Es ist klar, dass sich die Ethik nicht aussprechen läßt.
(It is clear that ethics cannot be expressed.)
Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 6:421
HARDLY ANY POLITICAL PURGE, religious war, or ethnic cleansing was not justified, embellished, or inspired by great moral values: justice, righteousness, freedom, liberty, equality, human rights—you name it. Robespierre, Hitler, and Pol Pot all acted in the name of virtue. When people kill each other, especially on a massive scale and in organized fashion, ethics are usually held in high esteem. It is much easier to murder a man if you believe that he is evil—and that you are good. Of course, the defenders of ethics will say: “Well, so what, no moral value is immune to abuse.” But what is abuse? An ax can be used for cutting down an old oak tree that will keep your house warm in the winter. It can be used to split the skull of a criminal who attacks your family; it can be used to cut off the head of a man sentenced to death. It can be used to assassinate a tyrant. It can be used to kill your enemies in war. It can be used to break into a rich man’s home. It can be used to torture a terrorist. It can be used to take deadly revenge. Where does its use end and its abuse begin? What are the rules for the use and the abuse of a tool? Who defines these rules, and when do they apply? Morality is a tool. It is not, unlike an ax, used for splitting things into halves, but for dividing people into two categories: the good and the bad. It is a rhetorical, psychological, and social tool. To say it can be used and abused is the same as to say: It is not guns that kill, but people. I do not believe in this logic. Axes and guns are not “innocent.” The categories of innocence and guilt do not apply to tools.
This book does not say, Abolish morality! That would make as much sense as saying: Abolish all axes! (or guns, for that matter). But it does question the commonly held belief that morality is, in and of itself, a good thing. It is not. It is not more of a good thing than an ax or a gun. My main issues are Who says that morality is good? Why do people say this? How is morality used? And, Do the answers to these questions suggest that morality is inherently good? Are there different kinds of distinguishing between good and bad, and what kind of good/bad distinction is the moral one?
The goodness of morality normally goes unquestioned. But isn’t it a circular argument to say that to distinguish between good and evil is good rather than evil? How can it be morally good to make such a distinction?1 If it is, then moral goodness would paradoxically justify itself—or be simply evident. I think that the historical figures Robespierre, Hitler, and Pol Pot sufficiently demonstrate that morality is neither necessarily nor evidently good.
To say the opposite, that morality is evil, would be equally absurd. It would be just as absurd as saying that an ax or a gun is in and of itself evil. It would be as absurd as saying, “It is guns that kill, not people.” The absurdity of one statement does not make its opposite necessarily truer. That axes or guns are not innocent does not make them guilty. None of these categories apply.
What I argue here is that one cannot say that morality is good or evil. Similarly, one cannot say that an ax or a gun is good or evil. I question the fundamental validity of such general ethical judgments. But my argument is not merely nihilistic. I also suggest that morality—or ethics—can be dangerous and that it may be advisable to be cautious with it. I say this because the idea is so often overlooked. In my profession, academic philosophy, interest in ethics has been, as in society on the whole, very much on the rise in recent years. If you want a job as a philosophy professor it is, nowadays, best to specialize in ethics: in the history of ethics, applied ethics, business ethics, bioethics, gender ethics—the list is growing all the time. Ethics are in vogue. Politics and the mass media are all concerned with ethics. Even the economy is nowadays supposed to consider ethical questions. And in every case it is presupposed that ethics are ethically good.
I do not think that ethics are ethically good or bad. I do not believe in inherent goodness or badness. But I believe that it is meaningless to speak of the abuse of a tool when it works perfectly well. Just as an ax chops wood as well as it can chop off heads, morality can be used equally well for helping or killing people. What was an ax made for? To say that it can be abused is to say that it was somehow created with only good uses in mind, and that later on someone found it could be used for bad ones as well. This is nonsense. What was the good intention behind the “invention” of ethics that was then later on, in some cases, perverted by sinister thugs? There is no goodness and badness in a tool, be it social or mechanical. Goodness and badness are always judgments, ascriptions by an observer. There is nothing inherently good or bad in an ax—and the same is true for ethics, in exactly the same sense.
Just like an ax, ethics can be deemed good or bad. It is clear that an observer can decide if a tool is being used well or not. But such a decision does not make ethics absolutely good or bad. Since, in our society, ethics are overwhelmingly observed as being good, I think it is important to point out the opposite, namely that there is equal reason to observe that ethics are bad. And therefore, it may be advisable to minimize the use of ethics. Again, the same could be said with respect to axes or guns.
But isn’t it still paradoxical to say that ethics are bad? Isn’t this, notwithstanding all disclaimers, itself an ethical proposition? The epigraph from Wittgenstein’s Tractatus states that ethics are ineffable—and thus may seem paradoxical in a similar way. How can one say that something cannot be talked about? Wittgenstein discusses this issue in more detail in his “Lecture on Ethics.”2 His basic argument there is, in poetical terms, that if a book on ethics were possible all other books would “explode.” If it were indeed possible to define what is truly good, what else of any significance would remain to be said? It would be such a fundamental revelation of truth that nothing else would matter. However, Wittgenstein explains, meaningful language is unable to perform such a superhuman task. Meaningful propositions relate to facts, and foundational ethical statements are not factual but, so to speak, ideal. The attempt to speak ethically is, according to Wittgenstein, an attempt to get beyond the confinements of meaningful language; it is like trying to get beyond the limits of language. We can say that a particular way leads to London, but not that this is the right way. There is no meaning attached to the Tightness of a way in any absolute sense. Wittgenstein argues that, in the same way, ethical statements transcend factual linguistic meaning.3
To use the terms “good” and “bad” in a truly ethical way is to use them, for Wittgenstein, in an absolute way. To say this person is good—in a strong moral sense of the word “good”—is very similar to saying that this is the good or the right way to London. An amoral use of the terms “good” and “bad” is, for Wittgenstein, “relative.” We may say: This person is a good runner, or a good mother, or a good friend. But this does not mean that we make an absolute ethical judgment about the person. She is a good mother to us—but that does not exclude the possibility of her being a criminal. To be good at sports means you are good at winning competitions and to be good at school means you get good grades. None of these usages of the word “good” is moral. It is by no means clear that winning in sports or having good grades is morally preferable to the opposite in all cases. The moral usage of the word “good” is only one of many other possible usages. One problem with the moral usage of the term “good” is that it leads to rather general statements. It never really says what is particularly good about the thing one is speaking of.
Neither people nor events are simply good or bad. They are usually, in some way or other, good for some and bad for others. When I say that ethics are not good, I mean this always in a specific and not in a general sense. An ethical mindset, for instance, can be psychologically unpleasant. An ethical work of art can be boring, and an ethical philosophy can be grotesque. An ethical war can lead to the killing and mutilation of many people who’d prefer not to be killed or mutilated. An ethical trial can be legally problematic, and so on. In this sense, ethical thought, ethical literature, ethical philosophy, ethical wars, and ethical justice can be deemed bad. But this does not mean that they are immoral. Perhaps wars, trials, and literature can be morally appreciated and justified. But, in an amoral sense, this ethical goodness does not necessarily translate into goodness in any concrete sense. The legal killing of a mass murderer may be morally just—but it is neither necessarily and practically good for the person who is going to be killed, nor for society, nor for the legal system. Perhaps there are a lot of advantages and benefits for criminals, society as a whole, and the judicial system if it avoids the use of a—perhaps—morally just penalty.
My position could be labeled “agnostic.” It is a position that says that we cannot ultimately know if ethics are good or bad. Put a little more poetically, it is the position of the “moral fool.” I derive this image—as I do my position on the whole—from Daoist philosophy and Zen Buddhism. But I also rely on a number of contemporary authors, most importantly the German sociologist Niklas Luhmann. There are many other modern Western thinkers on whom one can rely when criticizing ethics, among them the British writer John Gray. I refer to him and others as my argument unfolds. Here, at the beginning, I want to make clear that the moral fool is not a fundamentalist. If people are of the opinion that taking drugs is not necessarily a good thing, this does not necessarily mean that they think that all marijuana should be destroyed or that they never inhaled. They simply think that marijuana is potentially dangerous and that if one chooses to smoke it, one should be careful with it. The same is true for the amoral person with respect to ethics.
The moral fool simply does not understand why ethics are necessarily good. He does not know if the moral perspective is good at all. This does not mean that he is entirely without ethical judgments. The moral fool is not so different, I assert, from most people much of the time. Most of the time we neither think nor speak in ethical terms at all, and even when we do, we are often not entirely sure what exactly is, and what is not, ethical. The moral fool, I argue, is not at all an exemplar or an ideal; he is not an inverted ethical hero. To be a moral fool is actually quite common, and my point is that there is absolutely nothing wrong with this. In fact, I think that problems often arise when we try to overcome our moral foolishness. This book is thus written in defense of the moral fool. It is written to promote moral foolishness and its merits.
I do not believe that ethics can be identified as inherently good or bad. But this does not mean that we—and I include myself here—do not constantly distinguish between what we think is good or bad. But, like the moral fool, I am not convinced that this differentiation is necessarily a good thing. Also, I believe that most of our distinctions between good and bad are nonethical or amoral. Ethical distinctions, I argue, are an extreme type of distinguishing between good and bad—and thus, as it is often the case with extremes, rather dangerous. To argue that something is potentially dangerous or harmful is, I believe, not necessarily an ethical claim—and I do not mean it in an ethical sense. For example, to say that using axes or guns is dangerous does not imply that they are evil tools nor that those who use them are evil people. I do not even think that those who use tools dangerously are evil. I think, however, they may well be criminal or mentally ill and should therefore not be allowed to use them and probably should be sanctioned if they do. Similarly, I do not think that making dangerous and harmful use of morality is necessarily evil. But I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of declaring those who use this communicative tool in a dangerous and harmful way to be criminal or mentally ill.
It would be entirely bizarre to advocate the elimination of the distinction between good and bad. But this does not imply that this distinction is always an ethical distinction. And it means even less that the distinction, as such, is good or bad. I argue that it is less dangerous and therefore potentially less harmful to use the good/ bad distinction in an amoral sense. And I try to show what kind of concrete harm can be done when ethical categories abound—particularly in cases where they could easily be avoided.
Perhaps the two most important substitutes for ethics are “love” and “law.” But these terms can easily be misunderstood. So I give a number of examples to illustrate right away how I use them in the context of my argument. The primordial work of literature that deals with love and law, as I understand these terms, is the ancient Greek tragedy Antigone by Sophocles. The crucial conflict depicted in the play is the following: Polynices, a young man from Thebes, is killed in battle against his home city in front of its gates. Creon, the ruler of Thebes, issues a decree that makes it illegal (by punishment of death) to grant this traitor a formal burial. Antigone, Polynices’ sister, however, does not follow the law and, as Hegel says in his Aesthetics, “in the piety of her love for her brother, she fulfils the holy duty of burial.”4
The most famous philosophical analysis of this narrative is in Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit. Here, Hegel seems to use the story to illustrate a point that is quite the opposite of my own. For him, the story does not depict the “antidotes” of morality but rather the “dialectics” between what he calls ethics (Sittlichkeit), as represented by Antigone, and morality (Moral), as represented by Creon, that is, between two kinds of morality.5 But upon closer inspection, and by also taking into account Hegel’s own depiction of Antigone’s position, one can discern a certain ambiguity in his interpretation. I side with an alternative amoral reading of the story that one may, paradoxically, also ascribe to Hegel and that has been nicely expressed by Walter Kaufmann: “[Hegel] realized that at the centre of the greatest tragedies of Aeschylus and Sophocles we find not a tragic hero but a tragic collision, and that the conflict is not between good and evil but between one-sided positions, each of which embodies some good.”6 In line with this, I prefer to read Antigone not chiefly as a collision between different kinds of moralities but rather as the conflict between two archetypal amoral perspectives.
For me, Antigone does not primarily illustrate, as for Hegel in the Phenomenology of Spirit, female obedience to divine law, but rather, as for Hegel in the Lectures on Aesthetics, a sister’s love for her brother.7 It is entirely irrelevant if Antigone finds her brother’s actions morally acceptable or not. She looks at him not from a moral perspective, but as his sister. She buries him not because she appreciates what he did but because of her sisterly feelings. This meaning of love is what I have in mind here, and it is quite different from two perhaps more common uses of the term “love,” namely unconditional Christian love (agape) or passionate love for a lover. Antigone was not a Christian. What she did for her brother, she would not have done for anyone else. She was not “in love” with him and felt no passionate (and sexual) desires for him. Christian love tends to be highly moral; it is prescribed by a religious doctrine or commandment: Love thy neighbor. Antigone does not follow such a divine command. Passionate love is normally quite amoral (but it can also easily be immoral). The problem with passionate love is that, if it is not pathological, it comes with an expiration date. To be “madly in love” is, normally (and fortunately), only a temporary state of mind and body. Antigone’s love for her brother is not of this kind.
Creon does not act emotionally at all—or, at least, his emotions are irrelevant. He acts as someone whose function is to establish social order. Thus, personal considerations have to be ignored. He does not deal with Antigone as an evil person, but as someone who has violated the law. As was the case with Antigone and her brother, it is irrelevant what Creon thinks morally about Antigone. As someone who has to enforce the law, he cannot take into account Antigone’s individual character. He has to punish her in order to make it clear that treason cannot be tolerated if Thebes is to survive.
Antigone thus demonstrates not the clash of two moralities, but the coexistence of two amoralities that, in exceptional circumstances, cannot be reconciled. Neither of these amoralities is more or less moral. There is no hierarchy between them. We cannot measure which one is, in any universal sense, ethically better. This is the tragic aspect of Antigone: It is not about a moral conflict, but about an amoral dilemma that cannot be solved “justly.” It illustrates not the power but rather the impotence of morality. Similarly it does not illustrate the weakness of both amoral perspectives, but their respective strengths.
Morality can help neither Creon nor Antigone. But their antagonism arises only because of the extraordinary nature of the situation. In everyday life, both Creon’s and Antigone’s amorality function at the same time. As Kaufmann said, both of them are good—but not in the sense of the “good” in “good and evil.” They are not absolutely good or right or just—which is why they can coexist normally with little conflict. When there is conflict it has the potential to become dramatic and tragic because there is no moral solution. This is why Sophocles depicts neither Antigone nor Creon as wrong. It would be wrong for Antigone, as a loving sister, not to love her brother (despite his moral shortcomings), and it would be equally wrong for Creon, as the ruler of Thebes, not to punish Antigone (despite her flawless character). It is tragic, but not sick.
On the contrary, a family dominated by ethics rather than love is somehow sick—and the same is true, on a much larger scale, for a society in which morality is supposed to trump the law. This simple fact was noted by Confucius. The Analects include the following dialogue: “The Governor of She in conversation with Confucius said, ‘In our village there is someone called True Person. When his father took a sheep on the sly, he reported him to the authorities.’ Confucius replied, ‘Those who are true in my village conduct themselves differently. A father covers for his son, and a son covers for his father. And being true lies in this.’”8
I suggest that the moral of this little dialogue is not moralist—but, just as in Antigone, amoral.9 True persons are not those who follow moral rules and publicly accuse their family members of wrongdoings. They will cover for their fathers and sons. And they do so, I argue, because they love them in a way similar to the way Antigone loved her brother. Prime Confucian virtues are “filial piety” (xiao) and “parental love” (ci).These are not grounded in any insight into moral principles, but in emotions. The “root” (ben) of all virtues is the feeling of love toward one’s parents and one’s siblings.10 And it has to be established from birth. A child who grows up well will have this emotional root within herself and thus, in the Confucian model, be enabled to become virtuous. This means that all moral virtues are grounded in something amoral—in a feeling. Morality is not the root; the root is the natural attachment and emotional bond that grows between family members. For the Confucians, a healthy and moral society is not ultimately founded on moral principles and a rational (Kantian) grasp of one’s duties but on the feelings that emerge within families. Morality is founded on something amoral—and this is why morality can never outweigh family feelings. The Confucian true person is one who has well cultivated his or her emotional roots and will therefore always naturally do what is appropriate and have no need to look for certain abstract principles or external authorities for guidance.
The Confucian dialogue also implicitly touches on the second antidote for morality, namely the law. Obviously, a society cannot be built on love alone. The Confucians were well aware that, unlike in the Christian model, it is not natural to love everyone. One normally loves one’s spouse, one’s parents, one’s children, but not all others. To envision a society functioning on the basis of mutual love is quite unrealistic. The failure of religious and social movements (such as the flower power generation) that have tried to realize a society founded on love demonstrates this well enough. A family can function on the basis of love (instead of morality), but a larger society cannot. This does not, however, imply that ethics are the best foundation to provide for social harmony. A society needs to establish some rules and social mechanisms that prevent, for instance, the stealing of sheep. The tool that basically all complex societies have developed for dealing with such cases—outside of the family—is neither love nor morality, but the law. The law deals more coherently, more consequently, and even more rationally than morality with anything that is regarded as a crime in a society.
According to the Confucian view, love does not extend endlessly in society. Therefore other mechanisms are needed to establish social cohesion. The Confucians believed that rites could fulfill this function. From a contemporary perspective—and given the complexity and dimension of our society—it seems that legal procedures are more appropriate. Within a family, one does not need morality to love one another—but needs love to get along well. In a society one does not need morality to establish the law, but a legal system to prevent and deal with all sorts of “bad” behavior. I think it is perfectly in line with the Confucian perspective to say that a ritual or legal system can well accuse and sanction someone for steeling sheep. You just do not expect “sane” family members to sue one another. In a functional family, morality will not replace love, and in a functional society, ethics won’t outplay the law.
Within the family, ethics are usually secondary in importance to love. We may condemn what our spouses, our children, our parents do. But since we love them, this condemnation does not normally result in a moral judgment. Even if we strongly disagree with what our loved ones do, we will, if they are really loved ones, not think of them as evil. This is the topic of John Steinbeck’s novel East of Eden—and the famous film version of it with James Dean playing the unfortunate son Cal who yearns for the love of his father. Cal’s father is a moral exemplar, he is always ethically right and just, he even forgives Cal all of his moral missteps. But in a crucial scene toward the end of the story Cal complains to his father that all his morality, including his forgiveness, does not make up for his inability to love Cal. The family portrayed in East of Eden is a dysfunctional family because ethics is substituted for love. This is not to say that an immoral family would be functional—but it demonstrates that ethical distinctions are not really what counts in a family. When love distinctions are replaced by ethical distinctions then the emotional harmony within a family is in danger. Children need to be loved even if they do things that are morally unacceptable. This is probably a rather commonplace insight, but I think it is still noteworthy since it is probably the most obvious case of ethics being potentially pathological.
Another contemporary version of the Antigone problem has been unfolding in Canada, and not in fiction, but in reality. Robert Latimer, a farmer from Saskatchewan, killed his twelve-year-old daughter who was suffering from severe disabilities that caused constant and incurable pain. The murder was labeled a mercy killing. Latimer acted in violation of the law in order to bring his daughter’s terrible plight to an end. In accordance with the law, he was given a life sentence for second-degree murder. Just as in Antigone, the Latimer case illustrates a tragic conflict between love and law that cannot be resolved morally. The law allowed him to apply for limited parole after seven years of incarceration. In December 2007 his application was denied—and it was denied for moral reasons! The National Parole Board justified its decision by stating that Mr. Latimer had shown no “insight” into the nature of his crime. That is to say: he did not show any remorse. From a legal perspective, it was argued, so far to no avail, that the parole board acted against the law—which “requires the board to release an eligible inmate if he does not pose an undue risk to the community.”11 The board had imposed an impossible moral demand on Mr. Latimer: He was asked to admit that what he had done was not only illegal (which he never denied), but that it was also immoral. Mr. Latimer still felt that he had done the right thing based on his love for his daughter—and consequently did not publicly repent. He has now been convicted twice: Once, legally, by the court, and now, morally, by the parole board. I, for one, do not see the relevance of the moral conviction.
Even with respect to crimes that are morally much less ambiguous than that of Mr. Latimer, there is no obvious need for dealing with them ethically. One of the most infamous Canadian sexual serial killers, Paul Bernardo, committed his murders in the city where my university was located. In a public debate on religion that I had with a local pastor, the pastor argued that such heinous crimes as those of Paul Bernardo could only be condemned by referring to ultimate moral values and that these could only be derived from the Christian religion. Of course, I strongly disagreed. I believe that religion as organized and institutionalized morality is one of the more dangerous forms of ethics. But even the weaker version of my opponent’s argument, namely that morality (and not necessarily religion) is needed to condemn terrible criminals is, in my view, flawed. Paul Bernardo was not apprehended by any moral group, but by the police. He was not judged and sentenced by a committee on ethics, but by a court. And he is not detained (for life) in an institution for the moral betterment of mankind, but in a prison. He was not even sentenced for his reprehensible character and his evil nature, but for the crimes he committed, for his violation of the law. While certain judgments about a person are usually taken into account in weighing the severity of a crime and the appropriate punishment—particularly with respect to the likelihood of reoffending—there is no law against being evil and no such law is needed. One can deal perfectly well with criminals such as Paul Bernardo by convicting them and locking them up. It is unnecessary to justify this with ethical reasons.
One actually has to commit a crime to be confronted with the law, and I think that this is good—good in a practical legal sense. We no longer engage in witch hunts. I also have to admit that I am happy to live in a country where there is a clear separation between the church and the law. I would certainly prefer not to be judged by a religious court if accused of a crime. Similarly, I am in favor of the separation of ethics and law (see chapter 8). I also would not like seeing people tried before ethical committees. In my view, the distinction between a purely ethical judgment of criminals and legal procedures parallels the distinction between a lynch mob and a court of law.
I think that within intimate personal relationships love (in Antigone’s sense) functions better and less pathologically than morality. It has to be emphasized, though, that families in contemporary Western societies are very different from those in ancient Greece or in China. Accordingly, the notion of love that I am using here can also extend to, for example, stepparents or stepchildren. It can extend to longtime friends and to, basically, everyone with whom one has a very close bond. In today’s society, the traditional family is often replaced by less clearly defined peer groups.
Admittedly, love does not extend very far, but contemporary society has developed a largely amoral function system, the legal system, which is quite effective in establishing and continuously modifying sets of rules that people more or less accept regardless of their individual moral convictions. While I advocate the law as a second antidote to morality, I do not wish to be interpreted as propagating some sort of law and order point of view. I understand the law not as an instrument of discipline but as a means that allows a society like ours to “stabilize expectations”—which is how Niklas Luhmann defines the function of the legal system.12 For example, in most Western countries, traffic functions surprisingly well, given the number of cars, their speed, and the skills needed for safely operating a vehicle in various situations. This is achieved because traffic rules are largely followed; We know what to expect when we are on the road. This was not the case in earlier societies, and still isn’t in many countries. We can expect that no one will go far above the speed limit, that no one will pass another car on a two-lane highway on a curve, that others will stop at a stop sign or a red light. Of course, accidents happen—mostly when such expectations are not met. They are the exceptions to the rule. In most cases, expectations are met, and thus our roads are fairly safe. Traffic does not function well because of traffic ethics and certainly not because of any type of love. It functions because of what could be called “law light.”13
Traffic law is not draconian. No one goes to jail for parking in the wrong spot, nor even for speeding. Nor is it extremely strict. Most drivers, whenever possible, slightly exceed the speed limit. Most traffic violations remain without consequences. We do not usually get a ticket when we speed. The main function of the law in contemporary society is not to sanction and get rid of evildoers, but to provide a smooth playing field in a highly complex society. Traffic law is among the most effective laws in society, and it is also one of the least morally charged. People who drive recklessly are certainly not morally embraced, nor are they typically as morally condemned as murderers. Parking tickets and other minor offenses are generally laughed about, but this is not the case for most public misdemeanors, which are often regarded as shameful. Traffic law also does not involve any appeals to a higher justice. There is no just speed limit, and it is entirely arbitrary, or contingent, if one is supposed to drive on the left side of the road (as in Ireland) or on the right (as in Canada).Traffic rules are also subject to constant change. New signs are put up all the time; new regulations are put in place. These may even extend to aspects of traffic that were previously not legally regulated. It is quite conceivable that there will be traffic laws in the future that consider environmental damage. Perhaps it will become illegal to leave one’s motor running while idling or to drive a car that uses gas inefficiently.
This is the idea of law that I have in mind throughout this book: law not (primarily) as an instrument of retribution, but as a social system that allows a complex society to be productive. In a lawless area, you do not know what to expect around the next corner, and this will prevent most people from ever going there. A functioning law light does not aim at preventing people from doing whatever they do, but at enabling them to do so. Such law is much more effective than a strict law and order approach that is highly charged with morality; it is much more effective than simplistic ethical appeals (would Jesus drive an SUV?); and it is not subject to any concept of fundamental and universal rights. Such law functions on an amoral basis, and the type of justice it operates with is not based on any divine or secular principles, but is rather quite similar to fairness in sport (see chapter 8).
It may be appropriate to classify my argument against ethics as pragmatic. I do not think that ethics are good in a pragmatic sense. In many cases, as I try to show, society works better with less ethics than with more. I discuss examples in law, art, and warfare. One of the standard arguments against pragmatism and a pragmatic concept of truth could possibly be brought forth against my position, namely, the accusation of relativism. It may seem that the moral fool is unable to come up with a solid evaluation of moral principles. It appears, with respect to ethics, that anything goes. Since he is unable to make a foundational judgment about what is good and bad—given some sort of pragmatic justification—basically every terrible deed can potentially be labeled “good.” On the one hand, the moral fool lacks any basis for establishing moral principles, and, on the other hand, he is not in a position to morally condemn even the most obvious immoral acts.
I think that this is a rather shallow criticism. I counter it by referring to Richard Rorty, the most prominent American neopragmatist. When charged with the accusation of relativism with respect to his pragmatist concept of truth (that denies any form of objective truth), Rorty replied: “I do not see how a claim that something does not exist can be construed as a claim that something is relative to something else.”14
Rorty was speaking about the concept of truth, not about ethics and moral concepts. (In fact, Rorty conceived of his pragmatism very much as an ethical philosophy.) Still, I believe that the same reply can be given to those who accuse the moral fool of ethical relativism. I address the issue of moral relativism in more detail and much more concretely in chapter 2, but it can be said here that the moral fool is someone who does not really see any basis for coming up with ethical principles. He does not understand on what grounds the absolute distinction between good and evil can be founded. This is to say, he makes the claim that something does not exist and does not claim that all moral principles are contingent upon certain circumstances. To be a moral fool and a moral relativist are two different things. The moral fool is, perhaps, more radical than the moral relativist because the latter is willing to accept at least the relative validity of moral principles.
Though a radical, the moral fool is not a hothead or fanatic. The position of the moral fool is one of modesty. He is perhaps, in a quite Socratic fashion, wiser than others by not thinking that he knows the answers to the most important problems.
The moral fool is also, in at least one important way, different from Wittgenstein’s position in the “Lecture on Ethics.” Wittgenstein points out at the end of his lecture that despite the total impossibility of stating anything that is, in an absolute sense, ethically meaningful, he still has the highest respect for such an endeavor. It seems that he saw it as something heroic—heroic in a tragic sense. As in the case of Sisyphus, the ethical effort will ultimately be futile, but nevertheless it constitutes, according to Wittgenstein, an essential aspect of our existence. The striving for ethics may be absurd, but it is a fundamental expression of what it means to be human.
I believe that the tragic ethical heroism that is so well depicted in Wittgenstein’s lecture is representative of a Western and a humanist approach toward ethics. The moral fool is not a tragic hero. Unlike Wittgenstein, he does not value the effort of attempting to transcend boundaries, and he draws a very different conclusion from the insight into the ineffability of ethics. He is not really interested in the glory of failure—he is not interested in glory at all. The moral fool is, as I said, a rather modest fellow. He does not have great human aspirations and, consequently, does not fail in a grandiose way. The figure of the moral fool is derived from Daoism, and Daoism is not concerned with heroes. Furthermore, tragedy was not a genre that was of any significance in traditional Chinese literature or philosophy—it is practically absent in both. Daoism did not celebrate human ambition. It was not very enthusiastic about any human interference in nature to begin with. The moral fool is an ethical antihero, an Eastern alternative to the great and often tragic failure of human moralists in the Western tradition.