Can the environmental scholar and
activist, as they propose and seek to direct public environmental
policy, escape philosophy? There are many who believe that they can
escape philosophy -- at least the kind of philosophy which engages
the attention of professional moral philosophers. In fact, such
attempts have become so widespread that it is now past time for a
professional philosopher to protest and to demonstrate that such
evasions of philosophy can not succeed.(2)
True, fine rhetoric will inspire, and intuition might provoke
productive inquiry, but if a cogent argument is to be offered in
support of environmental policy, methods of logic and argument
familiar to philosophers will be employed, just as fallacies equally
familiar to philosophers must be scrupulously avoided.
Environmental ethics and
environmental policy-making are widely and correctly regarded as
richly interdisciplinary enterprises. The first word of the term
"environmental ethics" indicates that our proper attitude toward
nature is a function of our awareness of the scientific
facts of nature. "Environmental policy" -- the realization
and application of perceived values -- utilizes the insights of such
behavioral and social sciences as psychology, economics and political
science. Almost all philosophers that are professionally interested
in environmental issues take great pains to study the scientific
aspects of environmental ethics. Indeed, some of these philosophers
have published technical papers in scientific journals.
Unfortunately, this disciplinary courtesy is not widely reciprocated.
For while "ethics" is one of the traditional provinces of philosophy,
scientist, scholars, journalists and public figures routinely write
and speak on matters of environmental ethics and policy with no
apparent interest in or awareness of relevant philosophical concepts,
methods and theories. Such attempts to present arguments of
philosophical significance without at least the implicit assistance
of the discipline of philosophy should seem presumptuous. Yet it is
not so regarded by many prominent environmental writers.
In this essay, I will examine four
approaches by non-philosophers to issues pertaining to human
responsibility toward the natural environment -- i.e., pertaining to
environmental ethics. These examples are important, not for
their particular sources, but for the fact that they exemplify four
of the most widespread, influential and yet seriously flawed
approaches to environmental ethics and policy that are to be found in
public and scholarly debate. If, as I will argue, they are
commonplace, persuasive and fallacious, then they are likewise
mischievous, offering only the appearance and not the substance of a
sound foundation for an environmental ethic. Each of these types of
argument is attempted without the use, and even at times in
deliberate disregard, of the philosopher's concepts and methods. In
each case I ask: "is this an appropriate way to do environmental
ethics or to propose environmental policy?" At the close I will
attempt to explain why these attempts to justify policy- making
without philosophy have failed and must fail, and why fundamental
philosophical principles must, in fact, be inalienable components of
sound policy-making.
I
The "Natural is Moral"
Fallacy.(3)
Soon after the eruption of Mount St. Helens in 1980, the following
letter was published in the University of California - Santa Barbara
student paper, "The Nexus." While this is clearly a strained and
failed attempt at ridicule, a useful purpose might be served by
asking: just what was the point of this commentary? What is being
attempted? What fallacies are being employed? We will find that this
argument, far from being trivial, is an example of one of the most
widespread and influential fallacies in environmental policy debates.
The letter reads, in part:
I am shocked at the
amount of destruction caused by Mount St. Helens. Some 28 people
have died and scores of others are missing. The eruption caused
mud slides, floods, destruction of an entire forest, along with
all its precious lumber, among other public and private
properties. . . According to
Time magazine, June 2
[1980]: 'Geologists noted that Mount St. Helens is venting
radioactive radon gas in greater quantities than any "hot"
discharge from Pennsylvania's crippled Three Mile Island nuclear
plant.'
I think we should require
Mother Nature to do the following before any other volcanic
'incident' may occur:
-
Hold a public hearing for
choosing the site of the volcano. Sites should be preferably
off-shore, outside the 200-mile water limit. The site must be
carefully inspected by a team of qualified geologists...
-
If radioactive gases
and/or other deadly gases are to be vented, the releases must
first be approved and monitored continuously. . .
If radioactive gases
and/or other deadly gases are to be vented, the releases must
first be approved and monitored continuously. . .
I think if the above
guidelines are taken, volcanoes may blow off their steam without
affecting the public too much. I suggest that the above measures
be adopted as soon as possible before the anti-volcano movement
picks up momentum."(4)
Granted, this is a silly letter. Yet
arguments of a similar sort are both commonplace and significant in
public policy debates. Thus, for example, defenders of nuclear power
plants and, a generation ago, of atmospheric nuclear tests, have
attempted to justify the attendant risks on the grounds that the
resulting radiation is comparable to that of the "natural
background."(5)
Finally, consider the reflections of a prominent public figure who,
according to Science magazine, once claimed that "80% of
nitrogen oxide pollution is caused by vegetation, and [who]
blamed Mount St. Helens . . . for contributing more sulfur dioxide
'than has been released in the last 10 years of automobile
driving.'"(6)
While, as Science duly notes, these remarks by Ronald Reagan
contain "multiple errors" of fact, it is the logical form of
the implied argument that is of special interest to us. In all these
cases, an analogy is drawn between two events or conditions; one
natural and the other of human origin. (In the opening example, the
analogy is between the eruption of a volcano, on the one hand, and an
accident in a nuclear reactor, on the other). The implied argument is
that since nature is "blameless" for naturally occurring phenomena
and conditions, similar phenomena and conditions of human origin are
of no moral significance.
How does a philosopher approach an
analogy argument? One of the fundamental things to ask when dealing
with an analogy argument is "what, if any, are the fundamental
differences between the cases"? The differences between the volcano
and nuclear plant cases are startling, important and instructive. The
volcanic eruption, being a natural event, is not subject to voluntary
choice or human control -- it just happens, whether we like it or
not. The writer Ursula LeGuin, a resident of Portland, Oregon,
eloquently portrayed this distinction as she expressed her response
to the Mount St. Helens eruption:
People say, "weren't you
frightened?" -- and yes, there was fear involved. But it was a
kind of fear that enlarges the mind instead of shrinking it. When
I think of witnessing a nuclear explosion, I feel a desolate fear
-- a response to human greed and hatred. The eruption was not in
human terms; it included us in something larger than us. The
volcano was doing what a volcano does, and any[thing] near
it, elk, or fir tree or human, was included in that huge act. For
some, it was death. For others, a little farther away, it was an
affirmation of the terrible beauty of the
world.(7)
Some natural events and phenomena
(such as volcanoes and background radiation) have unfortunate and
regrettable effects that are unavoidable. Voluntary events, effected
by persons who can deliberate and choose, are of a very different
kind. The results of voluntary acts may be good or bad, but these
"goods" and "bads" are additionally called "moral" goods and
bads (or "virtues" and "iniquities") in that persons can be
said to be "responsible" for them. We might say that the destruction
caused by Mount St. Helens was "bad," but not that it was "wicked."
Carelessness on the part of technologists and policy-makers, due
perhaps to a lack of concern for the consequences of technology and
policy on human life, health, property and welfare, might be
regarded, not only as "bad," but also as morally irresponsible, that
is, "wicked." They are "wicked" in the sense that persons
are responsible for these acts and their consequences.
A disciplined analysis of these
questions leads us to the sort of deep issues and concepts that moral
philosophers deal with; in this case, the concepts of
"responsibility" and "personhood." These concepts are crucial to the
distinction between moral and non-moral values -- between virtue and
wickedness on the one hand, and (non-moral) goodness and badness on
the other. With an understanding of these concepts, we can at last
understand why volcanoes and earthquakes, hurricanes and tornadoes
can not be said to be "wicked;" while a failure to protect oneself
and others through informed anticipation of these disasters may be
wicked.
The underlying assumption in the
letter cited at the outset, and, unfortunately, in a great deal of
environmental debate, is that if nature does something "bad" to us,
and if we elect to do the same sort of thing, the results of that
decision are really not so bad since they are, after all, "natural."
But now we see the fallacy: nature is not "personal" -- it has no
biases for or against us, and passes no judgments upon us. Being
impersonal, nature is not responsible; we can't sue Mount St. Helens
for the damage that it caused. On the other hand, if an accident at a
nuclear reactor or a bridge, or the results of widespread application
of pesticides, can reasonably have been forecasted, then legislators,
policy-makers, engineers and others have a moral responsibility to
anticipate the consequences of these actions and to act accordingly.
"Responsibility" marks the fundamental difference between human
actions and natural events. Environmental impact statements (to which
the writer of this letter was implicitly objecting), as informed
anticipations of significant events, fulfill the basic conditions of
moral responsibility. Volcanoes do not fulfill these
conditions.(8)
Perhaps the writer of this letter is
defending a correct conclusion with a weak argument. Perhaps, as many
claim, a careful, objective and thorough risk/cost/benefit analysis
will, given certain value assumptions, show nuclear power to be the
"best" of all available energy options. Perhaps not. However, we
should now at least be wary of any attempt to include among those
value assumptions, the claim that since nature inflicts unavoidable
costs and risks upon us, similar, though voluntarily accepted, costs
and risks of nuclear power are therefore acceptable -- or, at least,
unworthy of moral concern and reflection. Such an analogy argument is
no more cogent when such natural hazards as cosmic rays, transpiring
trees, earthquakes, or storms are cited to excuse the deliberate
imposition of risk upon the public. While such analogy arguments may
seem vaguely "fishy" to the general public, the philosopher is
well-equipped to point out the fallacy, distinguish the cases, and
thus to decisively refute, such an argument.
II
Environmental Ethics as a
History of Ideas. Our next case presents a view of
environmental ethics that is also rather commonplace in
non-philosophical works in environmental studies -- especially works
by scientists eager to apply scientific scruples and discipline to
ethics and policy. My example is a chapter from a recently published
textbook, The Earth as a Living Planet.(9)
The book, by two scientists (a Botanist and a Geologist), is
comprehensive and the scientific content and methodology appear to be
quite sound. One of the chapters, titled "Putting a Value on the
Environment: Environmental Ethics and Environmental Economics,"
rather well describes the authors' concept of "environmental ethics."
Because I wish to discuss an error of omission, it will be difficult
to display the authors' misconception by quoting passages in the
text. Still, some citations may make the point. Note, for instance,
the opening words of the chapter:
The Relations
Between Human Beings and Nature: Nature as an
Idea. [Section heading]. Every human
society has a set of beliefs about nature, the effects of nature
on human beings, and the effects of human beings on their natural
surroundings. These universal and ancient concerns include an
attempt to find order and harmony in nature, a design and purpose
for this natural order, and the role of humanity in nature. . .
Environmentalism -- a concern with the environment and activism to
protect and use it wisely -- seems a relatively recent interest,
but in fact its roots are deep within human history, society and
psychology. . . In this section we will discuss the history of ...
these [concerns] and the various answers that have been
given to them.(10)
If we look critically at what is
going on here, we will find that the authors are promising a treatise
in the history of ideas -- that is, a description of what people in
the past have felt and thought about nature and
man's place in it. The text displays a fulfillment of that
promise.
The treatment therein of
"environmental ethics" closes with this general question: "Once we
have adopted a set of beliefs or principles about the environment,
how do we put them into practice? How do we plan so that our use of
the biosphere is consistent with our desires?" Note that opening
clause: "Once we have adopted a set of beliefs..." That clause should
prompt such "philosophical" questions as: "What 'set of
beliefs'?" "How are we to evaluate them -- i.e., determine whether
they are a 'good' or 'bad' set of beliefs?" "How might we 'adopt'
them?" "How are we to evaluate the logical soundness of our mode of
'adoption'?" These questions, and thus deliberative discussions
thereof, are totally missing from this chapter on "Environmental
Ethics."
Next, the authors ask: "Once we have
decided that something is an environmental good" (again, no
suggestion as to how this is to be "decided"!), "how do we
put a value on it to compare it with other factors? How do we turn
our choices into decisions, that is, how do we insure that
individuals and society will act in a way to accomplish environmental
goals? What are the options open to a society?"(11)
To address these questions, the authors leave "Ethics" and turn to an
eleven page discussion of "Environmental Economics."
From a philosophical point of view,
this chapter is most remarkable, not for its contents, but for its
omissions. It is scrupulously descriptive -- a description
of what people have valued in the past, and a description of how we
determine and systematically deal with the willingness to
pay to have environmental "goods" or to avoid environmental
"bads". We find here a discussion of how the discipline and theory of
economics may be used to assist the management of the environment
(e.g., by "internalizing" costs, heretofore "externalized," assessing
and balancing "risks," "costs" and "benefits," assigning "time
discounts," enacting tax policies, etc.). There is also occasional
mention of "non-economic" considerations such as "psychological
factors of individuals and of society."(12)
What we will not find are the ideas of contemporary
philosophers.(13)
Why should "Environmental Ethics" be
regarded as a "history of ideas" concerning the natural environment?
In other parts of this text, Botany and Geology are not treated as
"the history of Botany and Geology," nor should they be. Why the
exception with Environmental Ethics and thus, by implication, Moral
Philosophy? Elsewhere in the book, contemporary data theories,
hypotheses and laws of the life and natural sciences are tested
against their empirical laboratory evidence and confirmation. Why,
then, aren't relevant, "live" contemporary ethical theories assessed
according to the results of their "laboratory tests" (i.e.,
peer criticism in scholarly journals), and the strength of
their appropriate evidence (i.e., philosophical standards of
clarity, consistency, coherence and
comprehensiveness).(14)
Granted, "history of ideas" is an
important ingredient of environmental studies in general, and
environmental ethics in particular. It offers us a repertory of
suggestions as to how we might ethically regard nature, by
acquainting us with how this question has been approached in the
past. Great and important thinkers may have significant ideas to
offer us as we ponder our environmental problems. Moreover, economics
is an important ingredient of the study of environmental
policy-making -- that is, to the practical implementation of
environmental values. We must, of course, know what the public is
willing and capable of doing ("what they can afford"), and we must
acquaint ourselves with "tradeoffs" and "cost/benefit ratios."
Nonetheless, history of ideas and economics do not constitute
environmental ethics. Together they present a so-called "ethics" that
is not philosophy -- that lacks even a primary concern with values,
and thus offers no moral guidance whatever.
We might find what is missing from
this approach to "environmental ethics" by identifying and analyzing
three levels of response which one might take to an observed
act of value significance. To illustrate this point, consider the
following drawing (reading from the bottom cell to the top):
(Drawing by Frances
Wightman)
At the bottom we see a maiden being thrown into a volcano. This act
is part of a religious ceremony -- a sacrifice to the Volcano God.
Next we find an anthropologist, observing the sacrifice. Through
various observations and conversations, he is able to report that
this tribe approves of human sacrifice -- that is, they
believe that it is "good" to sacrifice maidens to the Volcano God.
His statement, "they approve of human sacrifice" expresses a datum of
social science, a fact about the tribe. Such statements constitute
what philosophers call "descriptive ethics." In effect, this is as
far as we get in Botkin and Keller's chapter on "environmental
ethics." Like many scrupulous scientists, the authors apparently feel
that it is not "scholarly" to evaluate. By regarding science is the
paradigm of scholarship, they insist that the only scholarship of
value (!) is the kind that confines itself to facts, and is "value
free."
Back to the illustration. On the
second "level" (right), we find a "normative philosopher" remarking
"How dreadful!..." -- obviously an evaluation of the culture. Now if
you disagree with this fellow, what are you to do? You might say,
"that's not a sacrifice, it's a punishment for murder," and this
might change the philosopher's evaluation of that particular act. But
it will not change his opinion of human sacrifice. Given his moral
evaluation of sacrifices in general, and assuming that he correctly
perceives this to be a sacrifice, no simple collection of
observational facts will bear upon his opinion that this act is
"dreadful."
But that is not the end of it. For
there is yet another "level" of ethical analysis, illustrated by the
"critical philosopher" at the top who asks "What does he mean by
'dreadful'? Is his moral outrage rational? On what grounds?" This
level is what philosophers call "metaethics;" a critical
philosophical enterprise which has, as its subject-matter,
(normative) ethics -- an enterprise thus concerned with the meaning
of ethical terms, and the justification of ethical claims. Put
simply, metaethics is to normative ethics, as literary criticism is
to literature, as a music appreciation is to music, and as an
"instant replay" with commentary is to football. Environmental
ethics, if it is to claim clarity, content and validation, must pass
metaethical evaluation and scrutiny.
Yet metaethics, like normative
ethics, is also missing from Botkin and Keller's chapter on
"environmental ethics?" Why? Perhaps because writers with a strong
scientific training and orientation are as disinclined, as
scientists, to critically evaluate normative values as they are
propose and defend normative claims. Now, when it comes to the actual
task of recording data and formulating hypothesis, these are a valid
concerns on the part of the scientist. His values must not color his
observations or his predictions. Physical laws are not affected by
ideology or belief: the same laws of trajectory apply to both
communist and capitalist missiles. But what are we to do when faced,
not with the question of the composition and structure of an
ecosystem, but with the policy question of what are we to do with it
-- leave it wild, manage it, or pave it over? Because these latter
questions deal with the choices of action with value significance,
they are unavoidably ethical questions. And yet, in this
scientists' account of environmental ethics, we have encountered a
deliberate attempt to confine a discussion of values to a
description of values -- as they have been held in the past,
and as they are reflected by economic prices and costs.
Strange!
Well, why not simply let the history
of ideas tell us how we should regard nature, and what we should do
with our environment? Suppose someone reads this chapter carefully,
and carries on with a study of the citations listed at the end
concerning the history of ideas? Will this help him with his
decisions regarding environmental policy? Not very much. For the
question remains, "but what should we do with this natural region
now?" Or, further, "what should we do about air and water
pollution, toxic wastes, or wilderness areas?" "Do future generations
have a right to clean air and water, and unspoiled wilderness?" Is a
chronicle of past ideas a guide to what we should do now? Such an
account presents a variety of conflicting ideas. On what grounds do
we choose one over another -- or, perchance, reject them all in favor
of a contemporary idea? Such a decision can only be made from
premises not supplied by the history of ideas. Suppose a
radical insists that our environmental problems are unprecedented --
that, in Lincoln's words, "the dogmas of the quiet past are
inadequate to the stormy present." How is he to justify this claim?
Surely not by an appeal to the history of ideas, for this is a claim
about the value of that record. Suppose, instead, we
encounter a traditionalist who maintains that "the old ways are the
best." (Which ways? -- but let that pass). Why should we
believe him? Why should we consent to have the past dictate our
future? Because the "old ways" say so? But that justification is
circular.
In this presentation of
"Environmental Ethics and Economics" oppressive scientific scruples
and a profound misconception of moral philosophy have effectively
shut out philosophical significance -- an outcome that is widespread
in scientific attempts to "contribute" to environmental ethics and
policy. Those scruples and misconceptions are significantly manifest
by this attempt to confine an account of "environmental ethics" to
description, and thus excluding normative and critical
evaluation. Such a confinement, which may characterize good
science, yields little ethical insight.
Few if any philosophers will deny
that scientific data and theory are indispensable ingredients of
sound environmental ethics and policy-making. None will admit that
facts alone will yield ethical conclusions. Many scientists and
policy makers fail to acknowledge this elementary metaethical rule --
a circumstance made evident by the abundance of scientists and
economists in public policy deliberations, at which philosophers are
seldom seen.
"History of ideas," by itself, can be
of little use in the search for an environmental ethic. This, the
authors might have learned from virtually any working philosopher --
had they bothered to inquire. Might "environmental economics" succeed
where "history of ideas" has failed? To this question we now
turn.
III
Environmental Economics and
Environmental Ethics: In February, 1981, President Reagan
published an Executive Order requiring all agencies and departments
of his administration to justify their regulations and proposals with
positive cost- benefit analyses. By so doing, he formalized and
generalized a procedure which has dominated domestic policy-making
over the past fifty years. "Cost-Benefit analysis" is a central
feature of public-works proposals and of environmental impact
statements. "Costs" and "benefits" are understood by administrative
and legislative officials to mean, "dollars and cents." Thus,
economists hold a privileged place as consultants in public
policy-making, and while scientists, engineers, urban-planners, and
other specialists play important roles in these debates, their common
currency and vocabulary is that of the economists. This approach to
public policy is reaching into the courts. One prominent and
influential jurist, Richard Posner, holds that economic efficiency
and the maximization of wealth should figure prominently in the
formulation and interpretation of law.(15)
The attractions of the economic
approach to policy-making are immediately apparent. First of all, this
approach offers a means of reducing the myriad of value-parameters to
a single dimension: $$$. Secondly, vague and ambiguous issues are
given the appearance of precision, with "values" calculated to the
penny. And even if projections are admitted to be imprecise, that
imprecision is itself articulated in numbers (as "plus or minus X
percent"). The policy-maker's enchantment with the economists'
approach seems little diminished by the fact that the economists'
projections have often proven to be little better than those of
soothsayers, and that any expert's economic theory and projection can
be countered by that of another expert. (Partridge's second law of
expertise: "For every Ph.D, there is an equal and opposite
Ph.D").
As might be expected, most
environmental philosophers regard the reputation and credence
afforded economists to be among the most inflated commodities in
public policy decision-making.(16)
For while the economist, like the historian of ideas, might offer
significant insights and data to the ethicist, these philosophical
critics charge that his contributions will similarly prove quite
inadequate to the task of providing moral guidance with regard to our
dealings with the natural environment, and with the fate of future
generations.
A properly humble economist (of which
there are many) will readily admit that while he might define and
assess such things as "efficiency of distribution," "cost
effectiveness," and "income maximization," he must remain silent
regarding such ethical matters as justice, equity, charity, virtue,
desert, rights and duties. If humble, he would further concede that
the failure of economic thinking to solve these important questions
displays the limitation of the discipline. Such economists often
display a willingness, even an eagerness, to hear what philosophers
have to say about such things.(17)
A less humble and less cautious
economist might, as he assesses environmental issues and policies, be
inclined to ignore questions of justice, equity and desert, and
instead focus his attention upon efficiency, optimality and gross
product. Such an approach leads to an uncritical utilitarianism
("net-good- maximization"), and thence to policies that seek the
maximization of aggregate "output" and "product," with little regard
to the identity, circumstances and claims of individuals who
gain or lose "utilities" in the process, or of the moral propriety
(i.e., the justice, equity, desert, etc.) of these gains and losses.
This sort of result is all too common in public
policy-making.(18)
Philosophers are well-equipped to remind policy-makers that there are
other important factors to consider in policy decisions besides the
bottom-line in monetary "cost-benefit" balance sheets -- and that
"utility aggregation," so defined and calculated, may be so designed
that it fails to catch significant social and moral values, and thus
may exclude these values from policy deliberations.
Surely, one of the attractions of
monetary-utility aggregation, is that it deals with factors that are
much more readily quantified and measured (e.g., "cash values") than
such factors as "equity," or "dessert." "Cash values," being more
quantifiable, are thus regarded as, in some sense, "more real." This
temptation to prefer exact data to relevant
information and insight, which I call "the reliable-is-valid
fallacy," is illustrated by the old tale of the fool searching under
a street lamp for a lost coin, not because he dropped it there, but
because "the light is so much better!" Granted, the data is more
quantified in the economists' charts, graphs and tables. But does
that give us warrant to believe that the economist is better prepared
to find the coins?
The most unyielding type of economist
might say, in effect, "we can find the coins" -- "justice and equity,
etc., can be expressed in terms of economic values; namely,
in terms of the cash amounts that individuals are willing to pay to
secure these conditions. For that matter, the same can be said for 'a
clean environment,' 'just savings for the future,' 'ecological
diversity and integrity' and 'natural beauty.' How much is justice
worth to Jones? It is worth the cash amount that Jones is willing to
pay in taxes to support just political institutions. To assess how
much Smith values charity, look at his tax return under 'charitable
contributions.' How much does Brown value clean energy? Find out how
much he will pay (e.g.) to put a solar collector on his roof? This is
how you find out what is '"valuable' to someone, and still more, just
how 'valuable' it is in comparison with his other
values.(19)
Well, what's wrong with this
approach? To begin (and only that), this approach utterly fails to
address Jones', Smith's and Brown's question: "but how much
should I pay or be willing to pay for justice, charity and
environmental restoration? True, we pay, respectively, $X, $Y and $Z
for these 'ethical goods' through our taxes and contributions; but
are these the morally correct amounts?" In other words, while the
dollar payments may reflect assessments of moral worth, they
do not guide the judgment that lead to these assessments. Putting it
another way, while the economist might describe the dollar
"payoff" of an individual or an aggregate "conscience," he can not
prescribe what these payoffs "should" be. (Note how we are
conducting this inquiry within the economist's "ballpark." Obviously,
there are much deeper philosophical questions regarding the moral
adequacy of the "ground rules" in that park). But on what grounds
does one arrive at the decision of what to pay for charity or
justice? On the grounds of what one is able to pay (an
economic consideration) and, within that constraint, of what one
should pay (not an economic, but a moral consideration).
Considerations of aesthetic or "natural" values are similar. While
the economist might describe the most "efficient" means to pay for
the maintenance of national parks, the safety of endangered species,
the protection of the gene pool of future generations, or the
restoration of clean air and water, his concepts and analyses are not
sufficient to lead to morally sound policy decisions. Yet it is
surprising how many legislators and policy-makers seem to think so.
(When did you last hear of a philosopher being invited to testify
before a committee of congress, or to serve as a policy adviser for
the President or his cabinet? Yet how many economists receive such
calls?)
As individuals and as citizens, we
are constantly faced with the issue of the personal or public costs
of preserving the environment and assuring an abundant quality of
life for the future. We are thus prompted to ask, "how much should we
pay for these things?" Our search for an answer is not aided by the
responsive question, "Well how much are you willing to pay?" This can
only lead to the further response, "whatever is right, proper, just
and appropriate to pay." But that, in effect, is the original
question -- a question to which the economist (as policy-maker) has
no answer. As we have seen, this very attempt to approach personal
and public questions of environmental policy in terms of "what's it
worth?" begs enormously difficult, troublesome and controversial
questions of the kind that philosophers ask, intelligent citizens can
recognize, and economists are incapable of posing, much less
pursuing, within the conceptual and logical the structure of their
discipline. The morally sensitive and philosophically astute
individual will steadfastly resist the reduction of (moral)
principles to (psychological)
preferences.
This "resistance" is vividly
illustrated by philosopher Mark Sagoff's experience while teaching a
class in environmental ethics. Following a reading of the Supreme
Court case, Sierra Club vs. Morton, concerning the proposed
ski resort at Mineral King Valley, Sagoff reports:
I asked the students
what they thought about the Disney proposal. They hated it. But
then I asked how many had visited or would visit the resort were
it built. Almost everybody. The enthusiasm was boisterous.
Curious. The students were deeply opposed to the Disney project
yet they would not visit the area unless there were a bed,
alcohol, a ski tow, and a discotheque. How do you explain that?
The students saw no inconsistency. They opposed the resort on
principle: they thought it was wrong. But as a matter of personal
taste or preference they would enjoy a ski resort much more than a
wilderness. The same might be said of adultery -- you would enjoy
it, but you know it is wrong.(20)
Thus we can imagine a hypothetical
future skier, thoroughly enjoying himself at the Mikki Maus
Alpenhaus, yet regretting that it was ever built. Is this regret
irrational? Or is there, perhaps, alongside his "enjoyments" a place
for an adherence and loyalty to the principle that magnificent
natural areas have a presumptive claim to be left undisturbed? If so,
then essential to this sentiment may be a regard for the
wilderness itself, apart from any consideration of the "payoff"
in human satisfaction for "having" the wilderness, or even in the
self-respect for being "high minded" about it all. From a moral point
of view, such calculation of the "utility payoff" to oneself of
principled sentiments, motives, policies and acts, cheapens the
perceived values thereof, since much of the moral quality of caring
for another person, place or principle resides in the focusing of
attention upon the other, or in the devotion to the principle
itself.(21)
It was apparently much more important to Sagoff's students (and thus,
perhaps, more satisfying) to care about and preserve the wilderness
of Mineral King Valley than it was, paradoxically, for them to enjoy it. Perhaps they sensed that a world of diminished
intrinsic natural value is a world less worth living in.
Very few of Sagoff's students would
ever see the wild Mineral King Valley, and most would want to visit
it as a ski resort. Yet they "hated" the Disney proposal. Why?
Apparently because principle "trumped" preference.
The economist making a cost-benefit analysis may be disinclined, by
the rules of his discipline, to recognize this distinction -- much to
the ultimate detriment of the cause of preserving wild places. To the
economist, it may be sufficient for his analysis that more would
prefer skiing at the resort to hiking in the wilderness. That many
(most?) of the skiers themselves would have "preferred" it had the
ski area not been built -- this makes no sense to the economist. His
theory is thus unable to account for "actions on principle" --
actions which follow a deliberate decision not to do something that
would nevertheless maximize one's enjoyments or income.
Why is the economist unable to answer
the question, "what is the value of a healthy and clean natural
environment and of hopeful prospects for future generations?" He
fails because his answers, at best, reflect (descriptively) the
actual operative values of "the economy." But such answers betray a
rather primitive form of cultural, even subjective, relativism: "What
we prefer is what we ought to prefer" and "the desirable is what is
desired." Now it is precisely at this point that a philosopher has
something important to say -- to those who will listen. For example,
the philosopher might attempt to do what I have attempted here --
namely, to point out such fallacies as "the naturalistic fallacy,"
"reliable is valid," "natural is moral," "desired is desirable" and
so forth. He might also remind policy-makers of the distinction
between description and prescription, utility and justice, preference
and principle. Finally, he might show how the very structure and
activity of the discipline of economics are designed to describe
preferences as they are or might be, rather than evaluate
how they should be.
IV
Some Problems with "The
Rights of Nature." From the early days of "the environmental
decade" of the seventies, environmental activists and publicists have
proclaimed that the natural environment, including the inanimate
entities within, have a "right" to be treated with respect and
restraint. This theme was discussed at an influential
interdisciplinary conference on "the rights of non-human nature,"
held at Pitzer College in California in 1974.(22)
At about this time, the "liberation of nature" theme was finding its
way into scholarly journals, legal briefs and, eventually, through
Christopher Stone's eloquent Should Trees Have
Standing,(23)
to a dissenting opinion of the Supreme Court.(24)
Though many philosophers have been
passionately devoted to the cause of preserving the natural
environment, they have generally been quite unmoved by the proposal
to ascribe and extend moral rights to such inanimate objects as trees
and rocks (though many, including this writer, believe that sentient
animals have some rights).(25)
The philosophers have been underwhelmed by the suggestion, not
because they love nature less, but because they love coherent and
critical understanding and intellectual integrity more.
If we are to better understand the
philosopher's qualms concerning "the liberation of nature," we must
first examine the proposal as it arose from outside the discipline of
philosophy. Historian Roderick Nash, a prominent and prolific
defender of these alleged "rights" of inanimate nature, proclaims:
"If and when ... people succeed in formulating moral rules respecting
non-human entities, it may be contended that these entities have
rights." Then, departing radically from standard philosophical usage,
he remarks, "from this standpoint, the meaning of the rights of rocks
is that we should be ethical, not merely economic, in our treatment
of rocks..."
He continues with what appears to be
an argument:
Countless times in
history concerned people have stood up for what are called the
rights of an inarticulate and oppressed group. Those who are
oppressed often do not or cannot speak for themselves. Sometimes
they take no active role in their benefaction. The ethical issue
is solely the concern of the oppressor and the liberators. . . .
Rocks and slaves have something in common
here.(26)
In this regard, it is often noted (by
Nash, Christopher Stone, and others) that one should not be put-off
by the intuitive "absurdity" of the claim that rocks and trees "have
rights." After all, they point out, in our own history, it once
seemed "absurd" to many to claim that blacks or women "had rights."
(This, we should notice, is another analogy
argument).(27)
Following a suggestion of Aldo
Leopold (rather uncritically, I think), and elaborated by Stone, Nash
holds that the extension of moral "rights" to rocks and trees, like
the extension of rights to women and blacks, is a timely and
desirable development in the "evolution of ethics," warranted by
evidence of both history and ethnology. In a diagram employed in
several of his writings, Nash thus portrays this
"evolution:"(28
In even this brief sketch we find a
potpourri of philosophical errors. Once again, there is an attempt to
derive values from alleged facts -- in this case,
alleged facts of history and ethnology. This attempt fails on two
grounds: (a) that history and ethnology reveal no such trends and
patterns, and (more fundamentally) (b) that no moral conclusions can
be drawn from such historical and ethnological data,
regardless of the truth of (a). Since we've already examined the
difficulties in "learning values from history," and since I've argued
points (a) and (b) elsewhere, I need not elaborate.(29)
Instead, I have presented this approach to "environmental ethics" to
display significant philosophical mistakes of a quite different sort
than those encountered earlier.
What, then, might a philosopher say
about this attempt to ascribe "rights" to rocks? First, he might ask:
"Just why did our culture give up slavery and grant the franchise to
women?" Why did we come to believe that these individuals had rights? We did
so because we eventually came to believe that these political exclusions
were based upon morally indefensible distinctions between blacks and women
on the one hand, and free white males on the other. We were at last able to
act upon the convictions that racial and gender distinctions, though
visually discriminable, were not ethically relevant. We felt that, despite
racial and gender differences, all individuals shared the same
capacities to feel and think. Can that kind of argument be made
regarding (i.e., "extended to") trees and rocks? It can not. For
though there are no morally significant differences among classes of
people, there are manifestly essential differences between sentient
and reflective persons on the one hand, and insentient trees and
rocks on the other.
Another feature of this argument
deserves our attention. Nash talks of "rights" as if this were a
simple and singular concept. But because "rights" refers to a
family of concepts, certain kinds of beings might have some
types of rights, but not others. An animal may have the right not to
be treated cruelly, due to its capacity to experience pain. But we
know of no non-human animals that have the "freedom of worship," or
the "right to a free press," or the "right to vote." Animals lack
these "rights," not because we humans are tyrants who refuse to grant
them, but because animals lack the capacities to worship, to
read, or to make political choices. It makes no sense to
attribute such rights to them. But rocks, unlike animals, presumably
do not feel -- thus they cannot "care" how they are treated. What
sense remains in attributing "rights" to them? How does one "enslave"
or "liberate" a tree? How can one be "cruel" to a rock
"itself"?(30)
Can any "rights" be attached
to rocks? Well, one might make the attempt by "extending" the meaning
of the word "rights," to the point, in fact, of virtually
re-defining it. But here, I suggest, a lesson might be learned from
the science of ecology; namely (to quote Barry Commoner) that "you
can't do just one thing." In nature there is a price to be paid for
casually adding, altering, or eliminating components that have a
significant function in the ecosystem. Similarly, with language a
price is paid when we change for our rhetorical convenience, ideas,
words, concepts, distinctions, that have served us well in our
previous thinking. And so, when someone proposes to "extend" and thus
alter the use of a crucial moral term, we are entitled to ask Garrett
Hardin's ecological question: "and then what?" Here's a little story
which illustrates the point:
The Reverend James Pike,
late Dean of Grace Cathedral in San Francisco and long a maverick
theologian, was, on several occasions, brought before
ecclesiastical courts on charges of "heresy." On one such
occasion, it is reported that he was thus addressed by one member
of the court: "It seems to me, Rev. Pike, that the essential
question before us is 'are you a Christian?' That question might
effectively be settled by the answer to another question, namely,
'Do you believe that the birth of Jesus Christ was a
miracle?'"
Pike answered at once: "Why of
course I do!"
The relief and satisfaction at
the table was pentecostal.
Never a man to let well enough
alone, Pike added; "but then, Your Grace, isn't
every birth a
miracle?"
Consider next this hypothetical scene: A
student is in the office of a professor who, she feels, has treated
her capriciously, arbitrarily, and generally unfairly. She says, "I
know that I am just a student, but I am also a person -- I think, I
feel, I reflect, I have principles and I try to act upon them. Don't
I therefore have the right to be treated fairly and with
respect?"
The professor replies: "Why, of
course, I acknowledge that you have rights, and I acknowledge the
moral dignity which follows from these rights; but then, I also
believe that rocks have rights!" Clearly, this is not a
concept of "rights" that would be warmly embraced by the ACLU or
Amnesty International.
It is apparent that there is some
conceptual legerdemain at work here. Surely the Christian believes
that the birth of Christ was "miraculous" in a special way. (After
all, "miraculous" means, in part, "unique" and "special").
Analogously, one might reply to the professor that the "rights" of
persons are "rights" of a special kind -- of a kind that
rocks, by their nature, cannot conceivably have. How are we led to
suspect a different interpretation? Because both Pike and the
hypothetical professor are abusing the ordinary usage of the words
"miracle" and "rights." The ordinary uses of these words give
account, in the first case, of the Christian's belief that the birth
of Jesus Christ was supernatural, and thus a unique event in human
history -- a birth unlike any other birth. In the second case, the
term "rights is intended to indicate a moral significance that human
beings have, which inanimate objects do not have -- a significance
which follows from capacities unique to humans (more accurately, to
persons). A careless extension of the application of
"rights" to trees and rocks serves only to obscure the unique
capacities and qualities of human beings which give humans special
moral consideration. Morally sensitive individuals should be no more
willing to tolerate such a loss of conceptual clarity and
distinction, than a believing Christian should be willing to regard
the birth of Jesus Christ as equivalent to all other
births.
The error at work here is familiar to
analytical philosophers. By referring to (denoting) all cases in the
generic class, no specific cases have been qualified (designated). If
rocks can be said to have rights, then what on earth does
not? What then is the special significance of a person having
rights?
The operative rule, "that which
denotes everything, designates nothing," might be
clarified by the following tale from "The Arabian Nights":
One night, a spy from
the Caliph's palace spotted one of Ali Baba's thieves and followed
him to the thieves' hideout. Then, the spy quietly took out a
piece of chalk, marked an "X" over the doorpost, and reported this
to the Caliph's guards. However, before the guards could leave the
palace, another thief spotted the sign, took out another piece of
chalk, and marked every doorpost in Baghdad. Instead, he could
have erased the spy's mark. What practical difference would this
have made?
Yet another story:
Two students were
preparing for an examination. The first, careful not to damage the
resale value of his textbook, made not a single mark in it. The
second, determined to take full note of what he read,
indiscriminately underlined each and every
word. Each read the same pages. Each reviewed
just once. Which was the better prepared?
Thus we see how, "that which denotes
(refers to) everything, designates (qualifies -- 'sets aside')
nothing!" Accordingly, the "extension" of the concept of "rights" to
all of nature, down to each lowly rock, while accomplishing nothing
for environmental ethics, exacts an exorbitant cost in terms of the
value and dignity of human persons. It is a cost which few moral
philosophers are willing to pay.
To summarize: When a moral concept
such as "rights" is taken from the conceptual context which produced
it and which sustains it, the meaning changes -- just as a species is
altered when removed from the ecosystem from which it evolved. But
the theoretical context (e.g., the moral theory) also changes -- as
an ecosystem changes when component species are altered or removed.
And so, what is the moral cost of asserting that "rocks have rights"?
It may be considerable; a cost in the meaning and the moral
significance of affording rights to people -- a cost in the dignity
and self respect which comes from the possession of
rights.(31)
This attempt to ascribe "rights" to
rocks has, I believe, issued from a commendable motive combined with
a fundamental philosophical error: the motive is to bring rocks,
trees, landscapes, and insentient nature in general under our moral
purview (to make them, in Kenneth Goodpaster's term, "morally
considerable"). The philosophical error resides in the belief that if
these entities have no rights, no moral restraints remain in our
dealings with them. But, as the philosopher can readily point out,
"rights" is but one of many moral categories available to the ethical
theorist. Even without "rights," some rather forceful considerations
might remain in the moral armament. (For example, the attack upon
Michelangelo's "Pieta," while dreadful, was not a violation of the
"rights" of that splendid piece of marble. It was, however, a threat
to a locus of great significance and beauty. A similar analysis might
apply to the destruction of wilderness).
One of the earliest distinctions to
be brought to the attention of the beginning student of Philosophy,
is the distinction between "rhetoric" and "argument." "Rhetoric"
enlists the support of any available means to bring about
psychological assent of a foregone conclusion. Its methods and aims
are subjective. Rational argument, on the other hand, scrupulously
employs empirical data, logical procedures and rules of evidence to
discover and then to support conclusions that are objectively
validated by these methods. The proposal to attribute rights to
inanimate nature displays a triumph of rhetoric over philosophy -- a
coup that is believed, by all too many, to be philosophy.
The moral cost of this gambit is a devaluation of human dignity, and
that is a cost far out of proportion to the sought-for gain in
"environmental consciousness." Furthermore, the proposal is also
tactically bad (not a philosophical issue), since such
rhetorical excess places it on the fringes of public debate and
invites derision. Suggesting that rocks have rights is a mistake; a
mistake to which those in engaged in rhetoric are susceptible, and a
mistake is unlikely to be made by moral philosophers sensitive to the
significance and implications of the concept of "rights" and to its
conceptual ecology.
V
Conclusions. We have encountered four failed
attempts to do the work of philosophy without the tools and insights
of philosophy. Common to all is the effort to establish value
conclusions (prescriptions) "at the cheap"; respectively, by
analogy, by historical and economic description, and by rhetoric. I
have indicated the inadequacy of these attempts by methods that are
routine to philosophers; notably, by drawing absurd conclusions from
assumed premises and by citing unacceptable counter-examples of the
rules and methods employed therein. Now I would like to explain
briefly the logical and conceptual error that is common to all
attempts to found an "ethic" on facts alone (i.e., primarily the
arguments of the first three sections, above). It is simply a formal
fallacy familiar to beginning students of logic: "No term can be
introduced into a conclusion that is missing in the premises." In any
attempt to derive values from facts, the term in
question is "ought" (or some synonym). Why is "ought" implicitly
essential to value assertions and missing from all fact ("is")
statements? Because facts and values, and thus
statements thereof, are fundamentally distinct: "facts" state what
is the case, and "values" state what should be the
case, or what we should make the case. The presumption that any
collection of factual statements may formally entail a normative
conclusion is called, by philosophers, "the naturalistic fallacy"? It
is a "fallacy" since, as explained above, the very attempt to "derive
an ought from an is" is essentially invalid. This
is not to say that facts are irrelevant to moral arguments. On the
contrary, they are necessary and often crucial to such arguments. But
they are never sufficient. Yet we have encountered above some
attempts to treat ethical issues as if they were "mere
matters of fact."
The question of the relationship of
"facts" to "values" is one of the deepest issues of metaethics. Some
philosophers (the "non-cognitivists") believe that the foundations of
values are so distinct from facts and logic, that basic value
preferences and commitments are not amenable to rational
justification. Other philosophers (the "cognitivists") hold that
fundamental value disputes are significantly informed by rational
argument. (The author belongs to this second group). Among the
"cognitivists" (excluding this author) are the "definists," who
contend that the "oughts" in value statements can be defined in terms
of facts, and that such definitions, serving as premises in moral
arguments, can combine with facts to yield valid ethical conclusions.
No philosophers, however, believe that "the is-ought problem" is a
simple matter, and thus no philosopher could be content with the
casual manner in which this deep issue has been ignored and brushed
aside in the four attempts, here examined, to "escape
philosophy."
What, then, is the logical status of
values, and how do they relate to facts? A library of complex and
technical philosophical treatises have been written on that
question.(32)
We can not begin to address it here. However, I hope that the
foregoing has indicated that any attempt to formulate an
"environmental ethic" in disregard of "the fact-value problem" will
result in an "ethic" that is unilluminating, incoherent, invalid, and
thus inadequate to the task of directing personal action or public
policy.
If my efforts have been successful, I
have at least begun to indicate that the philosopher's skills have a
crucial role in the articulation and justification of an
environmental ethic, and in the formulation of environmental policy.
This contention, which would seem quite obvious to most "applied
philosophers," appears to be "obvious" to few outside the profession
of philosophy. This lack of appreciation for the philosophers role in
environmental ethics and policy-making is due, in turn, to the fact
that there are few general fields of academic endeavor that are less
understood by "outsiders" -- even by scholars in other disciplines --
than philosophy. Furthermore, this is an ignorance that is often
unacknowledged. Thus the philosopher faces the constant annoyance of
finding colleagues in other fields doing his work, doing it badly,
and not bothering to consult the "expert" (i.e., himself) in the
process. Such behavior might even take place in an "interdisciplinary
program" with a resident philosopher on hand for such
consultation.(33)
But while philosophers might be
avoided by environmental policy-makers, moral philosophy cannot. It
cannot be avoided for the simple reason that, like it or not, such
policy-makers are unavoidably involved in value decisions. They are
thus involved because they are making deliberate, informed choices
that will variably affect the quality of life, the rights and the
liberties of present and future human beings and sentient animals. Science informs these choices. Technology makes
them effective and gives us the capacity to carry them out. But, as
choices with value significance (affecting quality of
life, rights and liberties), and as choices which reflect upon the personal worth of those
who make them, these practical decisions are, by definition, moral
decisions as well. The inalienable role of ethics in policy-making
might be demonstrated by asking: What would it be like to totally
banish moral and critical philosophy from policy-making and
professional practice? It would be (a) to act with no reflective
interest in one's concept of "human rights and welfare" as those
concepts affect one's professional work, (b) to act in disregard of
the impact of one's professional work and policies upon the rights
and welfare of those affected thereby, and (c) to fail to review the
logical adequacy of the thought processes which guide one's
professional thinking.
In short, the applied scientist,
technologist and policy- maker is professionally concerned with the
task of applying his specialized knowledge and skills to the service
of humanity. The study and acquisition of that "specialized skill and
knowledge" is properly his professional business. But what is he to
do with it? How is he to adjudicate between conflicting claims of
rights and duties which attend his various roles of citizen,
professional, autonomous individual, family head, and so on? What
concept of "human benefit" is presupposed in his professional
conduct, in the motives and objectives of his work? What concepts of
"benefit" and "good" are necessarily excluded by the concept which he
adopts? If, as scientists like to insist, "science is value free,"
then such value questions as these do not, strictly speaking, belong
to science as science. (Values do not, for example, affect
what the nuclear physicist observes in his laboratory). But these
questions do belong to their professional roles and to their
citizenship roles. (Following the same example, values are
inalienable to a decision whether to apply a knowledge of nuclear physics to the design of
atomic weapons, to the production of electrical energy, or to a public warning
of the hazards of such production). Value
assumptions will thus not be evaded in policy-making or professional
practice, since they are logically presupposed by these activities.
An attempt to avoid value assumptions, perhaps through an exclusive
attention to "the simple facts" will only result in "philosophy" of
the worst kind: "philosophy" without critical reflection, which is no
philosophy at all.
I've been told, in effect, that
"everybody thinks, therefore everybody is a
philosopher."(34)
Such a remark betrays a profound misconception of the discipline. For
while "everybody thinks," it is equally true that "nobody thinks
perfectly well." It is the philosopher's job to think, and to assess
the thinking of others, with a deliberately critical eye; to
critically judge the quality of that thinking in terms of
its clarity, consistency, coherence and comprehensiveness; to examine
the moral presuppositions and implications of professional practice
and public policy; and to assess the thought processes which lead
from assumption (or worse, unexamined presupposition) to conclusion
-- i.e., to policy recommendations.
Public impressions to the contrary
notwithstanding, philosophy is not merely an ornament of refined life
-- not empty and pointless, if stimulating, talk which is out of
touch with "the real world." On the contrary, philosophy is
inescapable and crucial to the applied professions and to public
policy making. We all must philosophize. Beyond that necessity lies
the choice to do so better or worse -- with or without critical
reflection.
Socrates remarked that "the
unexamined life is not worth living." Still more, in the conditions
of modern life, the unexamined life can be very frustrating -- and
very dangerous. The philosopher's task is to introduce critical
reflection into the unavoidable value choices in our lives, and thus
to make the civilized condition more endurable -- and more
enduring.
NOTES and REFERENCES
1. A briefer
version of this paper (drawn from sections II, IV and V) was
published as "Environmental Ethics Without Philosophy," in
Human Ecology: A Gathering of Perspectives,
(ed.) Richard J. Borden, Society for Human Ecology, 1986.
2. While the
subject-matter of the environmental scientist might be "value-free,
such "pure" scientific work does not "escape philosophy" -- not, for
example, the philosophy of science. But that contention deserves
another paper.
3. The name for
this fallacy (a variant of "the naturalistic fallacy") is suggested
by Kristin Shrader-Frechette's term "normal is moral." Nuclear Power and Public Policy, (Boston:
Reidel, 1983).
4. University of
California, Santa Barbara, Nexus, June 8, 1980.
5.
Shrader-Frechette, op. cit., 35-7, 118-20, 144-5.
6. Constance
Holden, "The Reagan Years: Environmentalists Tremble,"
Science, Vol. 210 (28
November 1980), p. 988.
7. Recorded and
transcribed from National Public Radio's "All Things Considered," May
18, 1983.
8. Elsewhere I
have identified four essential conditions of moral responsibility:
(a) knowledge, (b) capacity, (c) choice,
and (d) value significance. The final condition, "value
significance," indicates that the choice matters. A choice
of one of the Baskin-Robbins 31 flavors is insignificant. But a
choice to buy an ice-cream cone with stolen money, rather than return
the money, is of value significance. To these four criteria, one
might add a fifth: (e) acts of a person. However, that
condition may be implicit in the first four. While the fine points of
the concept of "person" are philosophically controversial, the term
"person" essentially describes a being that is self-conscious,
deliberative, uses language, can reason and abstract, and acts from
principles. It is an empirical fact and not a logical necessity that
in our experience only human beings (homo sapiens) are "persons."
Other species, or even extra-terrestrials or robots, could
conceivably be persons. See my
"How is
Morality Possible," Chapter 12 of my book in progress, Conscience of a
Progressive (this site).
9. Daniel Botkin
and Edward Keller, The Earth as a Living
Planet, New York: Crowell, 1982. Botkin was primarily
responsible for this chapter. Recently I examined eight standard
texts in "environmental Studies" at the office of a colleague in the
Biology Department. (Included were well-regarded books by
Ehrlich/Ehrlich/Holdren, J. Turk, R. Revelle, R. Dasmann, and G. T.
Miller). The term "Environmental Ethics" was indexed in only one
(Miller), and "Ethics" was indexed only in reference to specific
issues, and not as a philosophical activity. Only Miller (again)
devoted a chapter to Environmental Ethics. Apparently these authors
felt that Environmental Ethics was sufficiently remote from their
areas of expertise that the topic might be better left alone. In view
of the results of Botkin and Keller's efforts, this was perhaps a
wise decision on the part of these other scientists.
10. Ibid.,
390
11. Ibid.,
396.
12. Ibid.,
404.
13. In the entire
chapter on "Environmental Ethics and Economics," only one living
philosopher is mentioned (in the list of "Further
Readings").
14. For more
about justification of ethical theories, see William Frankena, Ethics (Second Edition), Prentice Hall, 1973,
Chapter Six; John Rawls, A Theory of
Justice, Harvard, 1971, pp. 46-53;
Richard Brandt, Ethical Theory,
Prentice-Hall, 1959, Chs. 2 & 10; Kai Nielsen, "Ethics, Problems
of" Encyclopedia of
Philosophy, MacMillan/Free Press, 1967,
Vol. III, pp. 117-34.
15. Richard
Posner, Economic Analysis of Law (Boston:
Little Brown, 1972). See also
Newsweek, June 10, 1985, p.
93-4).
16. Prominent
among the philosophical critics of cost-benefit analysis are Alastair
MacIntyre, Mark Sagoff, Kristin Shrader-Frechette, and Lawrence
Tribe.
17. The Nobel Laureate economist, Amartya Sen, deserves special
recognition. His excellent book, On Ethics and Economics
(Blackwell, 1987) is a powerful statement of the moral limitations of
economic theory. His recent book, The Idea of Justice,
(Belknap/Harvard, 2009) is an outstanding contribution to moral philosophy,
outside the bounds of conventional economic discourse.
18. For an
economist's expression of such a view, see A. Myrick Freeman, "The
Ethical Basis of the Economic View of the Environment," Working Paper
1-3, Center for the Study of Values and Social Policy, University of
Colorado March, 1983, p.5.
19. Botkin and
Keller, it should be noted, are not of this sort. On a couple of
occasions in their chapter (398, 404), they mention "ethical"
consideration as if it were a thing apart from "costs" and "prices."
Also evaluative terms ("necessary," "best" and "desirable") appear
repeatedly (see especially the summary paragraph, p. 407).
Unfortunately, these citations are totally without metaethical
foundation: i.e., there is no treatment whatever of the meaning of
these concepts, much less an attempt to justify the claims which
contain them.
20. In "The
Philosopher as Teacher: On Teaching Environmental Ethics,"
Metaphilosophy, Vol. II, Nos. 3 & 4,
July/October, 1980, p. 318. Sagoff cites this classroom discussion to
make a different point, namely that "principles are preferences we
have not as individuals but a members of communities. . . Principles
or social norms are not values upon which we happen to agree; they
are values the logical subject of which is the community itself."
(319) While I agree with Sagoff regarding the source and locus of
principles and social norms, I wish to make a different, though
compatible, point; namely, that loyalty to principles may motivate
sufficiently to override utilitarian motivations.
21. For an
elaboration of this point, see my
"Why Care About the Future?", in
Partridge (ed.), Responsibilities for Future
Generations, Buffalo: Prometheus Books, 1981. At this site.
22. Several of
the papers from this conference appeared in scholarly journals,
notably the Winter, 1974 issue of The North American
Review.
23. Christopher
Stone, Should Trees Have
Standing, Los Altos, CA: Wm. Kaufmann, 1974.
24. By William O.
Douglas, in Sierra Club vs. Morton, April 19, 1972. Reprinted in
Stone, op. cit.
25. Tom Regan is
the only philosopher I know of who is willing to accord rights to
inanimate nature. However Regan, unlike the non philosophers who have
defended this notion, bases his claim for "rights of rocks" upon a
carefully constructed theory of "inherent value" and "rights." My
disagreement with Regan may be found in "Three Wrong Leads in Search
for an Environmental Ethic: Tom Regan on Animal rights, Inherent
Values, and Deep Ecology," Ethics and
Animals, V:3 (Sept. 1984), pp. 61-74. An excerpt,
"On the Rights of Animals
and Persons," is at this site.
26. Roderick
Nash, "Do Rocks Have Rights," The Center
Magazine, (Nov.-Dec., 1977), p. 10.
27. Stone, op.
cit., pp. 6-9.
28. Nash, "Do
Rocks Have Rights," loc. cit., p. 6. The figure is also employed by
Nash in papers appearing in Clark and List (eds), Environmental Spectrum (van Nostrand, 1974),
Not Man Apart, October, 1975, and Mooney and
Stuber Small Comforts for Hard Times
(Columbia University, 1977). I have seen others, though the citations
are not before me).
29. Suppose and
advocate of an "extension of ethics" to non-human entities were to
concede that history and ethnology reveal no such "extension." Would
he thus have reason to abandon his position? He would not. The
"extension of ethics" is proposed, not as a generalization of history
and ethnology; it is a normative ethical claim. "Far from being
derived from the facts of culture and history, the land ethic is a
moral position from which the ecological moralist evaluates cultural
and historical trends." Ernest Partridge,
"Are We Ready for an
Ecological Morality?", Environmental Ethics,
4:2 (Summer, 1982), pp. 177-8.
30. For a
statement of this "interest theory of rights," which I endorse
virtually without reservation, see Joel Feinberg's "The Rights of
Animals and Unborn Generations," in Wm. Blackstone (ed.),
Philosophy and Environmental
Crisis, Athens: University of Georgia
Press, 1974.
While I at UCSB (1980-2), I heard Nash say in a public lecture,
"Ernie Partridge thinks I'm crazy, but I believe that rocks are
alive!"
I was not, at the time, in a position to respond. But had I
the opportunity, I might have said: "Now to say that rocks are
alive, is presumably to tell us something about rocks -- something
more than 'rocks are rocks.' If so, then perhaps you might describe
to me just what it would be like to encounter a dead rock, and how we
might tell the difference between a live rock and a dead
one." Of course, this is simply an application of "the falsifiability"
criterion of meaning. (2009)
31. The significance of rights in terms of
"dignity and self respect" is argued by many philosophers. Among the
most forceful and eloquent contemporary statements are by Ronald Dworkin in Taking Rights Seriously (Harvard, 1977), and Joel
Feinberg, in Social Philosophy
(Prentice-Hall, 1973).
32. The best approach to this question, I
believe, might be found in Frankena, Brandt and Nielsen, op. cit.
(note 14, above). My published views on the subject may be found in my
"In Search of
Sustainable Values,"
International Journal of Sustainable
Development, 6:1, 2003, in Part V of my unpublished,
Religion, Education
and Morality: A Dialogue,
and most extensively, in my book in progress,
Conscience of a Progressive.
All the above, linked
to this site.
33. I have known of treatises in
"environmental ethics" being written by applied scientists, while, in
adjacent offices, moral philosophers sat available and unconsulted.
Recently, while on a research trip, I visited an eminent natural
scientist who, upon learning that I was "moral philosopher,"
proceeded to give me an impromptu lecture (not a discussion) on
business ethics. ("Don't you agree that..." (no pause),
"moreover..."). If, instead, I had asked him to be silent while I
offered him a lecture on his specialty, I would have been promptly
and appropriately tossed out of his office. Yet he had no qualms
whatever in treating a moral philosopher in an analogous manner. Such
conduct is by no means rare.
34. Cf. the letter by Robert Fisher and my
reply in Journal of Environmental Education, 14:3 (Spring, 1983), pp. 41-3.
