Thursday, July 31, 2003
Parfit for a King
posted by Alan
I’ve read the first chapter of Derek Parfit’s Reasons and Persons, and it indeed lives up to the back-cover praise. Nonetheless, a little dissent never hurt anyone. So at the risk of challenging an intellectual Goliath without a slingshot, here goes.
Parfit writes, “Suppose that we all believe C [Consequentialism], and all have sets of motives that are among the best possible sets in Consequentialist terms. I have claimed that, at least for most of us, these sets would not include being a pure do-gooder. If we are not pure do-gooders, we shall sometimes do what we believe will make the outcome worse. According to C, we shall then be acting wrongly.”
This means, in Parfit’s terms, that C is “indirectly collectively self-defeating” – “if several people try to achieve their [C]-given aims, these aims will be worse achieved.” He mentions a few ways in which the motive to make overall outcomes as good as possible can have sub-optimal effects. One is that overall happiness, a large part of good outcomes, will decrease when pure do-gooders act against or suppress desires such as love and personal ambition. Another is that pure do-gooders will likely often do things in the name of consequentialism, such as kill, that will actually worsen overall outcomes. Perhaps it is, therefore, better if certain “severe” actions such as deception, coercion, and killing were, for the most part, off-limits to consequentialists. As intuitive as this may seem, keep in mind that it would also obviate many cases of deception, coercion, and killing that would actually lead to overall good. Needless to say, these failures to deceive, coerce, and kill would be wrong in consequentialist terms. But might they be blameless wrongs? Might it be a greater wrong to cause oneself to lose the aversion to deceiving, coercing, and killing in ordinary situations?
Along the same lines, Parfit offers the following example: “Clare could either save her child’s life, or save the lives of several strangers. Because she loves her child, she saves him, and the strangers all die.” Consequentialism dictates that Clare save the strangers. However, according to Parfit, she could reply, “I had no reason to believe that my love for my child would have this very bad effect….And causing myself to lose this love would have been blameworthy, or subjectively wrong. When I save my child rather than the strangers, I am acting on a set of motives that it would have been wrong for me to cause myself to lose. This is enough to justify my claim that, when I act in this way, this is a case of blameless wrongdoing.” She could add, “I could not possibly have lost this love with the speed that would have been required….It would have been wrong for me to try to lose my love for my child. If I had tried, I would have succeeded only after the strangers had died.”
Parfit goes on to claim, “We could imagine that our love for our children would ‘switch off’ whenever other people’s lives are at stake. It might be true that, if we all had this kind of love, this would make the outcome better. If we all gave such priority to saving more lives, there would be few cases in which our love for our children would have to switch off. This love could therefore be much as it is now. But it is in fact impossible that our love could be like this. We could not bring about such ‘fine-tuning.’”
Or could we? I think this last assertion illustrates the indispensability of science to moral philosophy. Since the dawn of moral philosophy, its practitioners have made factual claims, often about human nature (e.g., just about any social contractarian), upon which much of their philosophical ones rest. I am by no means implying that disciplines such as evolutionary psychology have directly normative implications. Rather, I am simply pointing out that ignoring such sciences is inconsistent with the pursuit of objectivity, truth, and other philosophical aims. The intersection of science and philosophy should not be limited to metaphysics and debate rounds involving Phil Larochelle. Moral philosophy, in all its talk of “ought” and “is,” cannot afford to ignore the latter.
So what does science say about love for one’s children? In short, natural selection favors organisms that maximize the reproduction of their genes. Since Clare shares approximately fifty percent of her genes with her child, and, odds are, far fewer with the strangers, she is inclined to save her child. Needless to say, such “kin selection” is instinctual, not conscious. But so are many other natural drives that are bad for society. Rationally and morally, most of us care about the entire morally considerable universe, but biologically, we are not inclined to short-change ourselves for the good of the group. Although the cumulative affects of individual selection are sometimes beneficial to groups, species, societies, and even the world, natural selection almost never occurs on such levels; the differential reproduction of entire, discrete groups is a rare event, indeed. Thus, our “altruistic” instincts largely take the form of kin selection, as aforementioned, and “reciprocal altruism.” An example of the latter is taking a minor risk to save a stranger’s life in return for the stranger’s help in the future; both parties’ reproductive success is increased. In our formative environment of small, closely-knit societies, reciprocal altruism was much more realistic. (The stranger’s incentive to “cheat” and fail to reciprocate, and the ensuing biological arms race to gain the upper hand, is arguably the primary impetus behind the evolution of many of our social and moral behaviors, such as deception, self-deception, and the punishment of “cheaters,” as well as the emotions and social intelligence that enable and motivate such behaviors. For more, see this paper.)
As rational beings, we seek, in a sense, to “escape” our nature. We enact laws in order to directly reap group-level rewards (e.g., preventing the tragedy of the commons) that our instincts alone could never sow. Is Clare’s dilemma any different? Arguably, familial love is uniquely rewarding, a good consequence in itself. But it seems even less clear that it would take the loss of familial love to motivate Clare to do the right thing. Clare’s dilemma seems to be less about the “fine-tuning” of a disposition, and more about the everyday weighing that consequentialism demands. In the same way that Clare might be motivated to save the strangers if her child were extremely dangerous or evil, the fact that there are multiple strangers should weigh on her conscience. True, the former factors arguably diminish love, whereas the latter counterbalance it, but is this a relevant distinction? If anything, counterbalancing implies that Clare can maintain her love for her child. Moreover, she could surely derive some deep personal satisfaction from the fact that she did what she believed to be the right thing instead of giving into her nature. It is unlikely that this satisfaction would ever outweigh the loss of a child, but who said being good was supposed to be easy?
Parfit writes, “Suppose that we all believe C [Consequentialism], and all have sets of motives that are among the best possible sets in Consequentialist terms. I have claimed that, at least for most of us, these sets would not include being a pure do-gooder. If we are not pure do-gooders, we shall sometimes do what we believe will make the outcome worse. According to C, we shall then be acting wrongly.”
This means, in Parfit’s terms, that C is “indirectly collectively self-defeating” – “if several people try to achieve their [C]-given aims, these aims will be worse achieved.” He mentions a few ways in which the motive to make overall outcomes as good as possible can have sub-optimal effects. One is that overall happiness, a large part of good outcomes, will decrease when pure do-gooders act against or suppress desires such as love and personal ambition. Another is that pure do-gooders will likely often do things in the name of consequentialism, such as kill, that will actually worsen overall outcomes. Perhaps it is, therefore, better if certain “severe” actions such as deception, coercion, and killing were, for the most part, off-limits to consequentialists. As intuitive as this may seem, keep in mind that it would also obviate many cases of deception, coercion, and killing that would actually lead to overall good. Needless to say, these failures to deceive, coerce, and kill would be wrong in consequentialist terms. But might they be blameless wrongs? Might it be a greater wrong to cause oneself to lose the aversion to deceiving, coercing, and killing in ordinary situations?
Along the same lines, Parfit offers the following example: “Clare could either save her child’s life, or save the lives of several strangers. Because she loves her child, she saves him, and the strangers all die.” Consequentialism dictates that Clare save the strangers. However, according to Parfit, she could reply, “I had no reason to believe that my love for my child would have this very bad effect….And causing myself to lose this love would have been blameworthy, or subjectively wrong. When I save my child rather than the strangers, I am acting on a set of motives that it would have been wrong for me to cause myself to lose. This is enough to justify my claim that, when I act in this way, this is a case of blameless wrongdoing.” She could add, “I could not possibly have lost this love with the speed that would have been required….It would have been wrong for me to try to lose my love for my child. If I had tried, I would have succeeded only after the strangers had died.”
Parfit goes on to claim, “We could imagine that our love for our children would ‘switch off’ whenever other people’s lives are at stake. It might be true that, if we all had this kind of love, this would make the outcome better. If we all gave such priority to saving more lives, there would be few cases in which our love for our children would have to switch off. This love could therefore be much as it is now. But it is in fact impossible that our love could be like this. We could not bring about such ‘fine-tuning.’”
Or could we? I think this last assertion illustrates the indispensability of science to moral philosophy. Since the dawn of moral philosophy, its practitioners have made factual claims, often about human nature (e.g., just about any social contractarian), upon which much of their philosophical ones rest. I am by no means implying that disciplines such as evolutionary psychology have directly normative implications. Rather, I am simply pointing out that ignoring such sciences is inconsistent with the pursuit of objectivity, truth, and other philosophical aims. The intersection of science and philosophy should not be limited to metaphysics and debate rounds involving Phil Larochelle. Moral philosophy, in all its talk of “ought” and “is,” cannot afford to ignore the latter.
So what does science say about love for one’s children? In short, natural selection favors organisms that maximize the reproduction of their genes. Since Clare shares approximately fifty percent of her genes with her child, and, odds are, far fewer with the strangers, she is inclined to save her child. Needless to say, such “kin selection” is instinctual, not conscious. But so are many other natural drives that are bad for society. Rationally and morally, most of us care about the entire morally considerable universe, but biologically, we are not inclined to short-change ourselves for the good of the group. Although the cumulative affects of individual selection are sometimes beneficial to groups, species, societies, and even the world, natural selection almost never occurs on such levels; the differential reproduction of entire, discrete groups is a rare event, indeed. Thus, our “altruistic” instincts largely take the form of kin selection, as aforementioned, and “reciprocal altruism.” An example of the latter is taking a minor risk to save a stranger’s life in return for the stranger’s help in the future; both parties’ reproductive success is increased. In our formative environment of small, closely-knit societies, reciprocal altruism was much more realistic. (The stranger’s incentive to “cheat” and fail to reciprocate, and the ensuing biological arms race to gain the upper hand, is arguably the primary impetus behind the evolution of many of our social and moral behaviors, such as deception, self-deception, and the punishment of “cheaters,” as well as the emotions and social intelligence that enable and motivate such behaviors. For more, see this paper.)
As rational beings, we seek, in a sense, to “escape” our nature. We enact laws in order to directly reap group-level rewards (e.g., preventing the tragedy of the commons) that our instincts alone could never sow. Is Clare’s dilemma any different? Arguably, familial love is uniquely rewarding, a good consequence in itself. But it seems even less clear that it would take the loss of familial love to motivate Clare to do the right thing. Clare’s dilemma seems to be less about the “fine-tuning” of a disposition, and more about the everyday weighing that consequentialism demands. In the same way that Clare might be motivated to save the strangers if her child were extremely dangerous or evil, the fact that there are multiple strangers should weigh on her conscience. True, the former factors arguably diminish love, whereas the latter counterbalance it, but is this a relevant distinction? If anything, counterbalancing implies that Clare can maintain her love for her child. Moreover, she could surely derive some deep personal satisfaction from the fact that she did what she believed to be the right thing instead of giving into her nature. It is unlikely that this satisfaction would ever outweigh the loss of a child, but who said being good was supposed to be easy?
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