufficiency (autarkeia) 6, 121, 125, 129, 131–4, 137, 138, 139, 408–10, 413, 417, 418, 422, 423 happiness and 140 sensual pleasure 20, 21, 131, 147, 180, 237, 311, 389 animals enjoy 410, 412 desires for 9, 84, 172 disposition appropriate for dealing with 23 happiness includes enough 409

450

INDEX

sensual pleasure (cont.) honesty about 8, 210 illicit 229, 299 incontinence with respect to 84, 85, 365, 384 life of enjoyment and 13, 392, 393, 405 overvaluing 67 n. pleasure friendships aim at 248 pursuing too much/too little 417 sacrifice of safety for 299, 313–14 temperance and 4, 8, 25, 26, 36, 37, 98, 173, 204, 210, 236, 237, 330, 331 understanding how people relate to 65 sex 4, 20, 67, 79, 82, 98, 193, 229, 260 animal activity 410 n. declining 80, 88 disgusting or unwelcome 73 enjoying 88, 173 extra-marital 215 inappropriate indulgence in 65 liaisons 248 paradigm cases of self-indulgence involve 68 purchasing 84 temperance governs 23 unhealthy and ignoble 183 see also desire for food/drink/sex sexual problems 44, 383 shame (aido¯s) 12, 35, 38, 40, 41, 82, 92, 147–9, 181–3, 185, 186, 225, 243 n., 332, 337, 341–66, 369–70 believing that one has acted wrongly produces 179 insolence causes 146 overwhelming 39 shamelessness 22, 50, 161, 215 Shapiro, H. 49 n. Sherman, D. 230 n., 239 n. Sherman, N. 124 n., 126 n., 155 n., 269, 270 n., 272, 273, 323 n., 327 n., 332 n., 368 n., 374 n. Silver, M. 143 n. Simpson, P. 375 n. slavery, see natural slaves slights 150, 151, 160, 164, 218, 336 A endorses retaliation for 7, 152 churlish 147 conspicuous 145, 149 contemptuous 146 minor 300 morally repugnant 215 unavengeable 157 Smart, J. J. C. 213 n. Smith, A. D. 297 n., 311 n. Smith, N. 165 n., 378 n., 380 Socrates 8, 21, 29, 31, 48, 56, 138, 139, 293, 295, 297 n., 310, 315, 339, 371 Sophocles 373, 374

sophrosyne, see temperance Sorabji, R. 297, 298 n., 309 n., 350 n., 375 n., 390 n. Sparshott, F. 26 n. Spartans 29, 61, 124, 397 sphere (peri ho) 20, 65, 122, 224, 294 Stewart, J. A. 124 n. Stocker, M. 31 n., 32, 162 n. Stoics 163, 166, 286, 359 Stover, J. 123 n. summation argument 360–2 supererogation 6, 88, 164 n., 115, 288 see heroic virtue Swanson, J. 228 n., 376 n. taste 5, 36, 66–8, 118, 173, 176, 231, 326, 361, 415 acquired 61–2 illness can distort 328 intemperate 186 shared 248, 264, 269 temperate 184 virtuous 320, 330 Taylor, C. C. W. 98, 107 n., 124 n. Taylor, G. 213 n. teleion, see end-like Telfer, E. 295 n., 297 temperance (sophrosyne) 3–4, 14, 20, 24, 41, 43, 55, 61, 88, 89 n., 91, 103, 106, 112, 126, 128 n., 130, 136, 140, 141, 147, 172, 175, 180, 184, 185, 186, 193, 225, 239, 242, 249, 299, 303, 314, 318, 327, 328–9, 343, 359 n., 385, 389 n., 394, 400, 406 continence and 203, 361 courage and 22, 25, 37, 51, 80, 81, 84, 103 n., 134, 217, 279, 293, and 296, 324, 346, 363 incontinence and 65–82 lack of 113, 217, 312–13, 417 natural 361 parameters 45, 74, 76, 78 practical wisdom preserved by 75 proper 23, 135 right rule for 34, 96, 238 self-knowledge and 132 sensual pleasure 4, 8, 25, 26, 36, 37, 98, 173, 204, 210, 236, 237, 330, 331 shedding some new light on A's account of 168 some people born with a knack for 306 see also intemperance; self-indulgence theo¯ria, see contemplation the¯riote¯s, see brutishness Thermopylae 29, 61, 124 Thorp, J. 384 n. touch 26, 66–8, 72

INDEX

tragic heroes 14, 347, 373–4, 376, 387 truthfulness (ale¯theia) 8, 20, 26, 66, 136, 140, 224, 225, 330, 359 n. draconian limits upon the scope of 7 good temper and 147 integrity and 195–219 Tuozzo, T. 311 n. tyrannical friendships 10, 267, 268 unevenly virtuous 12, 210, 217, 312–14, 316 Uplifting Thesis 39–41, 420 Urmson, J. O. 32 n., 44, 51 n., 54 n., 55 n., 139 n., 233–4, 235 n., 241 n., 243 n. Van Cleemput, G. 390 n. Vasiliou, I. 154 n., 322 n. vengeance see revenge vice 33, 45, 78, 127, 137, 162, 201, 228, 237 n., 245 associated with good temper 101, 144, 156, 202 brutishness and 81, 82, 385 excessive action is evidence of 234 poverty and disease often result from 22 n. virtues bracketed by 9, 49 n., 101, 108, 111, 130, 163, 168, 196–7, 202, 204, 232, 235, 246 vicious passions 14, 47, 153, 305, 339, 345, 374 continent have right beliefs and 373 entrenched habits of vicious action arising from 372 very 377, 383, 387 virtue (arete¯) A's painful path to 318–40 compound disposition 22 habituated 295, 300, 307, 321 n., 349 practical wisdom and reciprocity of 12, 293–317 vice, incontinence and brutishness contrasted with 127 see also heroic virtue; moral virtue; natural virtue; proper virtue virtue ethics 1, 2, 19–20, 45, 48, 217, 223 A's analog to supererogation 6, 115 many criticisms remain unrefuted 4 moral development and 341, 342 resurgence of 65 Stoic/Christian theory of 166 virtuous passions 33, 51, 117, 153, 303, 305, 319, 372 acquiring habits of 13, 317, 331, 345, 346, 348

451

continence and 13 dispositions of 318–20 groomed by habituation and teaching 61 habitual 342, 343, 345, 348, 352, 355–7, 389 practical wisdom and 304 triumph over wrong beliefs 373 Walker, A. 266 n. Walker, M. 391 n., 394 n. Wallace, J. 88, 95 n. Walsh, J. 49 n. wealth 20, 85, 89, 105, 120, 259 A uses “gain” to refer narrowly to 227 n. burning desire for appropriate share of 226 extra 423 friends sacrifice for each other 268 giving and taking of 84, 88, 101, 103 great 5, 104, 109, 110–11, 116, 123, 124 happiness and 103, 110, 111, 116 hoarding 86 n., 89–90, 228 incontinence about 84 liberality covers all levels of 136 life aimed at 13, 389, 391, 392, 404 moderate 109, 110, 111 overvalued/undervalued 101 respectability to the earning of 92 right attitude toward 87 transfer of 90 valued 103–4, 108 see also desire for wealth; liberality; magnificence Welton, W. 49 n. White, N. 390 n., 411 n. White, S. 297, 298 n., 307 n., 308 n., 391 n. Whiting, J. 154 n., 264 n., 391 n., 406 n., 408 n., 410 n. Wiesenthal, S. 163, 164 Wiggins, D. 350 n. Williams, B. 49 n., 213 n., 236 n., 242 n., 245 n., 333 n., 378 n. Wilson, J. 161 n. wit (eutrapelia) 88, 189, 190, 192, 193, 345 and wounding 7–8, 167–87 Wolff, R. P. 4 Young, C. 48 n., 56 n., 61, 71 n., 78 n., 91, 93 n., 101, 104, 110, 111, 118 n., 228, 229, 235 n., 241 n., 242 Zembaty, J. 201

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