Throughout the history of western philosophical investigation, various thinkers have taken it upon themselves not only to discern what our moral obligations are but also, to explain how those obligations have the “binding force” with which they are typically associated. Simply, they have wondered not only what it means to be good but also, why is it that we ought to be good at all. In the last century especially, discussions in regard to the latter horn of this inquiry have become increasingly prominent in the philosophical literature. As many have pointed out, it is one thing to claim that something is good and something entirely different to claim that we therefore ought to pursue or promote it. It will be the aim of this course to explore what many contemporary philosophers have taken to be plausible answers to this seminal question and also, to explore the nature of the question itself.
Over the course of the semester, students will be encouraged to think analytically and reason deductively in order to facilitate their production of clear, sophisticated pieces of academic writing. In depth textual analysis, structured exercises in composition, and engaged class discussions (regarding both the course’s subject matter as well as strategies for effective argumentation and analytical composition) will be the primary means of achieving this aim.
Students will complete this course with a well-developed understanding of contemporary issues in ethical theory, the ability to formulate and sustain interesting, effective, and deductively sound arguments in writing, and an analytical skill set that will likely serve them well in their future academic and/or professional endeavors.
Essay 1: Close Reading

Assignment: In a 5-6 page essay, you will conduct a close reading of the first section of Christine Korsgaard’s book, The Sources of Normativity, in which the author discusses the history of what she refers to as “the normative question” – or, more simply, the question of how moral reasons can give rise to unconditional obligations.

Pre-Draft Assignments: (1.1) Response to A Key Term, or Sentence; (1.2) Post a thesis statement and comment on other students’ theses on LATTE.

Writing Lessons: thesis, analysis, claim, introduction, conclusion, sustained argument, revision.

Essay 2: Lens Analysis

Assignment: For Essay 2, you will read and engage in a substantive analysis of G.E. Moore’s “The Subject Matter of Ethics.” In 6-7 pages, you will use Moore’s ‘Open Question Argument’ as a lens to comment on one of the traditional ethical theories (Kantianism, Utilitarianism, or Virtue Ethics) discussed in class.

Pre-Draft Assignments: (2.1) Locating an obvious match, a non-obvious match, and a contradiction between lens and focal text; (2.2) Mini-Lens Reading (does Moore’s view seem to cohere with your “day-to-day experience” of ethical interaction? Do any of the traditional ethical theories that we have discussed seem more reflective of your basic ethical intuitions?); (2.3) Draft Introductory Paragraph

Writing Lessons: Same as above, plus rhetorical language, point-counter-point argumentation, source documentation.

Essay 3: Research Paper

Assignment: For the final essay, you will research and contextualize A.J. Ayer’s “A Critique of Ethics,” using some pre-selected texts that represent contemporary manifestations/enhancements of Ayer’s basic position as well as some contemporary articles that attempt to demonstrate flaws in Ayer’s anti-realist approach (you will also be taught, and encouraged, to use the Brandeis Scholar electronic library database in order to find additional related sources to use in your essay). In constructing this essay, you will be afforded the opportunity to discuss, in detail, particular overarching themes that may have interested you over the course of the semester. The length of your final essay will be approx. 10-12 pages.

Pre-Draft Assignments: (3.1) Research Proposal; (3.2) Annotated Bibliography

Writing Lessons: Same as above, plus motive, asking a research question, doing independent research, analytic and deductively sound argumentation, source documentation, rhetorical style, appropriate utilization of library resources.

Over the course of her third lecture in The Sources of Normativity, Christine Korsgaard argues that insofar as we value anything, we must value humanity as an end in itself. Concomitantly, if we acknowledge the existence of practical reasons, we must affirm that humanity is a necessary and objective end. Interestingly, however, Korsgaard concedes that it is possible for us to experience “intractable conflicts” between obligations that we have in virtue of our humanity and obligations that we have acquired as a result of our adoption of particular practical identities. Given her posit that humanity is a necessary condition for the adoption of any practical identity, it seems counter-intuitive that she would, in the same lecture, claim that conflicts between obligations associated with our practical identities and obligations associated with our humanity are not immediately decidable. In this paper, I argue that Korsgaard’s claims about the supposed intractability of such conflicts are not only inconsistent with traditional interpretations of particularly relevant aspects of Kant’s practical philosophy, but also, and more significantly, that they are equally inconsistent with the more prominent features of her own argument.
In the section that follows, I provide a rough sketch of Korsgaard’s argument for valuing humanity as an end in itself in order to (1) clarify why it is, according to Korsgaard, that we ought to value humanity as an end in itself and (2) to explicate and define what she takes to be the relationship between our practical identities and our basic humanity. In section II, I discuss and ultimately argue against Korsgaard’s claims regarding the potential intractability of conflicts between our obligations qua beings with humanity in our persons and obligations that we acquire as a result of adopting particular practical identities – specifically, those commonly associated with personal relationships.
I.
It is in virtue of our humanity that we are able to adopt what Korsgaard calls practical identities. The practical identities that we adopt express our most basic conception of ourselves, a conception that we have insofar as we are self-conscious beings in the possession of reflective minds. The concept of practical identity is perhaps most easily understood in terms of the roles and practices we adopt over the course of our lives. For example, one might identify herself as a mother, a friend, a sister, a philosopher, and so on. All of these roles constitute her various practical identities and thus her conception of herself. This conception, Korsgaard argues, is to be understood as “a description under which you value yourself, a description under which you find your life to be worth living and your actions to be worth undertaking.” One sets and pursues ends in accordance with her practical identities and these identities determine what count as reasons for her. To illustrate, it can be said that a mother has good reasons to take care of her child; she has these reasons in virtue of her practical identity as a mother. If one were to ask her, “Why take care of that child?” She could definitively reply, “I am that child’s mother.” And the matter would be settled. In addition to providing reasons for action, one’s practical identities commit her to particular obligations. The statement, “A mother does not neglect her child,” stands well enough on its own. It does not require an obligatory “ought;” the normative force of this statement is “built into the role” of being a mother.
So, how do these considerations lead Korsgaard to conclude that humanity is an end in itself and that, as such, we ought to value it? Roughly, Korsgaard claims that it is our humanity, our capacity to set and pursue ends, which allows us to develop a conception of ourselves. Without such a conception, Korsgaard argues, our lives would be without purpose or value. We would have no ends to strive for and as such, no reasons for action. The basic idea, then, is that if we value our practical identities and those actions and/or responses that our practical identities warrant, we must also value what gives rise to them; namely, our humanity. While we might come to adopt or abandon various roles or practices over the course of our lives, our identity qua human beings is inviolable; it is the natural constant that allows for the development of our practical identities over time. Korsgaard writes, “Since you cannot act without reasons, and your humanity is the source of your reasons, you must value your own humanity if you are to act at all.”
Now, while she has thus far given us reasons to value the humanity in ourselves, Korsgaard has not yet made it apparent why we ought to value the humanity in others. While it is beyond the scope of this paper to address the specifics of Korsgaard’s position on this issue, it will be assumed henceforth that there are good reasons for us to value the humanity in others and that these reasons give rise to particular commitments; the commitments associated with morality. Insofar as we recognize the humanity in others, we recognize our common identity – that is, we see that there is humanity in their persons just as there is in our own. And this shared identity, according to Korsgaard, is a moral one. It, unlike other practical identities, is “inescapable and pervasive” and thus, the obligations to which it gives rise are not relative or contingent – they are necessary. But, what are we to do when the obligations associated with our humanity come into conflict with the obligations associated with our various practical identities? Are we to concede, as Korsgaard suggests, that such conflicts are intractable? In the following section, I discuss this problem in more depth and proceed to offer, what I take to be, a reasonable solution.
II.
In the third paragraph of §3.5.1, Korsgaard makes it explicitly clear that her argument does not have the following implication: “that moral obligations always trump all others.” Korsgaard writes:
The argument requires – and our nature requires – that we do have some more local and contingent identities, which provide us with most of our reasons to live and to act. Moral identity does not swamp other forms of identity: no one is simply a moral agent and nothing more.
However, Korsgaard stipulates, this does not mean that our obligations, whether they are moral or otherwise, are not unconditional. Of course, if our obligations were conditional, conflicts between them would be mere inconveniences. One might arbitrarily decide to act in accordance with one of her obligations rather than another and do so without the slightest apprehension. Simply, she could opt to act in accordance with one of her obligations in lieu of another and feel comfortable leaving her neglected obligation behind. This, however, does not seem to accurately reflect our experience of such conflicts. When we find ourselves in conflict we feel genuinely conflicted – that is, we feel ‘damned if we do, damned if we don’t.’ And this seems appropriate. As Korsgaard says, “that’s just one of the ways in which human life is hard.”
In what follows I argue that, contrary to Korsgaard’s aforementioned assertion, in instances of conflict between moral obligations and obligations associated with our practical identities, the former ought to always trump the latter. However, before I proceed, I should point out a distinction that Korsgaard makes between two sub-species of conflict that fit into this more general class. It is conceivable that one might adopt a practical identity that is “in and of itself contradictory to the value of humanity.” Korsgaard uses the identity of an assassin to illustrate this point and rejects any conflicts that might arise between moral obligations and those stemming from the adoption of such an inhumane identity. It seems clear enough that such conflicts would be easily resolved given the following consideration: “Insofar as the importance of having a practical identity comes from the value of humanity, it does not make sense to identify oneself in ways that are inconsistent with the value of humanity.” The second, and more interesting sub-species of conflicts consists of those between moral obligations and obligations associated with practical identities that do not stand in such obvious opposition to our humanity. According to Korsgaard, this second kind of conflict is not so easily resolved by the aforementioned consideration. Thus, it is what I will tentatively refer to as a genuine conflict.
While Korsgaard acknowledges that there are likely many possible sources of genuine conflict, she discusses a particular source in especially great detail; specifically, she discusses conflicts that arise between moral obligations and obligations associated with our practical identities qua members of personal relationships. Operating on a Kantian account of personal relationships, Korsgaard defines such relationships as “a reciprocal commitment on the part of two people to take one another’s views, interests, and wishes into account.” Simply, to be in a personal relationship with another human being is to engage in a reciprocal adoption of one another’s ends and to aid one another in the pursuit of those ends. Korsgaard’s worry is that our practical identities as members of such reciprocal relationships give rise to unusually ‘deep’ obligations; that is, we experience our obligations to our partners in such relationships as having a force wholly independent of our obligations to “humanity at large.” And, as she sees no obvious reason why our obligations associated with this particular kind of practical identity ought to be subordinated to our moral obligations, she concludes, “personal relationships can be the source of some particularly intractable conflicts with morality.” To illustrate, consider the following scenario: A loved one approaches you and asks you to lie on her behalf, say, in order to facilitate the achievement of one of her desired ends. As you are obligated, in virtue of your personal relationship with her, to take her desired ends into account and also, to aid her in her pursuit of those ends, it seems that you ought to comply with her request – that is, it seems that you ought to lie. However, insofar as you recognize that there is humanity in your person, you cannot help but acknowledge that you have an unconditional moral obligation to tell the truth and thus, you are conflicted. This is one example of a conflict that Korsgaard would likely find intractable.
I must admit that I am inclined to depart from Korsgaard here. It seems to me that there are good reasons to argue, contra Korsgaard, that our obligations to humanity in abstracto must ultimately trump our obligations to particular individuals with whom we have become involved in reciprocal relationships. While I understand that we sometimes feel that our obligations to these individuals make overriding claims on us, I am not convinced that they actually do. In other words, I am not convinced that the obligations that spring from our involvement in personal relationships can, in any case, supersede the obligations that we have in virtue of the fact that there is humanity in our person. Thus, I wish to propose a serial ordering of humanity and person-specific practical identities in which humanity holds the primary position – that is, I want to assert the priority of humanity over any form that our practical identities might take.
If we take seriously Korsgaard’s claim that if we value anything, we must value humanity as an end in itself, it seems to follow that we ought to prioritize humanity in this way. And if it does, the possibility for genuine conflicts between obligations associated with our humanity and those associated with our practical identities must be rejected. To clarify, my view is that if it is the case that humanity is a necessary condition for the expression of any practical identity, we must always maintain our respect for humanity in performing the practices associated with the practical identities that we adopt. More simply, we must acknowledge that if it were not for the humanity within us, we would be unable to act in ways appropriate to, or consistent with, our practical identities at all. If one acts in accordance with an obligation associated with her practical identities in lieu of an obligation that stems from her humanity, she acts without regard for the ultimate source of the practical identity that has given rise to the obligation that she now favors. And this seems inconsistent. In fact, it seems just as inconsistent as a case in which one adopts, and thus abides by the commitments associated with, a practical identity that is “contradictory to the value of humanity” (recall Korsgaard’s example of the assassin). If we choose to privilege obligations associated with our practical identities over those associated with our humanity, I contend that it is only because we are inclined to do so. Specifically, in regard to personal relationships, we prefer to honor our commitments to a significant other rather than honor our implicit commitments, our moral commitments, to humanity at large. In Kantian terms, we choose to act in accordance with hypothetical imperatives, imperatives that apply to us conditionally , rather than categorical ones, ones that apply to us insofar as there is humanity in our persons.
While it is true that Korsgaard makes no claim about the degree to which her theory adheres to standard interpretations of the Kantian theoretical framework, I take this aspect of her theory to seriously depart from the convictions typically associated with Kant’s practical philosophy. In contrast, I take my view to be more consistent with Kant’s doctrine. For instance, I doubt that Kant would endorse acts of dishonesty on the grounds that the acts were committed in the course of honoring one’s obligations to a particular individual. In fact, if we consider Benjamin Constant’s famous objection to Kant’s idea that lying is never permissible, even if lying would prevent the death of a friend, this point should become explicitly clear. For emphasis, consider the following excerpt from Kant’s reply to Constant:
…though by a certain lie I in fact wrong no one, I nevertheless violate the principle of right with respect to all unavoidable necessary statements in general (I do wrong formally though not materially); and this is much worse than committing an injustice to someone or other, since such a deed does not always presuppose in the subject a principle of doing so.
I should introduce an important caveat here: my intent is not to deny that our practical identities give rise to obligations, but rather, to claim that the obligations to which they give rise are second-order obligations; obligations that must be subordinated to first-order obligations, the obligations associated with our humanity. If we accept this account, we can reasonably endorse Korsgaard’s more general claims about the sources of normativity, whilst rejecting the possibility for “intractable conflicts” of the kind that have just been discussed. Also, it should be made clear that I am not suggesting that it is impossible for one to feel conflicted if she is faced with what she perceives to be a conflict between one of her moral obligations and one of the obligations associated with her practical identities – rather, I am suggesting that such conflicts are not genuine.
Perhaps Korsgaard might reply to the objection that I have leveled against her in this paper by claiming that it assumes her interest in strictly adhering to standard interpretations of the relevant aspects of Kant’s practical philosophy. As I previously acknowledged, it is true that Korsgaard makes no claim about the degree to which she takes her theory to be compatible with a more traditional Kantian position and, as such, I am reasonably sympathetic to this reply. However, I am inclined to press Korsgaard a bit further and say that even within the specific context of her own theory, her views in regard to the intractability of the kind of conflicts that have been the primary focus of this paper seem inconsistent with the more general features of her argument.
For instance, given her assertion that it is possible for us to face genuine conflicts between obligations associated with our practical identities and obligations associated with our humanity, it seems that Korsgaard could, at least prima facie, be interpreted as advocating what might be called a ‘no priority’ view. That is, she could be interpreted as suggesting that while having humanity in one’s person is a necessary condition for one’s adoption of practical identities, we should not regard the obligations associated with our humanity as making significantly stronger claims on us than those associated with our particular practical identities. To illustrate via analogy, consider Kant’s notion of the categories of understanding. While it is true that the categories are conditions of phenomenal experience, it is not true that they therefore hold some kind of pride of place in Kant’s metaphysical system. Simply, it is not the case that Kant prioritizes the categories over other aspects of persons and the world that similarly contribute to the constitution of our phenomenal experience. If we map this point about Kant’s categories onto Korsgaard’s notion of humanity, the proposed analogy becomes apparent – namely, that perhaps Korsgaard’s notion of humanity is very much akin to Kant’s categories insofar as humanity, like the categories, should not be thought of as having any kind of priority. More specifically, perhaps Korsgaard’s view is that obligations associated with our humanity should not, in any case, be prioritized over obligations associated with our practical identities. Admittedly, if this were Korsgaard’s position, she would be justified in regarding conflicts between obligations associated with our humanity and obligations associated with our practical identities as being intractable.
However, I take it to be evident that this is not Korsgaard’s position. Remember, for Korsgaard, there are certain practical identities (like assassinhood) that stand in such obvious opposition to our humanity that under no circumstances would one be warranted in claiming that she faces a genuine conflict between an obligation associated with such a practical identity and an obligation associated with her humanity. It is, according to Korsgaard, nonsensical to identify oneself in ways that are inconsistent with the value of humanity. Therefore, any obligations that stem from the adoption of a practical identity that is inconsistent with the value of humanity cannot be regarded as having the potential to come into genuine conflict with the obligations that one has in virtue of her humanity. In light of this, it seems clear that Korsgaard in fact does prioritize humanity, and thereby the obligations to which it gives rise, at least to some degree. And, as such, I am admittedly unclear about why she thinks that this prioritization does not carry over to all instances of conflict, particularly those that have been the primary focus of this paper.

Works Cited
Kant, Immanuel. On a supposed right to lie from philanthropy. The Cambridge Edition of the Works of
Immanuel Kant: Practical Philosophy. Ed. Mary Gregor. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1999. 605-15. Print.

Korsgaard, Christine M. The Sources of Normativity. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1996. Print.

Plato. The Republic and Other Works. New York: Anchor, 1960. Print.

I.
To be precise, the situation that I am interested in discussing is one in which an individual is faced with two perfect duties and realizes that acting in accordance with one of her duties will preclude her from acting in accordance with the other. Such a situation seems characteristic of what one would typically call a conflict. However, there are some who think that duties can never conflict with one another in this way. Presumably, one of these persons is Kant himself, who claims, “a conflict of duties and obligations is inconceivable” W.A. Hart claims that Kant is justified in making this assertion as it is a “consequence of his view that the moral law is the expression of reason in its practical employment. It is as an expression of pure practical reason that the moral law cannot contradict or be inconsistent with itself.” However, Hart stipulates, the consistency of the moral law in its application is not a given. Rather, “It is something that as rational beings we are committed to looking for in the moral law – something in the absence of which we can never rest content that we have adequately determined it.” Consistency, then, is something that we have to work for by cultivating our moral character as rational agents in the world. If we accept this account, we should not interpret Kant as suggesting that it is impossible to experience moral inconsistency. On the contrary, it seems that Kant’s view is that consistency is a work in progress and thus, that it is possible for us, in our pursuit of complete moral consistency, to experience conflicts between perfect duties.
There is, however, another Kantian idea that perhaps precludes the possibility of experiencing conflicts between perfect duties. In Part II of The Metaphysics of Morals, Kant writes, “[man] must judge that he can do what the [moral] law tells him unconditionally that he ought to do.” This idea is generally referred to as the ‘ought-implies-can principle’. Whether this principle actually does preclude the possibility of experiencing conflicts between perfect duties is, however, up for debate. Hart argues that the ‘ought-implies-can principle (henceforth OIC principle) has the following implication:
A moral agent cannot think of himself as having incompatible duties, because he would have to think of himself as at one and the same time able to carry them out (because they are duties) and not able to carry them out (because they are incompatible.
To illustrate, consider an agent, X, who recognizes that she has a duty to φ and thus, that she ought to φ. At the same time, X recognizes that she has a duty to ϕ, and thus, that she ought to ϕ. However, X realizes that given her current circumstances, φ-ing will necessarily preclude her from ϕ-ing and vice-versa. Based on his interpretation of the OIC principle, Hart argues that X cannot resolve that she ought to both φ and ϕ. Simply, it would be unreasonable for her to believe that she ought to both φ and ϕ given that, as a result of her present circumstances, she cannot do so. Thus Hart concludes that X cannot claim, at least with any degree of veracity, that she faces a genuine conflict between duties. Rather, it must be that the agent is unsure about what her duty actually is; the agent “swithers between two different views about what [her] duty is.” Rather than believing that she ought to φ and ϕ, X is unsure whether she ought to φ or ϕ. In order to make a decision, Hart believes that X must reflect on her grounds for thinking that she ought to φ and that she ought to ϕ, and that this “at least opens up the possibility that [she] may come to see the argument in favor of [her] doing [φ] as less weighty or conclusive than the argument in favor of [her] doing [ϕ] (or vice versa).” For Hart, there is never an occasion on which an agent is warranted in feeling that she is obligated to both φ and ϕ if the two courses of action that φ-ing and ϕ-ing entail are incompatible.
Hart’s view relies on the application of the OIC principle in conjunction with what Bernard Williams calls ‘the agglomeration principle.’ Williams defines this principle as follows: “‘I ought to do a’ and ‘I ought to do b’ together imply ‘I ought to do a and b.’” Including this principle, and the OIC principle, in a formal representation of X’s supposed dilemma makes it clear that a conflict between duties cannot exist:
(1) X ought to φ
(2) X ought to ϕ
(3) X cannot both φ and ϕ.
(4) X ought to both φ and ϕ (by way of the agglomeration principle)
(5) It is not the case that X ought to both φ and ϕ (by way of ‘ought implies can’ used contrapositively).
Prima facie, then, it seems that if we accept both the OIC principle and the agglomeration principle, we must consequently concede that one could never face a legitimate moral conflict. However, it is important to notice that the application of these principles to premises 1-3 has led us to a contradiction: it cannot be the case that X ought to both φ and ϕ, and also that she not-ought to both φ and ϕ. As such, it seems appropriate to ask whether we really ought to accept these principles as being true. In what follows, I reproduce Williams’ argument for why we ought to reject the agglomeration principle and also, his method of interpreting ‘ought-implies can’ such that the principle need not be discarded in order to preserve the possibility of experiencing moral conflicts.
Williams argues that, in addition to implying an obvious contradiction, the contrapositive use of the OIC principle in conjunction with the agglomeration principle in cases like the one formally represented above does not yield a realistic depiction of a moral agent who perceives herself to be in conflict.
For no agent, conscious of the situation of conflict, in fact thinks that he ought to do both of the things. What he thinks is that he ought to do each of them; and this is properly paralleled at the level of ‘can’ by the fact that while he cannot do both of things, it is true of each of the things, taken separately, that he can do it.
Given that it is the agglomeration principle, as Williams says, that leads us from ‘each’ to ‘both,’ he isolates part of the problem as being the application of this principle to evaluative cases in general. Williams argues that it is not clear that the agglomeration principle holds for all evaluative cases and therefore, that it should perhaps be rejected. Consider, for example, the case of a woman interested in marrying two different men. It can reasonably be said that the woman wants to marry each man (she wants to marry a and she wants to marry b). However, would it be similarly reasonable to say that the woman wants to marry both men (she wants to marry both a and b)? Cases of polygamy aside, it seems not. Thus, it seems that the agglomeration principle does not hold in all evaluative cases. It might be argued, as Williams anticipates, that evaluative cases involving ought-statements are distinctly subject to the agglomeration principle. Williams replies to this potential objection by asserting that the burden of proof would be on any party interested in advancing such a claim, as it is difficult to conceive of how ought-statements would necessarily, and perhaps uniquely, possess agglomerative properties. The caveat should be made at this point that Williams does not view this objection as a “knock-down disproof of the agglomeration principle.” Instead, he wants “to claim only that it is not a self-evident datum of the logic of ought, and that if a more realistic picture of moral thought emerges from abandoning it, we should have no qualms in abandoning it.” A refutation of the agglomeration principle’s applicability, especially in regard to ought-statements, would put us one step closer to achieving a more realistic picture of moral thought; specifically, it would put us one step closer to acknowledging the possibility of experiencing moral conflict.
However, it is not yet clear to what degree the OIC principle, taken on its own, will preclude the possibility of encountering moral conflicts. While it is true that the OIC principle disproves the notion that one ought to both φ and ϕ if she cannot both φ and ϕ, this conclusion is fairly uninteresting; “the statement [the OIC principle] disproves is one that I am not disposed to make in its own right, and which does not follow from those that I am disposed to make.” An agent in conflict is very much aware that she does not have an obligation to both φ and ϕ, as she realizes that she cannot effectively carry out both courses of action. However, this does not prevent her from feeling that she ought to φ and that she ought to ϕ; in other words, this does not prevent her from feeling legitimately conflicted about which course of action she ought to pursue.
It is true that if φ-ing and ϕ-ing were taken separately, the agent could perform each of her corresponding duties satisfactorily. This, of course, is the problem: given her current circumstances she cannot take φ-ing and ϕ-ing separately; she is faced with the immediate choice of either φ-ing or ϕ-ing. So, in order to determine whether the OIC principle in and of itself prevents us from acknowledging the possibility of experiencing moral conflict, we need to test the principle’s effects on each course of action when taken together. Consider the following:
(1) If X does φ, then she will not be able to ϕ
(2) If X does ϕ, then she will not be able to φ
(3) If X will not be able to φ, then it will not the case that she ought to φ (OIC)
(4) If X will not be able to ϕ, then it will not be the case that she ought to ϕ (OIC)
(5) If X does φ, then it will not be the case that she ought to ϕ (1,3 Hypothetical Syllogism)
(6) If X does ϕ, then it will not be the case that she ought to φ (2,4 Hypothetical Syllogism)
It appears that the above argument implies the following: that if X were to either φ or ϕ, she would be, as Williams puts it, “off the moral hook with respect to the other.” In addition to the fact that this interpretation of the above argument yields conclusions that do not accurately reflect our experience of moral conflict, it has other troubling implications as well. For example, it seems to suggest that an agent could act from inclination in lieu of obligation and that it would be perfectly acceptable for her to do so (if it were the case that acting on one of her inclinations would preclude her from performing one of her obligations). While some might contend that it is acceptable for an agent to pursue one of her inclinations instead of performing one of her obligations when she cannot do both, it is clear that we would not want to generally accept this contention. Consider the following example: A man is on his way to get an ice cream cone of a particular flavor that he has been craving for weeks. He is walking briskly; in fact, he is almost running, as the store that offers this particular flavor is scheduled to close in fifteen minutes. En route, he encounters a small child drowning in a nearby lake. The man immediately recognizes that if he were to stop and help the child, he would be unable to make it to the ice cream shop before it closes – that is, he realizes that the act of saving the child is incompatible with his acquisition of the ice cream that he desires. According to our current interpretation of the above argument, if the man were to continue pursuing his ice cream, it would not be the case that he ought to have saved the child given that he could not have done so in light of his chosen course of action. While it might be argued that this particular case is uncharitable to the idea of pursuing one’s inclinations over one’s obligations, it is at least true that Kant would never endorse the prioritization of inclinations over obligations in any case.
So, is there a plausible interpretation of the OIC principle that does not entail the apparently problematic issues mentioned above? Is there a legitimate interpretation that respects the integrity of the principle and yet is not at odds with our experience of moral conflicts? Williams suggests that there is. If we regard (5) as saying something to the effect of “If X does φ, then it will not be correct to say that she ought to ϕ,” we acknowledge the reality of the situation – that is, we acknowledge that given X’s choice to φ, the option of ϕ-ing is no longer available to her – and yet we do not admit that she did not have an obligation to ϕ prior to making her choice to φ.
If I [φ], it will then not be correct to say that I ought (then) to [ϕ]. And this is correct, since [ϕ] will then not be a course of action open to me. It does not follow from this that I cannot correctly say then that I ought to have done [ϕ]; nor yet that I was wrong in thinking earlier that [ϕ] was something I ought to do.
What is important to notice here is that Williams’ interpretation, in addition to painting a “a more realistic picture of moral thought,” provides us with a perfectly plausible understanding of the OIC principle that does not stand in direct opposition to Kant’s relevant theoretical commitments.
It will be helpful at this point to reiterate what has been argued thus far. The question that was initially posed was the following: is it possible for us to experience conflicts between perfect duties? Via an examination of Williams’ arguments ¬contra Hart, it has been shown that we can plausibly answer this question in the affirmative. In fact, there are good reasons to think that Kant himself would endorse this conclusion. Remember, Kant readily acknowledges our susceptibility to moral inconsistency so long as we are physically instantiated creatures with a sensible nature. Additionally, the interpretation of the OIC principle offered above is generally consistent with Kant’s view and does not preclude the possibility of encountering conflicts between perfect duties. Given these considerations, the remainder of this paper will operate under the assumption that experiencing conflicts between perfect duties is possible. So then, is there an effective method of resolution that we might employ if faced with such a conflict?
II.
In his pamphlet entitled, Des réactions politiques, Benjamin Constant criticized Kant for his uncompromising stance on lying. For Kant, telling the truth is a perfect duty, under no circumstances would one be warranted in telling a lie. Constant argued that such a strict prohibition of dishonest acts, without regard for the specific contexts in which they might be committed, was counter-intuitive and would inevitably lead to unacceptable consequences. To illustrate his point, he employed the now famous ‘murderer example’. Roughly, the example is as follows: A man arrives on your doorstep and claims that a murderer is pursuing him. He asks if he can hide in your house, and you willingly oblige. Moments later, another man appears at your doorstep looking for the man for whom you have just provided shelter. He asks, “Are you hiding someone in your house?” According to Kant, you are obligated to answer the murderer’s question truthfully in virtue of your perfect duty not to lie.
I think Constant is right to think that there is something disquieting about this conclusion. After all, it does seem counter-intuitive that one ought to tell the truth if it means, either directly or indirectly, that another will lose his life. Regardless, for Kant, the situation is unfortunate but nonetheless straightforward, lying is never permissible. Kant writes in his reply to Constant, “Truthfulness in statements that one cannot avoid is a human being’s duty to everyone, however great the disadvantage to him or to another that may result from it…” In what follows, I reframe Constant’s example such that the situation it presents becomes less straightforward. In doing so, I demonstrate how an agent may come to face a conflict between perfect duties.
What is one really doing when she offers shelter to a potential murder victim? Is she making the offer with an air of indifference and allowing the man to enter her home without making any further commitment to his safety? While it is conceivable that one might be so apathetic in her relations with others, I doubt it would often be the case – at least in contexts like the one described above. More plausibly, I suggest that by offering him shelter, one makes an implicit promise to the man to protect him from imminent threat; specifically, from the murderer who is currently pursuing him. And, insofar as one has made this promise, she is now obligated to protect the man to whom she has offered shelter. Now when the murderer asks her if she is hiding someone in her house, she will be faced with a moral conflict: in virtue of her perfect duty to not to lie, she ought to tell the murderer the truth; in virtue of her perfect duty to not make false promises, she ought to protect the potential victim by lying. So, then, which course of action ought she actually pursue? My suggestion is the following: if faced with an apparent conflict between perfect duties, one ought to act in accordance with the duty that, when carried out, will impinge least upon the humanity of the involved parties. Before discussing a hypothetical application of this method to the aforementioned case of conflict, it will be necessary, in order to validate the above proposal, to show how it is derived from some of the fundamental aspects of Kant’s moral doctrine – specifically, from his second formulation of the categorical imperative and, more generally, from his basic notion of what it means to have humanity in our persons.
Kant introduces the second formulation of the categorical imperative as follows: “So act that you use humanity, whether in your own person or in the person of any other, always at the same time as an end, never merely as a means.” The second clause of this formulation, “whether in your own person or in the person of any other,” seems to suggest that humanity does not constitute the totality of our person, but rather, that it is only a constitutive element of our person. As Thomas Hill notes in his article, “Humanity as an End in Itself,” “A review of Kant’s repeated use of ‘humanity in a person’ in his Metaphysics of Morals and elsewhere strongly suggests that … Kant thought of humanity as a characteristic, or set of characteristics, of persons.” So, what role does this characteristic of persons play? And why does Kant insist that we treat it “always at the same time as an end, never merely as a means?”
Hill claims that we can reasonably construe Kant’s notion of humanity as “including only those powers necessarily associated with rationality and ‘the power to set ends’.” Thus, the humanity in our person is associated with the following: (1) our capacity to act on principles or maxims and thus our ability to act for reasons, (2) our capacity to act in accordance with rational principles or hypothetical imperatives insofar as they do not conflict with what Hill refers to as, “more stringent rational principles,” (3) our capacity to set any end whatsoever and thus, to express our nature as free rational beings, (4) our capacity to accept unconditional principles of conduct “independently of fear of punishment and promise of reward” in virtue of our rational nature , and (5) our ability to reason abstractly and to understand the world in which we are physically instantiated. These capacities, taken together, define Kant’s notion of humanity as it exists in our person – that is, these capacities constitute the role that humanity plays as a characteristic of persons. Still, one might ask why Kant thinks that we ought to treat the humanity in our person and in the persons of others always as an end.
At first, it might seem odd to speak of humanity as an end. As Hill remarks, the notion of treating humanity as an end “is especially puzzling because ‘humanity,’ as a set of rational capacities and dispositions, is not the sort of thing which is an end, or goal, in the ordinary sense.” There is, however, enough evidence in the second section of the Groundwork to yield us a reasonable understanding of what Kant means when he refers to humanity as an end or, more precisely, when he refers to it as an end in itself. In particular, Kant’s discussion of humanity as an ‘objective end’ in this section serves to clarify his notion of humanity as an end in itself. Objective ends, says Kant, are ends that are “valid for all rational beings” and, as such, whether we ought to promote them is not contingent upon our subjective desires and/or wants qua individuals; they imply principles that apply to all rational beings and are therefore to be regarded as ends in themselves. In contrast, subjective ends are ends that are relative to persons based on their various wants and/or desires; they imply principles that are only contingently applicable to persons based on their subjective interests. Humanity, then, is to be understood as an objective end; an end shared by all rational beings and thus, one that implies universally applicable principles. Additionally, and rather importantly, Kant contends that the promotion of objective ends must take precedence over the pursuit of ends that correspond exclusively to our subjective interests. Therefore, insofar as humanity is an objective end, we must subordinate all of our subjective ends to it – that is, we must privilege our humanity over the pursuit of our subjective ends. Hill illustrates this point nicely when he writes, “when a person’s humanity gives one a reason for doing or refraining from something, whatever this may be, that reason takes precedence over other reasons.” Kant also makes this point explicitly clear in the following excerpt from the Groundwork, “rational beings are called persons (as opposed to things) because their nature already marks them out as an end itself, that is, as something that may not be used merely as a means, and hence so far limits all choice (and is an object of respect).” Thus, it is clear what Kant means when he refers to humanity as an end in itself – simply, he means that humanity is an objective and necessary end for all rational beings.
In light of his construal of humanity qua an objective end, Kant attributes a special kind of dignity to humanity. In his discussion of the kingdom of ends in the second section of the Groundwork, Kant writes: “everything has either a price or a dignity. What has a price can be replaced by something else as its equivalent; what on the other hand is raised above all price and therefore admits of no equivalent has a dignity.” While subjective ends are to be regarded as having a price, objective ends are to be regarded as having a dignity – that is, they are to be regarded as having an incomparable inner worth.
What is related to general human inclinations and needs has a market price; that which, even without presupposing a need, conforms with a certain taste, that is, with a delight in the mere purposeless play of our mental powers, has a fancy price; but that which constitutes the condition under which alone something can be an end in itself has not merely a relative worth, that is, a price, but an inner worth, that is, dignity.
Thus, I contend that if one is faced with what she perceives to be a conflict between perfect duties, she ought to draw upon the implicit considerations that underlie the second formulation of the categorical imperative such that her ultimate course of action reflects her recognition of humanity’s incomparable worth. More specifically, I contend that one who is faced with such a conflict ought to evaluate the degree to which acting in accordance with each duty, taken separately, would impinge upon the humanity of the relevantly affected parties. The available course of action that, upon reflection, she recognizes as the one that stands to impinge least upon the humanity of the involved parties will be the favorable one. It seems that there are few other considerations, if any, which would be more relevant for an agent to take into account if faced with having to violate one of two perfect duties. In other words, it is not clear what would be more relevant for an agent to consider other than the degree to which each course of action open to her, if carried out, would most effectively preserve the humanity of the involved parties.
It might be suggested here that equally reasonable methods of resolution could potentially be derived from considerations underlying the first and third formulations of the categorical imperative. I must admit that I am dubious of this prospect. It is perhaps clearer why considerations involving the first formulation would be not be useful to us in our effort to develop an appropriate method of resolution. Simply, it is our respect for the content yielded by the first formulation that puts us in conflict in the first place; it is the first formulation that most explicitly demands our unconditional compliance with the imperatives that we derive from it. However, I admit that considerations involving the third formulation might seem more promising. Kant introduces this formulation as follows: “Every rational being must act as if he were by his maxims at all times a lawgiving member of the universal kingdom of ends.” Perhaps, then, we should negotiate conflicts between perfect duties by considering what we ought to do qua constituents of the kingdom of ends. I think, however, that this will ultimately lead to similar complications to those associated with consulting the first formulation. If we take the kingdom of ends to represent a community of rational beings acting in accordance with the first formulation of the categorical imperative, it is unclear how our consideration of how an individual member of this community would act in cases of conflict would somehow be more useful than simply consulting the first formulation. And, since we have already determined that such consultation would likely be fruitless, we must conclude that the third formulation would be a similarly unlikely source of aid in cases of conflict.
At this point, I would like to return to the re-framed version of Constant’s murderer case in order to demonstrate how my proposed method of resolution could be applied to this particular instance of conflict. First, suppose that one decided to be truthful with the murderer. Based on the aforementioned assumption that one could be certain that being truthful with the murder would lead to the death of the murderer’s intended victim, let us evaluate the degree to which the victim’s humanity would resultantly be impinged upon. It is obvious that if the victim were to be killed he would no longer possess the capacities that constitute his humanity at all. If one decided to act in accordance with her perfect duty not to lie, and thus informed the murderer that the man he seeks is hiding somewhere in the house, the humanity of one of the relevant parties – specifically, the humanity of the victim – would be extinguished. In contrast, let us evaluate the degree to which the murderer’s humanity would be impinged upon if one decided to lie to him in an effort to protect the potential victim. That is, if one decided to act in accordance with her perfect duty not to make false promises in lieu of her perfect duty not to lie. However, before we do, I should address a foreseeable concern. It might be suggested that if one has opted to become a murderer, he has explicitly renounced his own humanity and thus should no longer be treated as if there is humanity in his person. If this were the case, then lying to the murderer would be an acceptable course of action, as it would be no injustice to treat him “merely as a means.” However, this is not the case and, as such, the problem remains. Hill writes:
Humanity, so conceived, is attributed by Kant to even the most foolish and depraved persons. Although he sometimes writes as if certain acts amount to “throwing away” one’s humanity, he repeatedly implies that a person’s humanity remains, and so must be respected, even though he defiles, abases, violates, dishonors, or rejects it.
Now, the question was: to what degree would the capacities associated with the murderer’s humanity be impinged upon if one were to lie to him in according with her perfect duty to honor promises? In comparison to the degree to which the capacities associated with the victim’s humanity would be impinged upon if the alternative course were pursued, it seems that the murderer’s relevant capacities would suffer very little. While it is true that lying to the murderer will, at least to some degree, degrade the humanity in his person, it will certainly not extinguish it. Thus, if one were to employ the method of resolution that I have suggested, she would likely conclude that she ought to act in accordance with her perfect duty not to make false promises. She would judge the degree to which the humanity of the relevantly affected parties would be impinged upon if she opted to perform one course of action and compare it to the degree to which the humanity of the involved parties would be impinged upon if she opted to perform the other. She would then resolve, as a result of these considerations, that she ought to renege on her duty not to lie in favor of honoring her duty not to make false promises.
Remember, this does not mean that the conflicted agent did not recognize her duty not to lie. After lying to the murder, she would likely feel that she had committed a moral wrong. And she ought to feel this way given that she has; she has failed to fulfill one of her perfect duties. My claim is simply that the method that I have proposed serves to identify the lesser of two evils – that is, the method serves to provide reasonable guidance for a morally conflicted agent at a legitimate impasse. Let me be explicitly clear: I have not proposed a method for justifying the neglect of one’s duties, rather, I have proposed a method for making difficult decisions in situations characterized by the fact that one is, so to speak, ‘damned if she does, damned if she doesn’t’.
It might be suggested at this point that while this method of resolution seems applicable to conflicts between perfect duties of the specific kind that have been discussed thus far, it might not be similarly applicable to other kinds of conflicts between perfect duties. As such I will now address two other kinds that might arise and examine the proposed method’s relative degree of effectiveness in regard to them. The two alternative kinds I will discuss are (1) what I call trivial conflicts and (2) what I call tragic conflicts. Trivial conflicts are those in which an agent is faced with two conflicting perfect duties and realizes that her performance of either duty will result in a similar and relatively insignificant degree of impingement upon the humanity of the affected party. In other words, the degree to which either party’s humanity would be impinged upon as a result of the enactment of the agent’s decided course of action would be virtually equal and, for all intents and purposes, insignificant. In such cases, I contend that the conflicted agent ought to at least keep the method of resolution that I have proposed in mind. Admittedly, the application of this method to trivial conflicts will not provide the morally conflicted agent with a definitive answer to her dilemma; however, I maintain that it would be worthwhile for the agent to at least consider, in the course of her deliberations, the degree to which either party’s humanity would be impinged upon as a result of her decision.
In regard to tragic conflicts, I am forced to make a more significant concession. Tragic conflicts are to be understood as those in which an agent realizes that regardless of which duty she decides to perform, the relevantly affected party’s humanity will be extinguished. Thus, the degree to which either party’s humanity would be impinged upon as a result of the agent’s decision would not only be equal (no matter what she decides), but also, ultimately significant. It is unclear to me how an agent’s decision could be anything but arbitrary in such situations and, as such, I admit that my method may not be applicable in cases of this kind.
III.
Thus far, I have (1) demonstrated that it is possible to experience conflicts between perfect duties and (2) suggested a method for resolving such conflicts. In what follows, I will present and defend against two potential objections that might be leveled against the latter and perhaps more controversial part of my proposal; namely, my method for resolving conflicts between perfect duties.
First, it might be objected that my proposed method of resolution entails a kind of quantification that Kant would find impermissible. Specifically, it might be argued that Kant would reject the notion that one could justify performing one dutiful course of action in lieu of another on the grounds that the chosen course of action impinged least upon the humanity of the relevantly affected parties. But why is it supposed that Kant would reject this notion? Consider this excerpt from Hill:
The definition of price is that “something else can be put in its place as an equivalent,” and dignity, by contrast, “admits of no equivalent.” Strictly construed, this must mean that what has dignity cannot morally or reasonably be exchanged for anything of greater value, whether the value is dignity or price.
If we take Hill’s interpretation seriously, we must acknowledge that humanity, construed as one of those things to which Kant attributes a dignity, is not subject to any kind of comparative quantification. To illustrate, Hill contends that Kant would not endorse the saving of two lives rather than one if the justification for doing so consisted in the fact that the group of two was somehow thought to have “more dignity” between them. He goes on to say, “One cannot, then, trade off the dignity of humanity in one person in order to honor a greater dignity in two, ten, or a thousand persons.” While Hill’s interpretation of Kant on this matter is not definitive, it remains worthwhile to discuss whether his interpretation confounds my proposal.
Simply, I think that it does not. While it is true that dignity, qua an abstract noumenal concept, cannot be quantified , this does not imply that the dignity associated with the humanity in persons is similarly unquantifiable. Rather, I think that humanity, construed as an aspect of physically instantiated persons with a sensible nature, is subject to quantification at least in the modest sense that is required by my proposed method of resolution. If it is true that (1) we experience our own humanity and the humanity in others via the capacities to which this aspect of our persons gives rise and (2) that we exercise these capacities in the phenomenal world, it seems reasonable to suggest that we could engage in the quantification of these capacities from a strictly phenomenal perspective – that is, strictly from our perspective qua phenomenal beings.
I think, then, that Hill’s interpretation of Kant on this particular issue is based on a conflation of two distinct senses of dignity – namely, dignity construed as a noumenal concept and dignity construed as an attribute of beings in the phenomenal world with humanity in their persons. If we accept this account, and therefore acknowledge that those things that have a dignity in the phenomenal world are in fact subject to quantification, at least to the extent that there can be reasonable trade offs amongst those things, we will see that my proposed method of conflict resolution does not stand in direct opposition to Kant’s relevant theoretical commitments and also, that Hill’s interpretation is not comprehensive.
Second, it might be argued that, in practice, my method entails consequentialist considerations that do stand in direct opposition to Kant’s relevant theoretical commitments. To illustrate the worry, it might be said that insofar as the method requires a conflicted agent to consider what she expects to be the consequences of each course of action open to her (to what degree each course of action open to her will impinge upon the humanity of the relevantly affected parties) and prescribes to her the course of action that will produce the best consequences (the course of action that impinges least upon the humanity of the relevantly affected parties), the method has consequentialist undertones with which Kant would take issue.
However, it is important to remember the nature of the actions that the agent is deciding between; she is deciding between two courses of action, each of which entail the performance of a perfect duty and, as such, each of which she recognizes as being obligatory. That the agent considers herself to be in conflict in the first place is indicative of her equal motivation to perform each course of action in virtue of the claims, qua perfect duties, that they make on her. Thus, her initial motivation to pursue either course of action is not associated with her consideration of the consequences that she expects either course to yield. Rather, it stems from her recognition that she has a duty to perform each course of action, taken separately. The problem is, of course, that she cannot fulfill both of her duties given her current circumstances. It is in light of this – that is, in light of the fact that she is faced with an apparently genuine conflict – that I suggest that it would not be inappropriate for her to appeal to considerations of the expected consequences that she associates with each course of action. As a result of these considerations, she will be able to make a reasonable decision about which duty she ought to perform given that she cannot perform both. So, while it is true that the agent does consider what she expects to be the consequences of both courses of action open to her, her resultant understanding of the expected consequences does not play the primary role in motivating her to action. What motivates her, first and foremost, is her recognition that each course of action open to her is associated with one of her perfect duties. Thus, her consideration of expected consequences is de facto a secondary concern for her, one that is necessitated by the seemingly intractable dilemma with which she is faced.
As a final note, it should be emphasized that I am not suggesting that a consideration of possible consequences is necessary, or even useful, in all moral cases. Rather, I am claiming that such considerations are worthwhile exclusively in cases of moral conflict – specifically, in cases akin to those that have been the primary focus of this paper.

Works Cited
Hart, W. A. “Nussbaum, Kant and Conflicts Between Duties.” Philosophy: The Journal of the Royal Institute of Philosophy 73.286 (1998): 609-18. Print.
Hill, Thomas E. “Humanity as an End in Itself.” Ethics 91.1 (1980): 84-99. Print.
Kant, Immanuel. “Groundwork of The Metaphysics of Morals.” The Cambridge Edition of the Works of Immanuel Kant: Practical Philosophy. Ed. Mary J. Gregor. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1996. 37-108. Print.
Kant, Immanuel. “On a supposed right to lie from philanthropy.” Ed. Mary J. Gregor. The Cambridge Edition of the Works of Immanuel Kant: Practical Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1996. 605-15. Print.
Kant, Immanuel. The Metaphysics of Morals. The Cambridge Edition of the Works of Immanuel Kant: Practical Philosophy. Ed. Mary J. Gregor. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1996. 353-603. Print.
Kerstein, Samuel J. Kant’s Search for the Supreme Principle of Morality. New York: Cambridge UP, 2002. Print.
Williams, Bernard. “Ethical consistency.” Problems of the Self. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1973.
166-86. Print.

Proseminar: Week 4

John McDowell, in “Values and Secondary Qualities,” claims that J.L. Mackie provides an incorrect account of what one is necessarily committed to if his/her intent is to dispute non-cognitivism.  At the outset of the piece, McDowell agrees with Mackie’s phenomenological thesis that ordinary evaluative thought presents itself as a matter of sensitivity to aspects of the world. Additionally, along with Mackie, McDowell recognizes the irresistibility, in light of this thesis, of appealing to a perceptual model.[1] McDowell argues that Mackie’s argument for the implausibility of cognitivism stems from his appeal to a particular kind of perceptual model; namely, a perceptual awareness of primary, as opposed to secondary, qualities.

While sympathetic to Mackie’s reasons for rejecting cognitivism given his use of this particular perceptual model, McDowell wonders: “But why is it supposed that the model must be awareness of primary qualities rather than secondary qualities?”[2] His answer is that Mackie holds secondary-quality perception to entail the projective error of conceiving experience of secondary-qualities in the way one ought to conceive experience of primary-qualities.[3] If this conception of secondary-quality experience is correct, then, as McDowell puts it, “a pre-philosophical secondary-quality model for awareness of value would in effect be, after all, a primary quality model.”  Additionally, if this conception were philosophically conceived, Mackie’s phenomenological thesis would be significantly weakened, if not entirely indefensible.[4] Given that McDowell is interested in preserving the correctness of this thesis, and also in calling the supposed merit of Mackie’s arguments for a blanketed rejection of cognivitism into question, he is forced to take issue with the conception of secondary-quality experience as endorsed by Mackie.

In the third section of his piece, McDowell provides an account of secondary-quality experience contra-Mackie.  The operational definition that McDowell uses for the phrase ‘secondary quality’ is as follows: “A secondary quality is a property the ascription of which to an object is not adequately understood except as true, if it is true, in virtue of the object’s disposition to present a certain sort of perceptual appearance.”[5] McDowell claims that a particular object will retain its disposition to present a certain sort of perceptual appearance regardless of whether it is presenting a certain sort of perceptual appearance on any particular occasion.  As a result, the experience of a given secondary quality is one that consists of encountering a particular property that is resilient in the face of non-experience – that is, the property is one that exists “independently of the experience itself.”  This account is contra-Mackie in that Mackie would classify the kind of property discussed above as “thoroughly objective.”[6] That is, Mackie holds that such a property would not necessitate an understanding of it in terms of the experiences that it would cause an observer to have.  As such, Mackie holds that if an observer were to think of the property in the way that McDowell suggests, the observer would simply be taking a secondary quality for a primary quality.  McDowell argues that this conception of primary qualities that resemble secondary qualities as we experience them is incoherent, as the two requirements that would need to be fulfilled in order for this conception to stand are unable to be met.  The two requirements that, if fulfilled, would make this conception coherent are as follows: (1) secondary qualities would need to “figure in perceptual experience neutrally” rather than be conceived as “essentially phenomenal qualities of objects” and (2) that a “naïve perceptive consciousness” could take such “neutral elements of experience” as primary qualities.  McDowell argues that it would be impossible to fulfill both of these requirements, as the fulfillment of the first requirement would necessarily preclude the fulfillment of the second.  To clarify: based on the first requirement, one would need to conceive of secondary qualities as something other than essentially phenomenal qualities of objects; however, it is inconceivable how a secondary quality might resemble a primary quality other than phenomenally, and as such, the second requirement cannot be fulfilled.  Additionally, McDowell doubts that even the first requirement could be fulfilled in isolation, as it is difficult to imagine how a secondary quality could figure into experience other than phenomenally.  Thus, McDowell reasons that his account of secondary-quality experience holds.

So, what are the implications of McDowell’s account of secondary-quality experience for the non-cognitivist?  Specifically, how does McDowell’s account weaken Mackie’s defense of a non-cognitivist error theory?  Given the apparent correctness of McDowell’s account of secondary-quality experience, there appears to be little reason to argue that a primary quality perceptual model is the only perceptual model to which one may appeal in explicating the phenomenological thesis mentioned in the first paragraph of this paper.  In fact, there seem to be good reasons for appealing to a secondary-quality model, if secondary-qualities are understood as McDowell presents them.  If one were to employ such a model, a significant analogy could be drawn between values and secondary-qualities.  That is, in just the way an object with a particular secondary quality will retain its disposition to present a certain sort of perceptual appearance, regardless of whether it is actually doing so on any particular occasion, values will retain their potential to give rise to certain attitudes even if they are not doing so on any particular occasion.  This view is perfectly consistent with the phenomenological thesis advocated by both McDowell and Mackie, if a secondary-quality perceptual model is appealed to.  Of course, this conclusion renders Mackie’s error theoretic non-cognitivism, at the very least, less definitive than he purports it to be.  It should be noted that there is a significant disanalogy between values and secondary qualities that remains potentially problematic; that is, values are supposed to have a functionality that goes beyond merely giving rise to particular attitudes, rather, they are supposed to merit these attitudes.  While McDowell attempts to address this issue, it is not decided whether he does so satisfactorily.[7]

[2] See “Values and Secondary Qualities” pg. 3

[3] There is an important stipulation that this kind of projective error is generally involved in secondary-quality perception as conceived by a pre-philosophical consciousness.  See McDowell, “Values and Secondary Qualities” pg. 3

[4] “And to accept a philosophically corrected secondary-quality model for the awareness of value would be simply to give up trying to go along with the appearances” McDowell, “Values and Secondary Qualities” pg. 3

[5] McDowell, “Values and Secondary Qualities” pg 3

[6] Problems from Locke, p. 18

[7] See D’Arms and Jacobsen, “Sentiment and Value”

In the sixth chapter of Ayer’s Language, Truth and Logic, he attempts to provide a novel critique of ethics and theology that stands to support the radical empiricist doctrine to which he subscribes.  Specifically, Ayer is concerned with constructing an acceptable account of ‘judgments of value’ that is “consistent with [his] general empiricist principles”(Ayer 104).  Ayer’s thesis is that normative ethical statements are unverifiable and serve merely as possible means of emotional expression with regard to particular issues, events, or states of affairs.  Simply, the statement ‘Stealing is wrong,’ on Ayer’s view, is equivalent to something like: ‘Stealing L.’

Before Ayer begins to explicitly argue in favor of this position, he first examines what he interprets as flaws in the common arguments for naturalist positions like utilitarianism and subjectivism.  These views hold that ethical statements are statements grounded in empirical fact.  For utilitarians, whether an act is right or wrong consists in its potential to maximize pleasure and/or happiness. For subjectivists, an act is right or wrong based on whether it is generally met with approval by particular individuals and/or communities.   Ayer believes that these accounts are unacceptable insofar as it would be perfectly consistent and without self-contradiction to assert that an action that causes the most happiness could also be wrong and, with regard to the typical subjectivist position, that it would be similarly reasonable to disagree that an action favored by most people is unquestionably the right one.

After deeming these popular naturalist arguments ineffective, Ayer goes on to address absolutist ethical views and asserts that they are similarly unacceptable.  Ayer’s argument against the general absolutist view is that the moral principles that are posited to be absolute are not subject to empirical verification.  Given that moral propositions are synthetic ones, and that, within the logical positivist paradigm, synthetic propositions can only be recognized as being significant if they are empirically verifiable, Ayer concludes that propositions of the kind that are typically put forth by ethical absolutists are necessarily meaningless.

By detracting from the plausibility of both naturalistic and absolutist ethical theories, Ayer paves the way for a new kind of moral theory that better suits his radical empiricism.  Essentially, Ayer claims that the inclusion of an ethical term in a particular proposition yields no additional content to the proposition such that it could be subjected to verification.  To say that ‘It was wrong of you to kick that puppy’ is to simply say that ‘You kicked that puppy.’  Of course, Ayer concedes that the latter sentence would likely be accompanied by some kind of indicator of disapproval such as, as he puts it, “a peculiar tone of horror, or written with the addition of some special exclamation marks”(Ayer 110).  It is important to note here that Ayer is quite careful to distinguish his theory from one that would assert that saying ‘Kicking puppies is wrong’ is indicative of a particular belief held by the speaker, namely the belief that kicking puppies is wrong.  This is an important distinction, as a propositional attitude report of this kind may be subjected to empirical verification and thus has a definite truth-value.  Simply, it is empirically verifiable whether one holds a particular belief and in virtue of this, if the statement ‘Kicking puppies is wrong’ really equates to saying ‘I believe kicking puppies is wrong,’ the former proposition would have a truth value on the basis that its synonymous analogue exists as a synthetic proposition that is subject to verification.  To put this distinction in terms of the typical subjectivist position versus that of the positivist; the subjectivist maintains that to assert ‘x is good’ is to assert that ‘I approve of x.’ Given that this is a kind of propositional attitude report, expressed in terms of approval, such a proposition would be subject to verification and thus unacceptable to radical empiricists.  Instead, Ayer holds that to express a particular sentiment is not to have that sentiment in a strict sense – that is, to express a particular sentiment is not to admit a corresponding belief that exists in firm conjunction with the expression of the sentiment in question.

It is clear that Ayer is unwilling to concede that ethical statements can be subjected to verification.  As such, he rejects the supposed question as to whether ethical terms are properly classified as definable or indefinable and, resultantly, asserts that these terms, and also all statements in which they are relevantly included are, by their very nature, meaningless.  Given this, if one were to place Ayer’s position in regard to the potential nature of ethical terms outlined in Moore’s trilemma, one would unquestionably recognize Ayer’s view as one that stands to classify ethical terms as meaningless.

Response to Harman:

Gilbert Harman, in the first chapter of The Nature of Morality, argues that there are significant distinctions to be made between the roles of observation in ethics and the sciences. Broadly, Harman is interested in determining whether “moral principles [can] be tested and confirmed in the way scientific principles can”(Harman 119).  Harman’s thesis is that moral principles cannot be tested and confirmed in such a way.

While Harman acknowledges the plausibility of performing thought experiments as a means of (at least superficially) testing both scientific and ethical principles, he cites the important difference that, scientific hypotheses, unlike ethical hypotheses, can also be tested against empirical facts.  Simply, it is possible for one to conduct a real experiment – that is, an experiment “out in the world” – if one is interested in testing the validity of a given scientific hypothesis.  The possibility of conducting a similarly real experiment does not, however, exist for one who is interested in testing an ethical hypothesis.  In order to clarify this distinction, Harman examines what is involved in making an observation.  Harman’s claim is that all observations are necessarily “theory laden.”  That is, as Harman puts it, “What you perceive depends to some extent on the theory you hold, consciously or unconsciously”(Harman 120).  In other words, in order for one to make an observation in the sense that it is commonly understood, one must have a great deal of theoretical information that serves to establish significant and comprehensible conceptual relationships between the perceived objects that ultimately constitute the observation.  In this way, an observer observes what she does depending on the particular theories and/or general conceptualizations to which she subscribes.  As such, Harman concedes that, given this understanding of what constitutes an observation, it is entirely appropriate to describe particular situations or events as being just, unjust, right, or wrong.  It follows from this that observations might be rightly characterized as performing similar roles in both science and ethics, at least in the way discussed thus far.  However, Harman maintains that there remains a significant difference between the roles of observation in science and ethics that cannot be ignored.

While one may, and in fact must, appeal to facts about the world in explaining particular observations that stand to support a scientific theory, this is not necessarily the case with observations of a moral kind.  In scientific cases, not only must an observer have certain psychological dispositions in order to apprehend an observation as being relevant to a particular theory, but also, the observer must be able to assert that the physical objects of perception that qualify her observation as supporting the theory in question do actually exist – that is, that the facts about the world upon which the observation ultimately relies are, in fact, the case.  Simply, any given observation, if it is to qualify as supporting a scientific theory, must cohere not only with the psychological particulars of the observer, but also with the relevant facts about the world.  Such a requirement does not seem necessary in moral cases.  It is sufficient to make reference only to an observer’s psychological dispositions in order to substantiate and/or qualify their ethical observations.  If I observe a bank robbery taking place and make the ethical judgment that the activity is wrong, I would not need to appeal to any facts about the world, specifically ones that are moral in nature, in order to substantiate my judgment.  Rather, I need only reference my moral sense about such activities.  As such, moral observations cannot reasonably be said to qualify as objective evidence in support of, or against, any given moral theory.  Moral observations do not provide evidence for facts other than those about the psychological disposition or moral inclinations of the observer.

While the moral principles held by an observer might help to explain why she tends to classify certain situations as being wrong, her moral principles cannot help to explain why she thinks to think that situations of this kind are wrong.  In other words, if an observer recognizes that the nature of an ongoing activity is such that it violates one of her moral principles, she would likely recognize that activity as being wrong.  However, she need not, and very likely could not, reference any moral facts that would further substantiate her observation.  As Harman puts it, “moral principles do not seem to help explain your observing what you observe”(Harman 123).

It is primarily in this sense that Harman feels that the roles of observation in ethics and the sciences are significantly distinct.  Given this proposed distinction, Harman concludes that moral principles cannot be tested and confirmed in the way scientific principles can.

Response to Gibbard:

I attempt to show in what follows that Gibbard’s notions of rationality and reasoning are inherently mistaken and misrepresentative of the actual meanings of the terms (or at least partially so).  First, I will argue that Gibbard’s characterization of that which is “warranted” or “makes sense” as being rational is fallacious and relies on a problematic conception of rationality.  Next, I will argue against Gibbard’s idea that “Reasoning is to be explained naturalistically, and one can intelligibly be against it.”[1]

Gibbard claims that, in reference to his Cleopatra example, it would be rational for the involved courtier to be angry and, at the same time, rational for him not to want to be angry.  I believe that Gibbard is correct to say that it would be rational for the courtier to not want to be angry, however, it is with the idea that it would be ‘rational’ for the courtier to be angry that I take issue.  This claims rests on the presupposition that the courtier has come to accept a given norm and that his acting against this norm would suggest that he has acted irrationally.  But why is acting against a given norm evidence for irrational conduct?  Is there something special about the norm in question such that in order to be ‘rational,’ one must abide by it?  In order for this to be the case, the norm, in of itself, would have to be rational.  Simply, if one is to be called rational because he abides by a certain norm, it must be the case that that norm is a rational one.  However, a norm can only be rational if it is rational for an individual to follow it.[2] To return to Gibbard’s Cleopatra example, it is rational for the courtier to be angry if and only if it is rational for the courtier to abide by the norm that prescribes anger in such circumstances.  For this reason, it is clear to see why it is rational for the courtier not to want to be angry.  Given the courtier’s supposed end – that is, to ingratiate himself with the queen – it is rational for him not to want to be angry as, if he were to become visibly angry, he would not be effectively pursuing his end of ingratiation.  Rationality cannot be broadly construed as that which “makes sense” in a given situation if the intent is not to make reference to what “makes sense” for an individual given his particular ends.  Simply, what “makes sense” for an individual cannot be explained by reference to a particular norm unless the acceptance of the norm facilitates the pursuit of one of the individual’s ends.  As such, Gibbard’s claim that it is appropriate to refer to that which “makes sense” or is “warranted” as being rational, without the further stipulation outlined above, is flawed.

Gibbard proposes that it is possible to “avoid” the activity of reasoning by “act[ing] from whim or unreasoned passion.”  To speak of reasoning in this way is to speak of it superficially.  It is true that people often refer to acts of passion as being unreasonable. However, such usage is almost always an appeal to the speaker’s disapproval of the passionate act.  Are we to take this expressed disapproval as having significant weight?  That is, are we to go so far as to assume that we have acted outside the boundaries of reason if one of our acts is superficially deemed “unreasonable?”  It seems to me that the notion of acting outside of the boundaries of reason is unintelligible.  No matter how passionate my act, it is always performed with a particular end in mind.  If I have neglected one of my ends in pursuit of another, it is not the case that I have acted unreasonably. Rather, I have adjusted the weight of my various ends such that one has come to trump another.  For instance, if, while en route to a conference on German Idealism, I decide to turn around on the interstate in order to attend a rock concert, it cannot be rightly said that I have acted unreasonably.  On the contrary, I have effectively employed my ability to reason by setting a new end and performing the appropriate means in order to achieve that end.  That is, I have decided to go to the rock concert and, as such, adjusted my course.  Gibbard suggests that one can reject “acts one thinks rational” as “‘That would be the rational thing to do’ can be said in a sour tone of voice.”[3] All this really means, however, is that the sour toned speaker has an end in mind whose pursuit would conflict with one of the hearer’s ends. The speaker takes a sour tone in order to coax the hearer into giving more weight to the speaker’s end such that it could be pursued cooperatively and without conflict.  It is not that the speaker is asking the hearer to act outside the boundaries of reason.  Rather, the speaker is hoping that the hearer will abandon one of his own ends and adopt one of the speaker’s.  In this situation, neither party is operating outside the boundaries of reason.  No matter how passionate the speaker’s end or how noble the hearer’s, they are both ends that can be reasonably pursued by performing the separate means that will lead to their achievement.

[2] In order for an action to be a rational one, it must be that it either directly or indirectly serves to promote an end of the actor.  Simply, if I desire to f and know that by j-ing, I will f, then it is rational for me to desire to j.  This presupposes, of course, that by j-ing I will not be interfering with the attainment of another one of my ends, in which case, I would have to deliberate further in order to decide whether I actually ought to j.

[3] Gibbard, pg. 50

In order to be deemed jealous/envious one must:

(1) desire a particular object

(2) not currently possess said object

(3) observe that some other individual currently possesses said object

(4) experience discontent as a result of the observation mentioned in (3)

While these criteria seem sufficient – insofar as they, taken as a whole, express the general sum of experiences that would serve to explain one’s jealousy or envy – I cannot help but perceive the need for a particular clarification; namely, a precise specification of what is meant by the term ‘object.’  I view this specification as necessary as I believe that the fundamental difference between jealousy and envy lies in the nature of the desired object.  In cases of jealousy, I would argue that the object of desire must be one that possesses the power of choice – that is, the object must have the ability to rationally deliberate between potential objects of its’ desire.  Simply, the object of desire must be one that has the freedom to determine its’ own possessor and also, whether it will be possessed at all.  Contrastingly, the object of desire that is referred to in cases of envy must be one that does not (and cannot) will its’ being possessed and is instead possessed, or not, solely as the result of some other’s will.  To clarify:

In order to be deemed jealous one must:

(1) desire an x that has the capacity to rationally deliberate between, and subsequently pursue, objects of its’ own desire

(2) not currently possess x

(3) observe that some other individual, y, currently desires and possesses x

(4) observe that x desires y

(5) experience discontent as a result of the observations mentioned in (3) and (4)

In order to be deemed envious one must:

(1) desire an x that does not, itself, have the capacity to formulate its’ own desires

(2) not currently possess x

(3) observe that some other individual, y, currently desires and possesses x

(4) experience discontent as a result of the observation mentioned in (3)

Thus, we are able to distinguish between jealousy and envy as psychological states.  At this point, it seems necessary that I make the caveat that I am not, in making the above distinction, attempting to make any sort of substantive claim about the practical semantics of the terms used to describe these psychological states.  Rather, my intent is to forward an acceptable normative claim in regard to the use of these particular terms as correspondents to distinct psychological states.  Simply, I accept that these terms are often used interchangeably, whilst simultaneously rejecting that they should be used so.

Please leave a comment or e-mail me and tell me what you think so far or if you have any useful criticisms.

“It is approximately 2:30 US time (7:30 London time) and my beautiful fiancée and I have just arrived at our hotel.  Unfortunately, we cannot check in for five more hours.  On the bright side, this inconvenience affords me some time to draft an entry.
There’s something about this city that seems strangely familiar.  I have been here only once before when I was about twelve years old.  You would think that I wouldn’t have been able to absorb much of the environment at that age, however, it seems that I did.  The architecture that makes up the London cityscape feels homey for reasons that I don’t quite understand.  Everything here is, to put it simply, epic and wonderful.  The general class of the city seems, in some way, superior to that of any American city that I’ve spent any time in.  The citizenry presents with a kind of unspoken pride that one does not often find among those back in the states.  There is a general aesthetic presence in this city that, at least for me, encourages real inspiration.  I feel comfortable here and in awe of the products of humanity for the first time in a while.
Sorry for the stream of consciousness-esque writing, I haven’t been able to sleep and I am currently overwhelmed (in a good way).  More later.”

That’s it.  The good news is that we are now in Paris and our hotel has free wireless so I’ll be making more frequent entries (I hope).

P.S.  Philosophy house > *

However, I did officially join the Brandeis Graduate Philosophy group on Facebook today and had brief interchanges with a couple of other incoming students.  Every step in this process is making me increasingly excited about starting classes and getting to know my fellow philosophers.

As of right now, I’m about to settle in for an intensive internet investigation in hopes of finding somewhere decent to live come the Fall.

Wish me luck!

More tomorrow.

Chris

In Rawls’ fourth lecture on Kant, he discusses the third formulation of the categorical imperative. As Kant provides us with about ten variants of this formulation in the original text (Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals), Rawls provides us with three so that we’ll gain an, at least somewhat, encompassing understanding of the formulation. Below are the three variants that Rawls includes in his lecture:

(a) The supreme condition of the will’s conformity with universal practical reason is the idea of the will of every reasonable and rational being as a will that makes universal law.

(b) All maxims as proceeding from our making of law ought to cohere into a possible realm of ends as a realm of nature.

(c) Act as if your maxims had to serve at the same time as a universal law (for all reasonable and rational persons).

While all three variants attempt to express a single formulation, they do significantly differ.  This is unimportant at present, however.  What is important is that I express an amazing consequence of the existence of a realm of ends.  In an earlier entry, I discussed the distinct ability of human beings to be free.  The result of our attainment of this freedom on a universal scale – that is, that every rational being should exercise their freedom by abiding by the moral law – is the existence of a realm of ends.  So, what is a “realm of ends?”  A realm of ends would be one in which all rational beings operated according to the same basic principles that would serve to dictate their actions such that they would only act with respect to the ends of all other rational beings.  Simply, a realm in which all rational beings recognized that all rational beings, themselves included, exist as ends in themselves.

What is most fascinating about all of this is that the existence of such a realm of ends would effectively create natural laws that could equally-well be recognized as moral ones.  As Rawls puts it, “It’s as if this totality of maxims is transformed at the same time into laws of nature.”  How exciting!  We, as potentially free beings, have the ability to create natural laws!

…I was about to provide some pretty bold commentary on the implications of all this, however, I must admit that I’m not confident enough in my ideas to publish them at present.

Anyways, now that this is posted, I feel better.

Chris