E. Moral Philosophy: 2nd Extract

The Ethics of Dialogue

TO recognise the reality of the world of the other — the only thing that stands between me and the abyss of solipsism — is not a judging or saying but essentially a doing. If our ethics of dialogue has a distinctive view to offer concerning the nature of moral reasoning, it must be based on this metaphysical principle. So what does it mean in practical terms?

Let us start by examining the very process of dialogue itself. I take the trouble to listen because the other person deserves to be heard out. I take the trouble to respond because the other person deserves a response. I don't have to listen to insults, nor do I have to respond if the other person is clearly not listening to me. Yet even so there are considerable lengths to which I would go in order to continue the dialogue, even if I felt that the other person was not arguing fairly, or giving me the chance to state my case. This is not a game, and there are no forfeits for those who break the rules. Keeping up the lines of communication despite every hindrance matters because the other person matters, because they count; and while the lines of communication are open there is still hope that we will overcome the barriers to mutual understanding and reconcile our differences.

But why bother, all the same? What's the pay off? So long as there remains this gulf between us, the only options for me are to walk away or else to fight single-mindedly for my own cause. If I can walk away from one antagonist, I can walk way from others. There is nothing in principle to prevent me choosing to walk away from all. If I decide to stand and fight, on the other hand, there is nothing to stop the fight ultimately becoming a fight to the death, for only by the destruction of the other is the obstacle he represents finally overcome.

If I must give way to the interests of the other, it is because I want to, because I care, and not because I am forced to. Yet my caring does not depend on my subjective feelings; it arises from something that I learn objectively to see: the needs, interests and values of the other, their valuational perspective. What is this seeing? Looking at other moral theories, there appear two main models of moral perception, neither of which proves adequate to fill the explanatory gap.

The first model is based on the idea of sympathy, or, more accurately, empathy. We have already remarked how for Hume, 'natural sympathy' is a universal human attribute, a fundamental empirical fact about human nature. The problem here, however, is not one that would be solved by making the capacity for empathy necessary rather than contingent. No-one would deny that empathy or the ability to put oneself in another's shoes is the first requirement for caring. The objection is that it does not appear sufficient. The true virtuoso of sadism needs to be capable of empathy or seeming sympathy, needs to be sensitive to the depths of pain and misery to which they have succeeded in reducing their poor victim. (In effect, this is just another formulation of our objection to Nagel's account of the basis of altruistic motivation in terms of the recognition of the 'reality' of another mind.)

The second model of moral perception is based in the idea of identity, or identification. Thus in Schopenhauer's metaphysical theory the fact that the other is other than me, that we are two and not one, is merely a phenomenal appearance of an underlying reality in which there is in truth only one Subject, the universal Will in which all our superficially separate identities are ultimately submerged. A 'feeling' of sympathy, say, the uncomfortable twinge I experience when I see someone being kicked, is merely the phenomenal form that our — or rather It's — suffering of the resulting pain takes for the phenomenal 'I'. By contrast, according to the theory Bradley elaborates in 'My Station and Its Duties', in acquiring the attributes of a moral being I learn to identify my true self with the social or moral 'organism'. To seek benefits for myself at the expense of others would be as absurd as an arm or a leg (supposing that one's limbs became conscious of their separate 'identities') seeking preferential treatment over the whole body.

Talk of a metaphysical identity, however, in whatever terms, has a point only if through the process of identification the values of the other become mine, and my values become his. That is not a coherent possibility on our view. On the two-world account the other remains absolutely other. I, and the other, are not one but two. Once again, this is not to deny the reality of the sense of identity or the desire for identification. The place for such a notion, however, is in the theory of values rather than the theory of conduct. In different ways I identify with my immediate and not-so immediate family, with other members of my faith or my profession, with my country, with the football team I currently support. Through identification, the triumphs or defeats of others become my own triumphs and defeats. The happiness or misery they feel, I feel too. I do not 'become' those whom I identify with, nor are we merged into a higher being. We merely share certain goals and aspirations.

If we reject empathy and identity, what is left? The worry that there is a gap that needs to be plugged here is based on a fundamental misunderstanding, a failure to appreciate fully the radical claim involved in rejecting the ethics of the disinterested view by an ethics of dialogue. The disinterested view is a standpoint to which one aspires, to which one seeks to ascend. Talk of empathy or identity is meant to provide the necessary conceptual stairway. By contrast, the very idea of entering into moral dialogue already includes all that is needed to account for moral motivation. When I engage another person in moral dialogue, there are not two parallel processes of practical deliberation going on, hers and mine, but only one. (Contrast this with the case of a 'dialogue' between politicians or traders, where each is privately deliberating how to gain the upper hand.) In opening myself up and addressing the other as a 'thou' I am already committed to the practical consequences of agreement, of doing the action which, by the combined light of her valuational perspective and mine is seen as the thing to be done. The only remaining question — which will flesh out our account of the essential structure of moral dialogue — concerns the mechanics of how this combination of valuational perspectives may be achieved.

In the theory of values, my own private deliberations may be seen as having a broadly aesthetic goal. In seeking to reconcile my conflicting aims and interests — in building the self I wish to be — I am painting a picture of how my world would be for me if I chose one course of action rather than another, trying to imagine how the various activities I value could be fitted in to make something — my life — that as a result of the necessary accommodations would have value added rather than subtracted from the sum of the various individual components. As in a figurative composition, the choice of colours, the brushwork, the composition all have to contribute to make harmonious whole. Ideally, there is no competition or clash between different images or aspects striving for attention, but each resonates with and magnifies the other. Any sign of mere compromise, of denying one part of myself to make sufficient room for another is a detraction from the value of the overall composition, although in practice such compromises can never be entirely avoided.

By complete contrast, compromise is the essence of moral dialogue. Because our valuational perspectives are different we cannot hope to agree on the perfect 'composition'. We therefore have to set our sights lower. The guiding principle becomes one of fairness and mutual forbearance. We cannot build a perfect life together, but still that life can be our life, rather than the lives of isolated individuals or antagonists. Its 'added value' for each of us resides purely in the fact that it is ours, that through my actions I recognise the reality, the authority of you, the other, as you do for me.

One has to be on guard against the negative connotations of 'compromise'. In everyday speech, we talk of those who 'compromise their principles', or who find themselves in a situation in which they are 'fatally compromised'. The point to realise is that compromise as such has no value for its own sake. Nor are we talking about shallow expediency, or taking the easy way out. It is rather that the importance of moral dialogue is so great, the risks of refusing to enter into dialogue so severe, that maintaining the dialogue warrants very considerable sacrifice. But how do I decide what to give up? Is there anything I cannot give up?

Let us start with the most difficult range of cases. Let us say that there is a certain activity or practice which I regard as wrong, and another person does not regard as wrong: say, fox hunting, or abortion. I am not now talking merely about the things that matter to me, from my personal perspective. To be sure, I care about the fate of foxes or foetuses. But my caring is not confined to worrying about whether I might personally be involved in hurting them. Such a possibility may be pretty remote. Rather, I will not let anyone hurt them. I am not giving expression to the things I happen to value; I am laying down the law. I do not see myself as having the right to compromise the rights of foetuses or foxes for any consideration. What chance, then, of dialogue with a master of hounds, or a pro-abortionist?

Our answer is that there is every necessity for dialogue. The arguments have to be marshalled on both sides; the factual evidence, as well as the philosophical considerations must be sifted through. Admittedly, this is not dialogue in search of compromise. But the claim was not that all moral dialogue is aimed at seeking compromise; only that entering into moral dialogue inevitably involves compromise over certain issues, or preparedness to compromise. Another thing moral dialogue entails — no less important — is willingness to admit that one has been wrong, a willingness to follow the argument through to its conclusion, and to accept that conclusion if it goes against what one previously believed.

One special aspect that one might not have noticed in the two examples cited is the fact that foxes and foetuses cannot argue their own case; we have to argue for them. This raises a challenge which we shall eventually have to meet head on: how certain beings who are incapable of being parties to significant moral dialogue can nevertheless be seen to make moral claims on us. Not all cases of refusal to compromise exhibit this aspect — arguments over euthanasia and capital punishment, for example; or to take another range of cases, moral disputes arising from clashes between basic tenets of religious belief, such as those concerned with sexual morality — but it is significant that many do.

If there is no possibility of compromise, and no-one succeeds in coming up with the telling argument (a rare enough event, admittedly) then all we can do is continue talking. The fox hunter and the abortionist are still moral beings, persons that count. You can wave placards at them but you can't shoot them like dogs. No less significantly, you do not have the choice whether or not to share your world, your living space with them. It could be your next door neighbour or your bank manager or the driver whose car you accidentally collided with. — The compelling motive force behind the formation of exclusive religious sects is the desire to draw defensive boundaries around one's life, to avoid being 'compromised' by having to communicate or deal with persons who do not share the faith. Yet within the compound, there is no guarantee that further divisions will not appear. Ultimately, the only religious sect safe from division is one that has just one member: yourself.

The case of religious belief perhaps deserves special attention. It is significant that when John Stuart Mill, in his essay On Liberty argued for unrestricted freedom of thought and discussion (apart from such things as deliberate incitement to riot or the use of insult for the sake of insult) he used examples of differences of religious belief as cases of belief systems that had erroneously sought to protect themselves from free discussion and criticism of basic principles. However firm our faith, we should be prepared to argue over the question, say, whether Christ was the Incarnation of the Deity, both on the grounds that if we are indeed 'right', our understanding of our belief and our ability to defend it will be improved, and also on the grounds that we may, after all, discover that we were 'wrong' to hold the belief, and would therefore benefit from having our error pointed out to us.

Now, while many readers will feel that Mill has successfully made out his case where the subject of disagreement is scientific knowledge, or indeed social 'experiments in living' as he termed them, it is seriously open to question whether religious faith ought to be subjected to this ordeal by fire. To take just one sensitive contemporary issue, should Muslim school children be forced to attend Christian prayers, or lessons in religious knowledge that call into question the claim of the Muslim religion to be the one true faith, when their parents remain adamantly opposed? The aim of inter-faith dialogue ought to be a search for mutual understanding, not an attempt to make the religious faith of others a subject for 'rational inquiry', least of all to gain converts to one's own faith. — Yet a genuine atmosphere of religious tolerance is not so easily achieved; sometimes it may be impossible to achieve and we have to live with that uncomfortable fact.

Commitment to moral dialogue binds us together as social, moral beings. Nothing, finally, exhibits that fact more starkly than the custom of two individuals solemnly agreeing to share the rest of their lives together, 'for better or for worse'. Between the partners of a marriage there is no accepted buffer zone of 'tolerant' indifference; arguably, an essential ingredient in the cement of human society at large.

I have to be prepared to justify each and any of my actions to you — at least, those which impinge on you or the children, which is near about all — as you have to be prepared to justify each and any of your actions to me. More than that, each of us must answer to what has become of our life — the life we planned, or dreamed, dreams brought to fruition or which we sorrowfully failed to bring to fruition, a life racked and riven by painful adjustments and renunciations on both sides, coloured by the resentment over lost hopes and opportunities, periodically and continually thrown into question as if we were free to start with a blank sheet when in truth there seems precious little room for anything but the occasional marginal scribble. Yet for all that, you are my truest 'thou' (in the popular phrase, my 'significant other') and to break off our dialogue now, after all that has gone before, would be to choose a spiritual death. — Is a form of human society conceivable that did not have choice of relationship at its core? Would it be possible for all moral dialogue to be conducted 'safely', at arms length? — Such a society would surely be a society without a centre at all.