Joel Feinberg observed that ‘moral responsibility… is a subject about
which we are all confused.’ (1970: 37) Perhaps nowhere is this
confusion more evident than in our understandings of praise and blame.
This entry will contrast three influential philosophical accounts of
our everyday practices of praise and blame, in terms of how they might
be justified. On the one hand, a broadly Kantian approach sees responsibility for actions as relying on forms of self-control
that point back to the idea of free will. On this account praise and
blame are justified because a person freely chooses her actions. Praise
and blame respond to the person as the chooser of her deed; they recognise
her dignity as a rational agent, as Kantians tend to put it. This
approach sharply contrasts with two further ways of thinking about the
issues. One is utilitarian, where praise and blame are justified in
terms of their social benefits. Another, more complex approach is
roughly Aristotelian. This approach situates practices of
praise and blame in terms of our on-going relationships with one
another. This approach stresses the importance of mutual accountability, moral education, and assessments of character in terms of the many vices and virtues.
Table of Contents (Clicking on the links below will take you to that part of this article)
Introduction
This article will not try to convey the
exact details of these accounts, but to show how these ways of looking
at mutual accountability capture important parts of our everyday
commonsense. One modern commentator claimed that, in our attitudes to
moral responsibility, ‘we are all Kantians now’ – by ‘we’ meaning not
just philosophers but all Western persons (Adkins, 1960: 2). Another
central figure in this debate, Bernard Williams, agrees that Kant
captured a widespread tendency of modern moral thinking, but also
claims that there exist important counter-tendencies in our actual
practices of responsibility. For Williams, ancient Greek understandings
are actually more realistic and helpful than the Kantian one. So far as
our modern praising and blaming actually make sense, he claims, they
are better captured by a (roughly) Aristotelian account.
There are some important differences between
praise and blame that will not be central to this entry; in fact, blame
will get the greatest attention here. This is partly because praise
seems less problematic: misplaced blame is felt as deeply unfair, not
least because being exposed to blame is unpleasant and costly in a way
that being praised is not. But it is principally because blame has a
closer connection than praise to matters of intense philosophical
interest, including freedom, responsibility and desert. We often praise inanimate objects (such as art works or buildings) and animals (a loyal pet, for example), although we could not blame
such entities, however deeply dissatisfied we felt with them. The focus
of this article, however, will be upon entities that are clearly open
to blame as well as praise: human beings.
What is blame, such that only human beings can
be blamed? We are all familiar with resentment, reproach and accusation
regarding a person’s past actions; likewise, we all know the sense of
guilt, shame or indignation they can elicit. Philosophers differ on how
far certain emotions may be central to blame (this relates to a wider
dispute, regarding which emotions, if any, constitute a proper basis
for moral action). What is clear is that blame suggests both responsibility and culpability.
Here, responsibility only implies that the act can be identified with a
person, such that she can reasonably be expected to respond for it in
some way. That is, it does not necessarily imply fault, or culpability. This is the idea that the person is ‘in the wrong,’ that fault somehow attaches to them so that they deserve
blame. (Philosophers tend to describe this as ‘blameworthiness.’) What
sense we should give to these ideas of culpability or desert, and what
is necessary for us to think of a person as responsible: these are
central issues for this entry.
For further aspects of responsibility, see the sister entry to this article, responsibility. Another article also examines the topic of free will
in depth. Nonetheless, since Kant’s account begins with the question of
free will, it is also necessary to say something about this
straightaway. The entry will then set out the utilitarian and
Aristotelian accounts, before returning to Kant’s theory. It concludes
by discussing ideas of moral worth and desert that make Kant’s account
so appealing.
The Problem of Free Will
The free will debate
has become an old chestnut of modern philosophy. It is an intuitively
plausible way of approaching the issues – familiar to many even before
they encounter philosophical texts. It is perhaps surprising, then,
that this debate is actually a rather modern one.
The basic gist is this: if I am to be responsible (really
responsible) for my conduct, then it must be within my control.
However, if it is true that every event in the universe is determined
by causal laws, then this must be true of the events that constitute my
actions. Therefore, my conduct cannot really be within my control; therefore, I am not really
responsible for my conduct. Two conclusions immediately suggest
themselves. One is that it is incoherent to praise or blame me – and
everyone else – for our actions, because it is so difficult to doubt
the causal well-orderedness of the universe. The alternative
conclusion, scarcely more appealing, is that the human will somehow
sits outside this causal framework – ie, we have free will – because it
is unthinkable that our moral ideas be so desperately incoherent.
Both lines of thought are incompatibilist;
that is, they see the ideas of responsibility involved in praise and
blame as incompatible with the causal well-orderedness of the universe.
But while both attract some limited support among philosophers, the
overwhelming consensus now lies with compatibilism. This is
simply the thesis that responsibility and causal order are compatible.
Most philosophers agree that the alleged incompatibility results from
some important confusions, although there is much less consensus about
what these may be. At least one area of confusion is clear, however,
and forms the central issue of this article: what sort of
responsibility for conduct is involved in praise and blame? Several
familiar points in the free will debate are helpful for approaching
this.
In the first place, it is well-known
that this debate does not turn on the truth of determinism as such.
Determinism is the idea that every event is determined by fixed causal
laws. Yet it may well be that every event is somehow random in origin.
One interpretation of quantum physics claims that causal laws are the
product of statistical regularities, while these regularities stem from
a near infinite number of random events. So far as the human will is
concerned, this makes no difference. If my conduct is the product of
chance, this makes me no more responsible for it than does its
being generated by causal laws. The point is that if I am to be blamed
or praised, then I must control my conduct – not causal laws, nor mere
chance, nor some particular combination of the two.
Second, the free will debate bears a
disquieting similarity to an older controversy. In medieval philosophy
it used to be asked how God’s omniscience – his knowledge of everything
that has happened and will happen – could be reconciled with our being
subject to his moral judgment (that is, being sent to heaven or to
hell). If God knows what we will do then this seems to imply that it is
already decided whether we will act well or badly. And this, in turn,
suggests that it makes no sense to punish or reward us. Theologians
developed various doctrines to overcome this difficulty, but few sound
convincing to modern ears – perhaps because the problem itself is no
longer a live one, even for most believers. However that may be, it is
interesting that many modern versions of the debate seem to take at
least one of the planks of Christian theology for granted: that
individuals have wills that can be bad or good, usually now expressed
in the terms of people’s ‘blameworthiness’ or (less often)
‘praiseworthiness.’
In this way, the modern American
philosopher Joel Feinberg ironically referred to “a moral bank account”
that we carry through life, which sums up our moral credits and debits
in a single sum (1970: 20). Whether or not such an ‘account’ makes
sense, it is at least clear that the idea of ‘the will’ is by no means
self-explanatory. For Kant, as we shall see, it was obvious that all my
choices can be summed up in a single moral evaluation, whether I have a
‘good’ or ‘bad’ will. Kant is equivocal, however, as to whether only
God might make this evaluation, or whether human beings might also form
reasonable opinions on the matter. But especially if we take the point
of view of mutual, human accountability, it is not obvious why
we should believe any such single evaluation to be possible, or what
role this evaluation might play in our individual or collective lives.
Certainly, we usually praise and blame in terms of particular actions
and particular vices and virtues – not a good or bad will.
Third, this way of framing the
issues creates a problematic gulf between normal moral agents (adult
human beings of sound mind) and other creatures – animals and children.
At some stage of evolution, and at some stage toward maturity, certain
animals become ‘free,’ when before they had all been determined in
their conduct. Although it is grossly implausible that there are no
relevant moral differences between the other animals, children, and
human adults, it is no more plausible that the free will simply pops
into existence at a certain stage of human development. (Within a
Christian framework this issue was less problematic: human beings, and
only human beings, have souls.) Nonetheless, we tend to think there is
something sufficiently distinctive about human action, so that many
non-religious people find the idea of free will plausible, and almost
everyone assumes that blame (if not praise) only makes sense with
regard to (mature?) human beings.
Taking the last three points
together generates a further point. If the idea of the will is complex,
and there is no straightforward moral dividing line between children
and adults, between humans and other animals – together, these ideas
suggest that a ‘will’ is not something we all straightforwardly ‘have.’
In other words: it is implausible that all adult humans have the same capacities, all to the same extent, that are involved in controlling action. One way of retaining the idea of the will might be to think of it as the bundle of capacities
that are needed to control action in the light of moral concerns, these
capacities being set only at such a level that all adult human beings
of sound mind really seem to possess them. But two points need to be
kept in mind about such a strategy. First, it remains the case that
people will vary in how far they possess such capacities, and this
variation will largely be a product of upbringing and natural qualities
– that is, not something within an individual’s own control.
Second, the sort of ultimate control over one’s moral character
supposed in Kant’s or similar ‘free will’ accounts is unlikely to be
vindicated in this way.
Two Contrasting Approaches
Two influential lines of
thought oppose the idea that praise and blame relate to ‘free will,’
the metaphysical idea that we are responsible for our action because
they are controlled by us and not (simply) caused by the world around
us. For the utilitarian, praise and blame, like all our other
practices, can only be justified in terms of their social consequences.
A more complex account was given by Aristotle, who shares the
utilitarian’s sense that praise and blame have important social
consequences, but also offers an extended account of how they relate to
the capacities needed for moral action.
The Utilitarian Account
The utilitarian case is
straightforward. Blame and praise encourage us to perform socially
valuable actions and to avoid socially costly actions. If we know we
will be blamed for greed or cruelty, for example, then we have powerful
motives to avoid these. Praise and blame also involve us in making
assessments of people’s strengths and weaknesses, which is important
when it comes to deciding who should be entrusted with which tasks and
responsibilities. The stingy person might make a good banker, but a bad
organiser of social occasions.
This approach does seem to capture
important truths: we want to encourage and discourage different sorts
of activity, and we need to have a sense of what different people are
good at. It also makes sense of why we don’t blame some actions, even
if they had bad outcomes (even though, in principle, only outcomes
matter to the utilitarian). If the bad outcome was not chosen by the
person (for example, she was forced to act that way by someone else),
then there is nothing to be gained from blaming them (much better to
blame the person who forced her). Thus the utilitarian can accommodate
the important fact that praise and blame relate to free action: but
this need not be thought of in terms of metaphysical ‘free will,’ but
instead the compatibilist freedom involved in choosing one’s actions
independently of others’ interference.
But the utilitarian account faces a
simple objection: does it really provide for responsibility, still more
culpability? For example, if we know that someone does not respond well
to criticism, it seems that the utilitarian case for blame is
undermined. We would do much better to flatter and cajole them into
acting differently. Of course, the utilitarian might reply that this is
often what we in fact do with such people. Further, he might add that
we do still blame such people when we discuss their characters behind
their backs, perhaps describing them as self-righteous or stubborn.
What seems to be missing in this response, however, is the idea that
the person deserves blame. They seem to deserve criticism in
just the same way that a faulty machine or a cracked mug deserve
criticism: it’s useful that everyone knows they’re faulty, but they can
hardly be described as blameworthy. Especially when we move
from blame to the question of sanctions or punishment, this lack of
desert seems to present a real problem for the utilitarian account.
Utilitarians face a more complex
criticism, which goes beyond the scope of this entry. Historically more
concerned with the actions of government than individuals,
utilitarianism never developed a realistic moral psychology – that is,
very roughly, an account of what makes the decent person tick. This
lack of attention has permitted some of the most devastating critique
of utilitarianism, such as Bernard Williams’s and Susan Wolf’s. But if
we want to understand responsibility, our capacity to accept praise and
blame as well as our tendency to dole them out, then we need to have a
fairly good picture of moral agency.
The Aristotelian Account
This is where Aristotle’s
more complex account enters the story. The most famous discussion of
when people can be praised and blamed for their actions remains
Aristotle’s. As with the utilitarians, Aristotle saw no need to talk
about praise and blame in terms of free will. Aristotle speaks of
whether acts are voluntary, and whether we attribute
them to a person or to other factors. Some have ascribed this way of
framing the issues to a lack of moral or scientific sophistication on
the part of the ancient Greeks. However, a number of modern
philosophers, most prominently Bernard Williams and Martha Nussbaum,
have suggested that an Aristotelian account is actually more coherent
and sophisticated than those typical of modern philosophy – and,
indeed, more coherent than our modern, ‘common sense’ intuitions about
moral responsibility.
At first glance, it looks as if
Aristotle takes it for granted that we are responsible for our actions,
so that others can reasonably praise or blame or punish us. What he
does is to highlight various conditions that lessen or cancel our
responsibility. He discusses force of events, threats and coercion,
ignorance, intoxication and bad character. Yet, taken together, his
account shows us the basic elements involved in being a person who can
reasonably be praised or blamed.
The first limitation upon voluntary
action that Aristotle discusses is force of circumstances. His
well-known example concerns a ship caught in a storm; the sailors must
throw goods overboard if the ship is not to sink (NE 1110a). In this
case the action is not fully voluntary, and we would not blame the
sailors for their actions. (Nor, of course, would we blame the storm:
the undesirable consequence, the loss of the goods, must be chalked off
as the product of natural causes, for which no one can be blamed.) Note
that such cases are extreme examples of the force of necessity under
which we always live – we are always constrained in our actions by
circumstances, although we only tend to notice this when the constraint
is sudden or unexpected. (If blame were to arise in such a situation,
it would be where the sailors failed to take account of necessity, so
that the ship and many aboard perished.)
In fact, it tends to be the
interference of other people that causes us the most grief – and which
really causes problems for responsibility attributions. Such
interference can take many forms, but its paradigmatic forms are
coercion and manipulation. Regarding coercion, Aristotle’s judgment is
balanced. It depends on what action my coercer is demanding of me, and
what threats he makes. Some actions are so heinous that we should be
blamed for doing them, whatever we are threatened with (and whatever
blame also attaches to our coercer) – thus Aristotle dismisses the idea
that a man might be ‘compelled’ to kill his mother (NE 1110a). This
makes it clear that a central issue at stake in attributions of
responsibility is the expectations that people have of one
another. There are some forms of coercion we do not usually expect
people to resist, but there are also some sorts of action that we think
people should never undertake, regardless of such factors. In such
cases praise and blame are clearly working to clarify and reinforce these expectations – in other words, they provide for a form of moral education.
Aristotle does not comment on
manipulation, where other people lead us to a false view of our
circumstances. But he does discuss ignorance of these circumstances,
and how it undermines our responsibility. If we are ignorant of who
someone is, for example – as was Oedipus, who did not know that the old
man obstructing him was actually his father – we may commit acts we
would otherwise abhor – thus Oedipus committed patricide, killing his
own father. For Aristotle, such actions are not to be blamed (with the
important provisos that the ignorance is not itself culpable and the
action was otherwise justified). What decides good or bad character is
how a person reacts when he finds out the truth – if we fail to regret
our deeds, then we can certainly be blamed, even if the original choice
was justifiable. Our regret about the deed shows that we want to disown
it, and prepares us to make up for it as best we can. A lack of regret
shows we are happy for the deed to have been done anyhow, even though
we are now aware of facts that others think should have prevented us
from acting that way.
This argument hints at an important point. For Aristotle, the moral judgment of the self may be quite different from the judgments of others.
The actor should regret his action deeply but, as long as he does so,
on-lookers should not blame, but rather pity or perhaps console him. If
we suppose that both actor and on-looker are making a judgment about
the actor’s moral worth this seems puzzlingly inconsistent. Yet
Aristotle’s account has a different logic: The actor’s regret reveals
his determination not to be associated with such an action. The
on-lookers’ pity relates to their awareness that this ‘self-blame’ is proper yet not earned;
it is something that could fall upon anyone in the wrong circumstances.
Simplifying, we could say that on-lookers make a positive judgment of
the actor, based on his preparedness to make a negative judgment of
himself. But this is not so paradoxical if we think of these judgments,
not as relating to moral worth, but as preparations for action.
Something has gone wrong, after all, and those affected seem to deserve
some recompense. In such a situation, the actor will feel duty-bound to
help put things right (perhaps to compensate, at any rate to apologise
or show remorse). On-lookers, pitying rather than blaming, try to make
his task easier, since the responsibility, in such a case, was not earned by the actor.
We have just discussed actions done
in ignorance of the facts. But not every form of ignorance excuses;
factual knowledge is very different from moral knowledge. What if a man
did not know murder was wrong? Would this make his murders morally
innocent? Aristotle says not: there are certain things we can and do
expect people to know – above all, basic moral truths such as the
wrongness of murder. But this knowledge is not as straightforward as it
might appear: it must include a fairly good capacity to judge which
sorts of killing count as murder. Nazi bureaucrat Adolf Eichmann
organised the killing of thousands, without a sense of its wrongness.
Aristotle is clear: such moral ignorance, an inability or failure to
judge, excuses no adult. Eichmann should be held responsible for
murder. But why should moral ignorance not excuse, when factual
ignorance does? We must recognise that moral knowledge is actually
rather different from factual knowledge. If a person is morally ignorant it is his whole character, his lasting ability to judge and act well, that is impaired
– and presumably very difficult to set right. Isolated errors in
factual knowledge, on the other hand, can be easily corrected. So long
as we subsequently recognise and regret what we have done, factual mistakes involve no lasting corruption of character.
Still, if a person is morally
ignorant it follows that they are unable to choose well. Aristotle
agrees, arguing that those of settled bad character – be they morally
ignorant or otherwise – are unable to make decent moral judgments. Does
this mean that blame is incoherent or misplaced? He claims not. Even if
the vicious person cannot now choose to act otherwise, there was a time
when her vices were not fixed, when she could have chosen not
to be vicious. Therefore, Aristotle says, she can be blamed. This is
neat but rather unconvincing. Aristotle is famous for emphasising the
importance of good upbringing and habituation, and presumably many
vices are formed in childhood, before people have formed capacities for
deliberating reasonably. Indeed, many vices undercut the
capacity for rational deliberation. So it is a clear implication of
Aristotle’s own account that the badly brought up person may never be
in a position to choose not to be vicious. Note, further, that this move represents Aristotle at his most Kantian:
blame is justified by reference to control, to a ‘could have done
otherwise’ – even when his own account of character formation suggests
that such control probably never existed.
What are we to say, then, when a
person seems unlikely to change: she appears quite settled in some
particular vice, either because she cannot understand the criticism or
because she is unable to alter her character or habits? Such cases are
very common, and – unless we suppose that they are not morally
deplorable – seem to undermine the modern assumption that blame must
relate only to conduct under our control. (The same sort of argument
can also be made with praise: a virtuous person might be quite unable
to do certain things – commit cruelty, for example.) Clearly, if we
think a character trait is really beyond alteration, by us or by the
person concerned, our blaming won’t involve an attempt to reason with
the person we condemn. But our condemnation might have another
rationale: for example, to clarify what sort of standards we expect of others, or to signal our fellow-feeling with those who have been adversely affected by someone’s vices.
In sum, Aristotle’s account is not
entirely self-consistent. Generally his focus is two-fold: upon the
qualities of character revealed by acts, in terms of our overall moral
expectations; and upon the responsibilities that must be born, given
the effects of an action. For most of the time, his account proceeds
without much reference to desert, and it is this neglect that seems to
pose the chief difficulty for the Aristotelian story. It is
interesting, then, that Aristotle himself sometimes suggests that bad
qualities are to be blamed because they were originally subject to
choice, even though this quasi-Kantian claim is not (on his own account
of character formation) really supportable. Whether or not Aristotle
should have made this argument, it does show how powerful is the
thought that blame must be justified in terms of what the person
herself chose – however long ago that choice supposedly was made.
Despite this, philosophers have
returned to Aristotle’s account again and again to illuminate key
ingredients of responsible agency.
This list is not comprehensive, but
it serves to illustrate the underlying point of an Aristotelian
account: our praising and blaming of one another rest on these sort of
fairly basic capacities, which do not seem to demand any strong
metaphysical elaboration. Indeed, if we approach the matter this way,
the puzzle seems to be inverted. Not, ‘how might free will and
determinism be reconciled?’; rather, ‘why should we feel there is a
metaphysical issue at all?’
The Kantian Account and Moral Worth
We have seen that
the Aristotelian and utilitarian accounts face a common criticism.
Illuminating as they may be, they seem to pay too little attention to
the question of desert, or culpability. Is the vicious person
blameworthy? Does the person of good will, however much she is hindered
by bad luck and hard circumstances, not deserve moral recognition? Our
intuitions tend to answer such questions affirmatively. And the most
usual justification is that the bad person has less moral worth than
the person of good will, and therefore deserves blame and
perhaps even punishment. A utitilitarian such as JJC Smart sees such
justifications as ‘pharisaical’ – that is, as hypocritically
self-righteous, and encouraging of excessively moralistic forms of
blame and retribution. But there is no denying the power and influence
of such justifications.
The reason why so many
people – within and without academic philosophy – feel the pull of the
free will debate lies in the idea of moral worth we often associate
with responsibility attributions such as blame. Galen Strawson
expresses the core idea as follows: ‘if we have [true responsibility],
then it makes sense, at least, to suppose that it might be just
to punish some with eternal torment in hell, and reward others with
eternal bliss in heaven’ (1991: viii). Any such ‘ultimate’ merit or
demerit clearly has to be a matter of strictly individual desert. If it
were merely a matter of chance who went to heaven or hell – or who would
do so, if those fates really existed – this would plainly be a matter
of mere fortune. Such intense good or bad luck would make the world
even more morally arbitrary than it already is. If such merit is to be
fairly allocated, therefore, it needs to be seen as something that lies
within individuals’ own control. This line of thought, in turn, is
based on what John Skorupski calls an ‘ideal of pure egalitarian
desert’ (1999: 156). Modern morality regards each person as equal in
moral standing, as having an intrinsic dignity and deserving of equal
respect. The thought is that we all equally possess control over our
will, so that it makes sense to imagine everybody reaping an equally
fair return on how well we exercise that control. (Clearly, this line
of thought goes against the idea of the will referred to above, as a
‘bundle’ of capacities unequally distributed among human beings.)
The thinker who grapples
most systematically with these questions is Kant. He sees us all as
equal in our capacity to strive for morality. But he knows that we
don’t all do this, and claims that only some are worthy of happiness.
For Kant, our moral worth
– the goodness of our will – is gauged by how sincerely and
persistently we have sought to do our duty. To do our duty may be much
harder for some people, for instance, those who have violent passions
or who were brought up with bad habits. But moral worth is not about
results; it is about the will. We all have such a will, an
ability to choose well, despite the fact that some of us face stronger
counter-inclinations or more difficult circumstances. To truly judge a
person’s moral worth involves seeing past all the obstacles that their
will has faced. Kant argues that this makes moral worth impossible for
us to judge with any assurance; only God can see beyond all those
things. This lack of knowledge corresponds to Kant’s main concern,
which is how we judge ourselves. Our concern should be to do the right thing, and to do it because
it is the right thing. To Kant it’s no problem that we’re never sure
about others’ wills, and the obstacles or benefits they have faced. The
point is that we can never be sure of our own motivations, and must always be attempting to do better in the future.
Moreover, Kant claims we
are all equally well able to see what we should do. For Kant ‘even the
most hardened scoundrel’ would act morally, were it not for the
opposing incentives of his inclinations and desires (Groundwork,
4:454). Kant needs to claim this because otherwise he would not be able
to justify condemning people who suppose they are doing the right
thing, when in fact their acts are quite wicked – the problem of the self-righteous wrong-doer.
Adolf Eichmann, who we mentioned before, seems to have been sincere in
thinking his acts were defensible (he even justified his actions with a
twisted version of Kant’s moral philosophy!). Yet no one, and certainly
not Kant, would doubt that he deserved the gravest condemnation for his
crimes. In simplest form, the Kantian thought is that, if only we
wanted to, we could all see that certain things are wrong – for
example, no one could possibly want a world where everyone committed
actions like Eichmann’s. Nonetheless, such examples are problematic for
Kant, because it does seem implausible that people are equal in their
capacities for moral knowledge. People’s sensitivity to different moral
considerations is highly variable, and is clearly shaped by up-bringing
and environment.
(By way of contrast, it
may be worth noting that from an Aristotelian perspective, the
realities of moral ignorance and moral disagreement pose no theoretical
problems. In fact, they provide an important justification for praise
and blame in terms of mutual accountability – that is, they help with
moral learning by communicating when we have met or failed to meet
moral standards. But because Kant’s account goes inward, to my scrutiny of my motives and intentions, he says remarkably little about this crucial educative aspect of responsibility attributions.)
Modern Kantian writers
differ on how to deal with these two issues, the invisibility of the
will and the claim that we share equal access to moral knowledge. One
important line of thought is Christine Korsgaard’s. When we blame
someone, she claims, we are recognising his capacity to reason about
his conduct. Many people have felt that it is ‘enlightened’ not to
blame people for bad conduct, and instead to offer explanations that
excuse or mitigate – for instance, by taking a person’s anti-social
behaviour to have been caused by a bad childhood rather than a bad
will. But Kantians insist that this is to deny someone recognition as a rational agent,
as someone capable of choosing his action in the light of reasons. This
corresponds to the important intuition that there is something
patronising about making excuses for people, and not taking their own
point of view seriously.
It is not clear whether blame, on this account, need have any link with the idea that someone’s will has proved defective; and it is this which is important if we are to give a place to culpability
within the Kantian schema. Modern Kantians usually concede that Kant
was too optimistic about our ability always to see the right thing to
do. In this case, it is sometimes difficult for us to judge correctly,
and so we have to work together at discovering the moral standards
applicable in complex situations. Clearly, then, we need to communicate
concerning the rights and wrongs of our individual actions. What this
seems to omit, however, is the fact that desert is in play when
we blame: blame often has an emotional content, and rarely sounds like
a disinterested conversation about what would have been the right thing
to do. One reason for this, in turn, is that we are identified by our
acts, and tend to identify ourselves with them: if our acts are faulty,
and none of the standard excusing conditions apply (such as factual
ignorance, as discussed by Aristotle), so too must our character be, if
blame is to be deserved. (On the other hand, perhaps it is true that we
tend to ‘take things too personally’…)
This points to a real
difficulty for Kantians. Moral evaluation is supposed to concern the
will, not all the other complicated factors that have formed our
character. (Aristotelians, and many others, reject the idea that such a
separation can be made, even in theory.) Although Kantians think such a
separation is theoretically possible, in practice they concede that we
can only guess at the will. This seems to suggest that we should not blame
one another, inasmuch as blame implies culpability, an individual
failure to will rightly. But this leaves us with two unrealistic
alternatives. One is that we explain bad conduct in terms of mitigating
factors, which is plainly unattractive, for the very good Kantian
reason that it fails to respect people as the choosers of their deeds.
Yet the other obvious alternative, that instead of blame we should
pursue an enlightened, as well as enlightening, conversation about
correct responses to situations, is patently unreal. If people as we
know them are going to change, or learn, by and large it will not be
unemotional reasoning that alters them, but the many forces that speak
to all aspects of character – for instance, resentment, shame, force of
opinion. Yet, for all that these characteristic aspects of blame do not
operate on the will (as Kantians conceive it), they certainly convey
moral disapproval, and can be very effective.
The Idea of Moral Worth
The notion of moral worth
central to Kant’s account is probably what one writer on ancient Greek
ethics – AWH Adkins – had in mind when he said, ‘We are all Kantians
now.’ (1960: 2) Kant’s idea attractively reconciles two broad value
judgments: (i) the egalitarian idea that all persons are moral
equals by virtue of having freedom to choose morally; and (ii) the idea
that responsibility relates to desert, so that people can
nonetheless be judged very differently – some being condemned for their
lives and characters, others praised. Although we have seen serious
problems with the idea that people have an equal ability to choose
well, most people agree that blame which attaches to parts of our
character that we cannot control is deeply unfair. Does this mean,
then, that we should accept a Kantian idea of moral worth, where praise
and blame are understood as responses to people’s ultimate deserts?
To begin with, contrast Kant with
Aristotle. Aristotle makes no claims about a person’s ultimate merit or
demerit. People might be vicious or virtuous in various ways, and there
might be rare paragons who possess a comprehensive set of virtues (yes,
these are philosophers). Naturally we would not want to associate with
the vicious, and naturally we will want to condemn their vices in no
uncertain terms: It might help them to learn to do better, and it may
caution others against them, and it should reinforce our own and other
people’s sense of what character traits are desirable. But for
Aristotle there is no sense that the vicious are earning a lasting form
of discredit that should condemn them in the eyes of an ultimate judge.
If the vicious person were to protest to Aristotle that the
condemnations he faced were unfair, perhaps because his character had
been shaped by his vicious parents, one suspects Aristotle would be
rather unmoved. Life isn’t fair, he might say, and we certainly won’t
make it fairer by pretending some vices are less real because of their
origin in early childhood, let alone because of their fixity within an
individual’s character. It may be unpleasant (he might continue) for
you to hear this blame and condemnation – indeed, I’m glad that it is,
because at least it shows that you are not so vicious that you don’t
care about others’ opinions of you – but there are other matters at
stake here, above all the standards and expectations which regulate all
our lives together.
So Aristotle’s characteristic view is that some people just are
better than others, in their abilities to choose rightly as in other
regards. Given this ‘brute fact,’ it is all the more important to give
attention to mutual moral education and ensuring that people feel the
need to take responsibility where things have gone wrong. Yet it does
seem true that Aristotle paid too little attention to the question of
desert. We can see this by recalling that he is not wholly consistent
here. As we saw, he does try to justify our blame of the vicious person
in terms of that person’s choice to become vicious, supposing that otherwise our condemnation would be unfair.
Nonetheless, the main thrust of his account seems to be that Kant’s
egalitarian fairness is not something we can really achieve.
On the other hand, it is difficult to deny the basic, very appealing intuition of Kant’s ethics: that people’s happiness should correspond to their moral worth – to the sincere intentions that are within everyone’s control. Apart from its appeal to fairness,
this conception is also plausible because it corresponds well to
several features of praise and blame. We do tend to judge the intent
behind people’s actions, rather than the often haphazard results of
their deeds. We take account of people’s circumstances, and judge less
harshly where these place hard or immoral pressures on people. We also,
quite often, feel that allowances should be made for the effects on
character of abusive or deprived upbringings. In each case, we can
interpret these concessions in Kantian terms – as drawing a distinction
between the person’s will and the obstacles of circumstance, thus
keeping our moral evaluation to what is within a person’s control –
and, therefore, what concerns their deserts.
There are, however, reasons to doubt
whether this Kantian interpretation is really the best account of these
intuitions. The most obvious problem is that we often expect people to
take responsibility for things they didn’t intend. This is not only in
those cases where we judge that someone should have formed their
intentions more carefully. Certainly we judge the negligent driver who
causes an accident more harshly than a driver who was careful but
nevertheless caused an accident. But even in the latter case, we expect
the driver to bear important responsibilities. The problem that many of
the things which attract moral culpability are wholly or partly outside
of individual control is connected with the problem of moral luck. It
is important to realise, however, that this problem is based on the
Kantian idea that moral judgments, be it of character or future
responsibilities, are deserved because they relate to a person’s ‘moral
worth.’
Aristotle’s account offers a
different way of understanding these everyday intuitions about when
blame is justified. On his account we are judging the character of the
person we are dealing with, based on how they act, how seriously they
take their responsibilities, and how they respond to others’
responsibility attributions. To judge such questions we do indeed give
a lot of weight to a person’s intentions: obviously, an intended action
reveals a person’s character especially clearly. At the same time, we
need to appreciate what he knew about the situation he was responding
to, what pressures he was under, and special factors affecting his
ability to deliberate and choose. Hence Aristotle’s concern with
factual ignorance, force of circumstances, and intoxication; and we
might note the more modern concern with mental illness. On an
Aristotelian line, the point is that these factors alter the extent to which actions reveal the character of the person. That they undermine the person’s ‘control’ is true, but subsidiary.
To support this thought, we might consider how certain forms of bad
character constitute a lack of control over one’s actions – thus the
person who is weak-willed or indecisive, for example. Here weak-willed,
indecisive action reveals the person, and her inability to control her actions.
This suggests that we do not need to
accept Kant’s will-based view, where blame relates to moral worth. But
we might still wonder if the other accounts can explain the culpability
aspect of blame, the idea that it relates to desert.
Both utilitarians and Aristotelians
can agree that at least one sense of desert clearly applies. A person
deserves to be judged accurately, just as the facts deserve to be
assessed truly, if they are to be assessed at all. As we need to judge
one another, then clearly we deserve to be assessed fairly. But this
doesn’t quite take us to the idea that a person has earned
blame, for the fact is that a negative judgment of our character is
unpleasant and costly. After all, human beings understand such
judgments, and feel their effects, in a way that other entities do not.
There is another question of desert:
praise raises the possibility of reward, while blame almost
automatically suggests we ought to do something to make up for
what we have done or how we have been. Moral philosophers continue to
dispute whether utilitarians can give a proper account of this sort of
responsibility. But we have already seen how Aristotle could respond.
On his view responsibility attributions have a practical aspect: they
are preparations for action. It is obvious that when something has gone
wrong, we need to distribute the resulting responsibilities:
who should pay compensation, apologise, or even be punished. If we take
the view that there are always duties to be done, including making good
when things have gone wrong, then the question is not what the results
say about people’s moral worth, but rather how responsibilities for
making good can be fairly divvied up.
But whether this is enough to justify
the sense of desert that tends to attach to judgments of blame, or
whether we tend to be too keen to invest blame with ideas of personal
desert – these are questions much beyond the scope of this entry.
Conclusion
Praise and blame relate to our sense of
people as capable of taking responsibility for their actions. As we
saw, ideas about responsibility are usually presented in terms of a
contest between two positions, compatibilism and incompatibilism.
Incompatibilists accept the dilemma of free will versus determinism:
responsibility depends on me controlling my actions, rather than other
causal influences that operate around me. Praise, but especially blame,
make no sense if determinism is true. Compatibilists, on the other
hand, want to insist that the causal well-orderedness of the universe
is, precisely, compatible with our responsibility for our actions. But
for most philosophers the question is not whether responsibility and causal well-orderedness are compatible, but how. In other words, to adapt Adkins’s adage, ‘we are all compatibilists now.’
The essential issue for any compatibilist position
lies in the conception of responsibility it relies on – an issue much
less well-explored by philosophers than the metaphysics of freedom and
determinism. This article has contrasted three broad schools of thought
on how we put responsibility into practice, by praising and blaming one
another. When Adkins claimed that ‘we are all Kantians now,’ he was not
referring to Kant’s (incompatibilist) metaphysics but rather to
our tendency to feel that responsibility attributions must have depth,
that they reflect something about a person’s ‘real’ deserts. Yet this
position leads us to claims about control over the self, to the idea of
choices that are really ours and not the result of any external
influence. In other words, it is more difficult than it may seem to
separate Kant’s position from his metaphysical account of freedom and
the incompatibilism which he, above all other writers, so strongly
articulated.
The roughly Aristotelian alternative discussed
here has been most influentially articulated in Bernard Williams’s
critique of modern accounts of morality, which he thinks are most
clearly expressed in Kant’s philosophy. Williams argues that these
ideas neither make sense on their own terms, nor do they make sense of
what we actually do when we do engage in attributions of
responsibility. As we have seen, Aristotle’s account of praise and
blame is based on: (i) how far acts reveal character; (ii) the fair
distribution of responsibilities to act; and (iii) the attempt to
exchange reasons, share standards, and maintain relationships with
those whom we judge – and who judge us in turn.
What both the Aristotelian and utilitarian
accounts lack is the deep thirst for equality and fairness which
motivate Kant. Aristotle’s account provides no equivalent to the
Kantian will – some moral quantity which all human beings possess and
which grounds the idea of their equal worth. Nor does it really satisfy
the widespread sense that moral judgment should offer fairness – even
though the world does not. There is a deeply appealing sense of
fairness in Kant’s concern to do justice to each person’s will, by
isolating some moral core to the person independent of all formative
and environmental factors. Even if wicked people prosper and the
innocent suffer, our moral judgment of each constitutes a deep and
subtle form of compensation: with regard to what really matters,
the one is lacking while the other is undiminished. Even if goodness is
made much harder for some, and its results may be correspondingly less,
nonetheless we should try to see past those externals, once more, to what really matters.
To this, the Aristotelian and the utilitarian
alike may say: to treat praise and blame as reflecting such a pure form
of desert is to lose touch with what really matters about them. Praise
and blame help us live together in a world where ultimate deserts are
impossible to make out, if they exist at all. But just because we
cannot make out people’s ‘moral worth,’ it is still true that we need
to take responsibility – not least, in our openness to one another’s
praise and blame.
References and Further Reading
Adkins, AWH (1960) Merit and responsibility, Clarendon Press, Oxford
Aristotle Nicomachean ethics (the most readable translation is Roger Crisp’s, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2000)
Feinberg, Joel (1970) Doing and deserving: essays in the theory of responsibility
(Princeton University Press, Princeton NJ) – a set of classic essays on
responsibility for action, including justifications of praise and blame
Fingarette, Herbert (1967) On responsibility
(Basic Books, New York) – another set of classic essays, including the
argument that blame is intelligible insofar as it connects up with
someone’s pre-existing concern for others
Kant, Immanuel (1784) Groundwork to the metaphysics of morals (the best translation is Mary Gregor’s, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1998)
Korsgaard, Christine (1996) ‘Creating the Kingdom of Ends: Reciprocity and Responsibility in Personal Relations’ in her Creating the kingdom of ends (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge) – a sophisticated Kantian account of praise and blame
Skorupski, John (1999) ‘The definition of morality’ in his Ethical explorations (Oxford University Press, Oxford)
Smart, JJC (1961) ‘Free will, praise and blame’ Mind 70, 291-306 – a clear and succinct utilitarian account of praise and blame
Smiley, Marion (1992) Moral responsibility and the boundaries of community: power and accountability from a pragmatic point of view
(University of Chicago Press, Chicago) – criticises conventional
discussions of freedom and determinism, claiming that they fail to
investigate the idea of responsibility
Strawson, Galen (1991) Freedom and belief (Clarendon, Oxford)
Strawson, Peter (1974) ‘Freedom and resentment’ in his Freedom and resentment and other essays
(Methuen, London) – this famous essay resituates the free will debate
by highlighting the importance of ‘reactive attitudes’ such as
resentment to interpersonal relations
Williams, Bernard (1993) Shame and necessity
(University of California Press, Berkeley CA) – a sustained argument
that the ancient Greeks had a nuanced and sophisticated account of
responsibility attributions
- (1995a) ‘How free does the will need to be?’ in his Making sense of humanity and other philosophical papers, 1982-1993 (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge)
- (1995b) ‘Voluntary acts and responsible agents,’ in his Making sense of humanity
Author Information:
Garrath Williams
Email: g.d.Williams@lancaster.ac.uk
University of Lancaster
© 2004