Can human rights impose positive duties to act?

Here’s a perplexing question that eventually confronts almost everyone who thinks long enough and hard enough about human rights: Can human rights impose positive duties? Everyone of course agrees human rights impose negative duties, that is, duties to refrain from performing some action. The right to bodily security furnishes an example. Our right to be free from arbitrary assault prohibits duty-holders from physically attacking us. But what about positive duties? Can human rights bind duty-holders to perform positive acts to support, rescue or protect others?

We might view the question as important because ‘welfare rights’ require positive duties and contributions. If human rights cannot impose positive duties, then this pretty much rules out the possibility of rights to healthcare and education. But the question of positive duties still looms large if we restrict our attention to basic liberty rights. Reflect again on our human right to bodily security. We need to know whether this right guarantees us positive protection from assault (say, by imposing duties on others to contribute to police or peacekeeping forces), or whether it remains limited to just forbidding the assaults themselves. This philosophical question carries genuine real-world implications. If human rights commitments imply positive duties, then this will impact upon the duties that we think particular actors (such as peacekeepers and other international agents) should shoulder.

A moment earlier I characterized the question as perplexing. Why? Because like many philosophical conundrums, we can unearth impressive reasons on both sides of the argument. I’ve already hinted at some of them.

On the side of the advocate of positive duties we can marshal the alluring temptation of welfare rights. To many thinkers, the same reasons that justify duties to refrain from harming other people seem to present solid grounds for helping those people (at least sometimes). Return to the reasons put forward for liberty rights by John Locke or Robert Nozick, such advocates argue, and you will find equally good reasons for at least some welfare rights. Even setting aside welfare rights, many people agree a concern for human rights provides us with reasons to contribute to the basic institutions of justice that guard our classic rights of life, liberty and property. If everyone really deserves protection from arbitrary violence, then human rights must at least impel us to lift a finger to prevent such violence when we can easily do so.

All well and good, reply the opponents of positive duties. But there remains the small hurdle of explaining how we can even think of linking positive duties and human rights together. Even the most cursory examination of the most well-known and well-accepted human rights (such as liberty rights to bodily security) shows they impose universal, legally-binding duties. Scratch a little deeper we can unearth a host of other properties. For example, human rights-based duties are ‘directed’—owed from one determinate human being to another determinate human being. The duties are also ‘perfect’—they allow little discretion in where, when, how and towards who they are performed.

Why does this matter? It matters because positive duties seem to possess almost none of these key properties. It beggars belief to think that Amy’s right to healthcare (say) can be secured by legally-binding, directed, perfect duties universally imposed on all individuals.

Actually, the situation for positive duties is even worse than this. For sometimes there will be insufficient resources available to adequately fulfill Amy’s welfare rights, such as to healthcare. So how can Amy possibly have a right to something when absolutely no-one bears duties to hand over the resources that would secure that right? Maybe those others don’t even have those resources, or those resources are protected by their own (liberty or welfare) rights. A human right that cannot be fulfilled, declares the opponent of positive duties, hardly warrants the name. As theorists like Onora O’Neill contend, we debase the very notion of human rights when we attach it to such vacuous chimeras.

And so the arguments fly back and forth. Opponents of positive duties demand that rights-based duties must possess an array of vital properties (such as being legal, universal, directed, perfect and so on). Such properties, they declaim, constitute conceptually necessary ingredients of human rights moralities. Advocates of positive duties counter that such assertions amount to argument by sheer stipulation. Why should all rights-based duties be perfect, say, if it can be shown that imperfect duties can in some cases get the job done better?

How can we break this stalemate? One way forward is to get really clear about what we mean by ‘conceptually necessary’ when we say that it is conceptually necessary that a rights-based duty must possess a particular property. Some theorists seem to imply that the property is required by definition: so they mean that human rights by definition must correlate with perfect, legal duties. But this assertion will hardly persuade anyone, for each theorist of course adopts a different definition of human rights—and the ambiguity in the actual practice and discourse of human rights makes it impossible to rule in or out any given definition.

But there is another way conceiving ‘conceptually necessary’. Rights-based ways of thinking about political morality are different from other ethical perspectives, such as consequentialist or duty-based philosophies. Rights theories possess signature features that make them attractive in their own way. If removing a particular property from human-rights-based duties collapses the rights theory into a type of consequentialism, for example, then a signature attraction of the rights theory has been lost (because it becomes possible to sacrifice the one for the many).

This is the method I adopt in a just-published article in Political Studies, entitled ‘Positive Duties and HumanRights: Challenges, Opportunities and Conceptual Necessities’ (the article is available through ‘Online Open’, so if you’re interested you can download the final version through this link for free!).

In this article I describe exhaustively the properties of duties that correlate with apparently straightforward human rights. It turns out that things are surprisingly complex—a classic example of how ordinary and intuitive moral thinking winds up being really subtle and intricate when we try and precisely describe what is going on. Once we have a clear understanding of the properties of well-accepted rights-based duties, we can reflect on which of these duty-properties rights theories absolutely must retain if such theories are to maintain their hallmark features.

There’s no point denying it: it turns out that the answer to this question is pretty darn complex. (Heck, if it was straightforward someone else would have done it  already!) I argue duty-properties such as legality, perfection, directed-ness and universality turn out not to be essential to rights theories—but these duty-properties do link in various ways to deeper properties like ‘guarantees’, ‘fairness in duty allocation’ and ‘deontological structure’ that are essential. Losing these properties would sunder key attractions of human rights theories.

I won’t go into the full details here, but my investigation concludes that positive duties can accord with human rights. But this is not to say that anything goes. I argue that positive duties must be structured and developed in quite particular sorts of ways in order to possess the necessary duty-properties.

Of course, the debate will go on. Libertarians and others who disagree with welfare rights might find room to object to my arguments about which duty-properties are conceptually necessary. On the other hand, even thinkers who like the idea of welfare rights might wind up being a bit worried about where my argument leads us. For while I agree that even though human rights can impose multiple waves of duties to ensure the right is afforded proper protection (as rights-theorists like Jeremy Waldron and Henry Shue have previously advocated), I go on to argue that the stringency of such duties must diminish with each new wave of duties. That is, in order to retain a rights-theory’s signature properties, backup-duties to protect rights cannot be as strict as the duty held by the first-instance duty-bearer. If I’m right about this, then it might have significant consequences for certain types of rights-based duties (such as, perhaps, duties to refugees).

As I say, the debate will go on. One of the virtues of this article’s method, though, is that it lays bare exactly what types of duty-properties are in play, and provides reasons why we might judge some as vital and others as unnecessary. Rather than talking past one another in generalities and stipulations, this allows the philosophical debate to focus on the specific underlying duty-properties, and the reasons we must hold to (or alternatively can dispense with) each such property. For both proponents and opponents of human-rights-based positive duties, then, I hope that this way of proceeding provides a helpful way forward in unearthing the answer to this philosophical conundrum—a puzzle with very real practical implications for law and policy.

Of argument and ethics

How are argument and ethics linked? I’ve already touched on this question previously in the blog, exploring the relations between moral philosophy and actual ethical conduct. It’s clearly a question a lot of people like to think about: more people read that post than any other on this website!

Here, I want to consider a different way philosophy and ethics might intertwine, namely in the common ground between norms of argument and norms of ethics. The thought is this: Arguing well, in the philosophical sense, involves taking seriously what people say. Taking seriously what people say is one way of treating them with respect. As such, teaching people to argue well, and to do so naturally and instinctively, helps them act morally.

I first started to really consider this issue when I found myself mired in the Comments section of an online website. In my case, it was the academic-journalist website, The Conversation, but I think what I say will resonate with anyone who has waded into the to-and-fro of dialogue on just about any online discussion-board or comments section, or even on Facebook or Twitter, at least when the debate touches on moral and political views. If anything, we might suspect discussion on websites like The Conversation to be of a relatively high standard. Not only are the articles there written by academics, and so usually well-informed and bolstered with evidence, moderators patrol the comments section, and (to stymie anonymous trolling) everyone must use their real names.

Yet even with such measures in place, the standard of argument leaves much to be desired. I’m not speaking here of ‘trolls’, who just leave nasty comments to upset their victims, but rather about many ordinary people who (it seems to me) genuinely want to contribute to a discussion but succeed only in destroying it.

In my experience, once responders ascertain that a contribution (either the original article, or an earlier comment) maintains a position that differs from their own moral or political view, they will typically engage one or more of the following four modes of response (let’s call the contribution they are responding to ‘X’). Responders will tend to:

1.       Interpret X in the most extreme and unqualified way possible.

2.       Demand that implementing X would inevitably wind up creating a morally catastrophic situation, and that the author of X either endorses this outcome or recklessly fails to acknowledge its inevitability.

3.       Demand that the assertion of X must be driven by the most extreme and unpalatable moral principle imaginable.

4.       Demand that someone could only hold that moral principle if they were utterly evil, irrational, ignorant or ideologically duped.

Sometimes, opening with innocent-seeming phrases like ‘So basically you’re saying that…’, a single response can manage to work its way through all four modes of response. Such tactics, moreover, are not limited to one side or another of the political divide. Both progressive and conservative, left and right, employ them lavishly. The prevalence of these modes of response helps explain the oft-invoked Godwin’s Law: “As an online discussion grows longer, the probability of a comparison involving Nazis or Hitler approaches 1.” Response 1 can do this by implying X resembles some position or policy employed by the Nazis. Response 2 says implementing X would lead to Nazism; Response 3 says X’s underlying principle accords with Nazism, while Response 4 says that the reasons for accepting X’s underlying principle would be endorsed by Nazis.

Some readers will have immediately recognized various sorts of informal logic fallacies (slippery slope, ad hominem) in the modes of response listed above, but I think the root cause of them all is the ‘straw-person’ fallacy; namely, caricaturing an opponent’s position by interpreting what they have said, and their reasons for saying it, in the most uncharitable way possible. The straw-person fallacy works by entirely avoiding the actual argument that has been presented, and in its place erecting a quite new argument (the ‘straw-person’ or ‘straw-man’) that is much easier to defeat. Constructing a straw-person represents an improper maneuver according to the standards of philosophical argument because it is a non sequitur—it ‘does not follow’ from what the opponent has said. Rather than responding to the argument at hand, the straw-man comment responds to some other argument entirely. On a logical level, the straw-person-response at best proves irrelevant to the issue at hand. More usually however, it serves to distract attention away from the actual position someone has proposed, and makes it appear that the defeat of the caricatured argument represents a defeat of the proposed position itself.

So much establishes, I hope, that these four modes of response fail logically and philosophically. But are they also a moral failing? And even if they are, does this sort of moral failure really matter? Is it worth us worrying about?

I think the prevalence of such responses does matter: they fail to respect others with opposing views and they contribute to an unhealthy political environment.

First, these responses inflict an immediate harm. The original author who has been dealt with in this way normally either flees the discussion or retaliates angrily. Even if they respond constructively, trying to clarify their position, a second wave of the same straw-person-ing responses typically drives them into frustration. The four responses demean their victim, precluding the possibility that the author is a reasonable and reflective person who could make a contribution to the dialogue. Instead, the author retreats, wounded and insulted.

Such responses also (and this is the second worry) undermine the potential of these domains to play a genuine role in the participatory side of democracy—in people being exposed to and engaging with other citizens who hold opposing views. As well as sundering this potentially promising mode of democratic participation, straw-person responses can impact upon people’s overall judgments about political legitimacy. In a democracy, legitimacy hinges on accepting that we have reason to comply with democratically chosen policies and laws (except in extreme cases), even if we morally oppose them, voted against them and plan to vote against them in the future. The more we view our fellow citizens as reasonable people holding morally defensible views, the more we will apprehend democratic processes and legislation as legitimate, even if we remain personally opposed to any given result. However, the more we conceive all citizens who oppose us as rapacious ideologues, immune to constructive discussion, the less likely we are to endorse a democratic process where they hold a majority. And, naturally, by foreclosing all their attempts to engage in rational discussion with us, we enhance the possibility that they will see us in precisely this way: as ideologically-driven dogmatists incapable of rational thought.

(Of course, I can’t deny that sometimes one’s political opponents will really prove to be morally beyond the pale. It may turn out that their reasons for advancing some policy actually are intolerant, racist or totalitarian. But this judgment can only happen at the end of the discussion, not the beginning.)

If rampant straw-person-ing yields these morally worrisome impacts, then why do so many responders engage in it? And when the responders do it, why are their tactics so often endorsed by those who share their political allegiance? Do the responders think they actually have a chance of changing the original author’s mind by using these tactics? Surely not. If one wants to persuade someone of the errors of their view, then the necessary first step must be to engage with the author’s actual views, and not some other views. Scorning another person is probably the worst imaginable manner of changing that person's mind about something.

Indeed, I doubt these responses even have much to be said for them from a strategic viewpoint—that is, from the position of working out what will best promote the power and importance of one’s own faction’s agenda. In democracies, the best way of getting contested policy enacted is almost always to convince the center to change their mind—to bring over onto your side those precious swing voters in the middle. Taking seriously the views of those who oppose you is the crucial first step towards teasing out whether they possess extreme views on the topic, or hold a perspective not so different from your own. In contrast, using the above responses to treat moderate and centrist voters as if they hold extreme views simply pushes them from the center to the opposing extreme—exactly the last thing you would want to do if you really want to see some positive change made in the world.

I confess I do not know why the practice riddles online commentary. I could darkly speculate that the responders draw on these tactics unconsciously in order to cement a pleasing worldview where their opponents are obviously wrong and immoral. This makes for a neat world where they can wallow in self-righteous outrage at anyone who opposes them. But this is mere speculation on my part (and probably involves my own collapse into Response 4 above).

One other possibility, though, is that responders comment in these ways because they have never learned any other way. After all, we are not born knowing the norms of philosophical argument. It takes effort, patience, concentration and empathy to understand what a person is really saying, as distinct from what we presume they are likely to say. Such virtues can be difficult to muster when a person opposes our views, and the instinctual reaction is to defend ourselves.

If that is right, it underscores why teaching philosophy (especially in ‘critical reasoning’ and ‘informal logic’ courses and elements of courses) possesses real ethical value. In teaching the norms of argument in schools and universities, we provide learners with tools and instincts that allow them to do something that proves notoriously difficult to do: to genuinely listen to what people from other perspectives say, and to understand their reasons for saying it. True, giving people the tools to act rightly does not guarantee they will be motivated to do so, but it does at least open the possibility of their doing so. And often being empowered to act in a particular way, to live up to a particular standard (in this case of philosophical excellence), actually does count as a reason for behaving in that way.

And as Gibbs noted in his 2010 Moral Development and Reality, the capacity and practice of trying to see things from another person’s perspective, especially in the course of argument, yields impressive results in terms of moral development. Philosophy itself, done properly, makes us better people.

[This blogpost was originally published as an article in Australian Ethics, May 2014.]

Racial vilification, free speech, 18C and John Stuart Mill’s On Liberty

What could a work, written a century and a half ago on the opposite side of the globe, discussing neither racism, vilification or human rights, hope to contribute to Australia’s debate about changes to its Racial Discrimination Act?

Quite a lot, I think.

Friends of free speech perennially invoke Mill’s most famous work, On Liberty, because its arguments call into question the wisdom of allowing feelings of offence to curtail vigorous debate, and because they invite us to reflect upon what happens to opinions and individuals silenced by the state.

Our shared temptation to silence the wrong and immoral

Mill cautions us about using our feelings of moral offence and outrage as reasons to stifle other’s thought and action.

“The disposition of mankind, whether as rulers or as fellow citizens, to impose their own opinions and inclinations as a rule of conduct on others is so energetically supported by some of the best and by some of the worst feelings incident to human nature that it is hardly ever kept under restraint by anything but want of power...”

We are all of us tempted, Mill observed, to wield the power of the law to ensure others acquiesce to our desires about what they can do and say. Allowing feelings of offence to trigger legal prohibitions amounts to doing just this. But a pluralistic society, populated by diverse individuals, houses many different perspectives, all with different views on what must be held sacred. Such differences inevitably result in feelings of offence when others fail to respect what we hold dear. As a result, offence-giving is a natural part of a genuinely pluralist society. To suppress offence amounts to suppressing diversity.  

In his defence of diversity and individuality, Mill argued a pluralist society would need to draw a strong distinction between moral condemnation and legal prohibitions. Responses of moral condemnation and outrage must be protected—these follow from listener’s own liberties of thought and speech. I am free to be appalled by what you say—and to voice my shock. But all sides in a diverse society need to resist calling on the law to coercively prohibit immoral actions, and immoral speech in particular, lest they stifle others’ diversity, feed their own intolerance and their belief that their certainty counts as absolute certainty, and—in the final analysis—license the use of a weapon they might eventually have turned back upon themselves.

Silencing an opinion does not make it disappear

Mills’ signature contribution to free speech debates lies in asking us to seriously consider what happens to the opinion and the person silenced by the state. Consider a speaker who wants to express an opinion about some matter of public policy or interest, but is silenced by the force of the law. Let’s call our speaker here, ‘Chitra’ (the name might help remind us that the law, in its infinite majesty, does not only silence (powerful, influential, popular) members of the majority, but all speakers, including those who may be disadvantaged, marginalized or vulnerable in their own ways).First and foremost, Mill stressed, we need to remember that silencing Chitra’s opinion does not make her opinion, or any of the reasons she had for believing it, disappear. The state merely uses the force of law to stop Chitra publicly giving voice to what she is already thinking.

Two possibilities result. First, and most likely, Chitra holds firm to her opinion. After all, she has not been presented with any reasons to change her mind. Chitra has not heard the arguments that could be voiced in response to it—arguments coming from those who have different and perhaps more informed perspectives on the matter, and perhaps even arguments coming from those who Chitra respects. As such, her opinion remains, and it festers. Chitra whispers it only to confidants and perhaps even bears it with a secret pride as a badge of her free-thinking ways. She cannot voice her unlawful view publically, but its presence can still leak out in other ways—such as when she enters the privacy of the ballot box.

Alternatively, Chitra might change her mind. But she does not change her mind because she has been presented with reasons bearing directly on the reasonableness of her opinion. To the contrary, Chitra cannot be confronted with such reasons until she is allowed to voice the opinion, as strongly and doggedly as she can, and lay down her specific reasons for holding it. Instead, she changes her mind purely on the basis of the state’s authoritative say-so. She acquiesces that her thoughts are so repugnant society cannot abide their being spoken—though she cannot apprehend why this is so, or where the error in her thinking lies. Mill asks whether we really desire this result—whether we wanted to stifle Chitra’s integrity of character and the confidence to follow her own train of thought. For Chitra’s mind has not been persuaded. It has been pacified, tamed, subdued.

Mill also asks us to think about Chitra’s opinion itself, and whether society in general wouldn’t be better served having such opinions aired, rather than suppressed. Even if Chitra cannot be convinced of her errors, third parties witnessing her spirited defence of the opinion, and others’ spirited attacks on it, can judge for themselves, satisfied they have heard both sides of the story. Indeed, even those welded to the view that Chitra attacks can benefit from being confronted with her arguments. “He who knows only his own side of the case,” Mill argued, “knows little of that.” Chitra’s opponents learn more about their own view, and must search out and reflect on the most important reasons for their holding it, as they publicly refute her stance. Whether Chitra’s deviant view proves correct, partly correct, mostly false or even demonstrably false, Mill contends, society gains by hearing it and appreciating the responses marshalled against it.

Australia in the 21^st Century

All that said, you might yet wonder whether any of this really bears on Australia’s debate on Sections 18C and 18D of its Racial Discrimination Act? After all, Mill focuses on the presentation of genuinely held opinions, not acts of direct vilification and intentional harm. Indeed, we might wonder how Mill himself would respond if we stressed that many minorities support the existing law. Far from entrenching his feared ‘tyranny of the majority’, minorities largely welcome the law and its protections. And we might wonder, too, if Mill would reconsider if we impressed upon him the genocidal horrors wrought by racism throughout the Twentieth Century, and the legacy of racist oppression still infecting our societies today.

I suspect Mill would be sympathetic to these concerns, but remain cautious about the extent to which we should see them reflected in law. (I suspect the author of The Subjection of Women would also wonder why sexual discrimination was not equally prohibited.) With Mill’s arguments in mind, several specific councils to the contemporary debate about Sections 18C and 18D of the Act rear their heads.

First, despite all the harms of racism noted above, we still have reason to be careful about opening this door and incorporating subjective feelings of offence into the laws’ operation. (18C at present does this by requiring an objective test about subjective feelings: it asks whether the act is reasonably likely to offend another person or group.) Human nature tempts every one of us to use the law to make others behave as we morally want, with unavoidable risks to freedom and diversity. We must bear in mind that genuine tolerance requires more than respecting difference: it requires respecting differences we hate—differences we think we should hate.

Second, we must be honest about the free speech costs of such laws. Let’s grant that in the starkest cases of vilification (such as all-too-commonly witnessed at football grounds and on public transport), where the speaker directly addresses his victim, he does not intend to assert an opinion, and aims only at immediately harming another person. Stifling such speech carries few free-speech costs in Mill’s terms. But many other opinions can be aired in political and social discussions that bitingly offend certain groups, and yet are genuinely believed and voiced as opinions worthy of consideration. If we opt for suppression, then we must not pretend there are no free-speech issues at stake.

Third, if we must limit speech, let’s do it as surgically as possible, and ensure the general citizenry know exactly where the specific limitations lie. Consider two potential limitations on speech. A first limitation would prohibit only speech aimed to offend—that is, speech deliberately addressed to, and plainly aiming to denigrate, the victim. These are arguably the worst and paradigm cases of vilification, and in these situations the speaker aims to wound, not to offer an opinion.

A second limitation on speech, less surgically but still topically, would prohibit an objective type of offence-giving, rather than a subjective measure of whether a group feels offended. For example, we could protect people from hate speech by prohibiting any speech that asserts the mental or moral inferiority of those of another race (or nationality, ethnicity) or claims such people should be hated or scorned. Such a prohibition would protect people from racist speech, but not from race-related offence.

Now strictly speaking, Mill’s worries about silencing opinions apply even to cases where we are absolutely certain about the wrongness of the opinion we aim to silence. But categorically racist claims impact so heavily on people still suffering from current and historical racism, that even a modern-day Millean might accede to their prohibition. After all, and despite Mill’s falliablism, the overwhelming majority of us really are absolutely certain that claims of racial superiority are utterly false and beyond the pale. It’s not that such claims put forward a perverse moral view—it’s that it’s hard to see how the view counts moral as all. It fails what is sometimes called the ‘basic moral perspective’, which involves taking a position of impartiality regarding oneself and others. Can one really be said to be contributing to public discourse if one rejects the basic moral perspective that furnishes the starting point and ground of public discourse itself?

However: we possess no similar time-tried consensus about other claims regarding race—such as who should or should not belong in a particular category, for example, or whether we should employ these categories at all (questions lying at the heart of the Eatock v. Bolt case that precipitated the change in legislation). One does not have to be beyond the moral pale to wonder about the purposes of these categories and their proper extension, especially when state policies employ these categories to distribute resources and opportunities. No doubt, people will be outraged when others argue the merits of whether they belong in one category or another. Such discussions cut to the very quick of people’s identities and self-understanding. The feelings of offence they experience are entirely legitimate. But the presence of such offence cannot budge the fact that different people possess different opinions about such categories and their proper boundaries and purposes. Silencing debate on these questions ultimately serves nobody’s purpose. (Consider the debate on gay marriage—should the current community of married persons wield absolute control over the definition of ‘married’ and who counts as ‘married’? Surely not. The debate on gay marriage impacts upon people’s identities and the social understanding of their relationships—but that is no reason to stifle the debate itself.)

What’s the upshot of all this? Namely, that legitimate debate needs to be protected even when we can predict that it will cause race-related offence (even understandable and reasonable offence). We should resist allowing subjective feelings of race-related offence to prohibit such debate.

Different sorts of offensive, racist and race-related speech

What does this mean in practical terms? Several different sorts of speech acts concern us here.

Case 1. Direct vilification: Direct vilification occurs where, a) the speaker effectively asserts that one race, colour, nation etc is by its very nature worthy of hatred, scorn or paternalistic treatment; b) there is no evidence the speaker aims to inject an opinion into a political or social debate, rather than to merely wound another; and c) the speaker actively ensures the delivery of the message to its intended target (by email, or as an online comment directed to them, e.g., or by actual physical presence). News reports regularly draw public attention to direct vilification occurring on public transport and at football grounds.

Case 2. Hate speech: Hate speech happens when the speaker effectively asserts that one race, colour, nation etc is by its very nature worthy of hatred, scorn or paternalistic treatment. But such hate speech does not amount to direct vilification because it occurs as part of a genuine debate or political standpoint (for example at a rally, march or in a publication or blog). Consider the KKK or neo-Nazis having a public rally.

Case 3. Offence taken on racial grounds (but not by reason of racism itself): In this case someone says something that offends reasonable members of a particular racial group. However, the statement does not assert (nor even imply) that the group is inherently morally inferior in any way—the statement gives offence for other reasons.

Case 3.a: Calling into question whether a person counts as a ‘genuine’ Aborigine (or ‘Australian’, or ‘black’) provides an instance of Case 3. This is the category that snared Andrew Bolt in Eatock v. Bolt. He accused certain pale-skinned people of categorizing themselves as Aboriginal in order to enhance their employment prospects. Such an accusation was bound to be offensive to the people targeted—and would doubtless have remained offensive even if it had not been possible (as it was in the event) to prove the falsity of Bolt’s specific accusations through examination of those people’s histories. But Bolt’s claims were not offensive because they constituted or implied racism or hate speech. His accusation is quite intelligible even if all racial groups are completely equal in moral status and respect. As such, Bolt’s accusation does not present as an instance of Case 2, but of Case 3: speech giving rise to reasonable, race-related offence.

Case 3.b: Holocaust denial provides another instance of Case 3. Denying the occurrence of a well-documented historical event of profound significance to a given people, ethnicity or race will doubtless provoke offence and outrage by that group. In my experience at least, Holocaust-denial seem almost always to be driven by genuinely racist or anti-Semitic beliefs. But the denial itself need involve no assertion of racial inferiority or hatred, so legislation prohibiting objective racism and hate speech (i.e. legislation targeting Case 2) will not prohibit it.

The Millean arguments supplied above provide little reason, so far as I can see, for resisting prohibitions on Direct Vilification (Case 1). Direct vilification adds nothing to public debate, and intrinsically aims to wound its victims. 

The Millean arguments do provide reason for being cautious about prohibiting Hate Speech (Case 2), as people can genuinely offer these views as inputs into the public discourse, and suppressing their views will hardly make such opinions disappear. However, the harm caused by such speech and its denial of the basic moral perspective arguably outweighs these countervailing considerations.

However, I think someone persuaded by Mill’s arguments must fundamentally reject any attempts to prohibit race-related offence as it appears in Case 3.a. Prohibiting such offence amounts to suppressing reasonable pluralism and the public contestation of standing political policies. Combatting offensive views here must be done through opposing speeches, not legal suppression.

I confess I remain unsure about cases like Case 3.b. Arguably, a legislative act could require certain minimal levels of good faith for any acts causing race-related offence, where ‘good faith’ implies, (a) that the speaker genuinely holds the views espoused; and (b) that their views accord with minimal standards for evidence and fact-checking, in accordance with community standards for accuracy in the context in which they are spoken. (Note that this was not the way ‘good faith’ was interpreted by the judge in Eatock v. Bolt.) The thought here is that complete detachment from evidence and logic may be countenanced in flippant comments online, for example, but that the community requires increasingly higher standards of accuracy in professional blogs, public speeches, opinion-pieces and journalistic reports. Since blithely denying the Holocaust amounts to complete disregard for well-known and well-documented evidence, such denial would be prohibited in these latter cases. While I think Mill would resist even these prohibitions (and I worry about them too), at least it can be said in their defence that the process of a finding of guilt would centre on the available and objective evidence for the falsity of the speaker’s view. Hence the legal process holds at least some hope for convincing the person of their error, rather than merely taming their mind into submission to the orthodox view.

Draft Amendments to the Racial Discrimination Act 

The Attorney-General’s Department released draft amendments to the Act on the 25^th March 2014. As I read them, in the context of the above discussion, they would (rightly) prohibit Case 1: Direct vilification. Worryingly, though, the draft section would only prohibit direct vilification that incites hatred or causes fear. The section will not explicitly prohibit directly castigating someone as being morally or mentally inferior on the basis of their race.

More generally, because the section will not apply to public discussion, it seems to me it will allow not only both instances of Case 3, but also instances of Case 2: of flagrantly racist hate speech that is put forward in context of public discussion. The draft amendments thus take a very strong stance on free speech (stronger, indeed, than I have set out above).

I think even friends of free speech should worry that this amendment swings the pendulum too far in favor of free speech. My reading (and it is just my reading) of the broad position of the majority of Australians on the matter is that they think Case 1 Direct Vilification and Case 2: Hate speech must be prohibited. Most of them, I think, also harbor sympathy for prohibiting Case 3a: Holocaust denial.

If the amendment were legislated as drafted, I think widespread popular sentiment would mount against it, and whenever the opposition Labour Party next get into power, we can almost guarantee it would be repealed. Its replacement would probably be the restatement of the original act, which prohibits 3a, giving race-related offence. If what I have said above is on the right track, then the friend of Millean free speech will be concerned above all to protect speech of Case 3a. The best way to secure this protection in the long term seems to me to be to draft legislation that protects Case 3a, prohibits Case 1 and Case 2, and allows a nuanced position on Case 3b. In other words, direct vilification and hate speech must be prohibited, while speech giving subjective race-related offence must be protected, perhaps with a proviso that such speech lives up to certain minimal standards of fact-checking, appropriate to the context in which it is uttered.

There is no political morality

This might seem a strange title for a blogpost written by a political philosopher, especially one that tends to harp on about the importance of human rights. Am I trying to put myself out of business? What on earth could I mean?

What I'm suggesting is that the only real, binding principles (rules, virtues etc) we possess are moral ones, governing how each person should treat each other. I’m suggesting we should resist believing that independent, new moral principles emerge once we start thinking about the domain of political authority and political community. Of course, I agree lots of political principles remain immensely important—the separation of powers, the rule of law, democracy, rights and so on. I doubt, though, that any of these principles enjoy their own independent moral validity. Rather, I think these principles draw their justification from pre-existing moral principles—the same moral principles governing how you and I should treat each other in general, including if we met on a desert island. We wind up with the rule of law, rights, checks and balances, and all the rest because these principles reflect our ordinary moral duties and entitlements writ larger, and shaped out of the capacities and the threats of these political institutions.

What's the big deal?

‘So what?’ you ask. I think denying political morality matters because so many people throughout history believe in it. They hold that political morality exists as an independent entity. It is autonomous. By ‘autonomous’ I mean political morality inhabits a normative realm unto itself. It cannot be derived from ordinary personal morality. Funnily enough, people who believe this still tend to agree about all the ordinary, interpersonal moral principles. They agree we should not lie or cheat, harm or kill; we should not seize more than a fair share of things we have not created; we should help others in need. And so on. But once we come together as a political community, now, they think, entirely new ways of governing our lives should rule! Now we can rethink everything! Now we are empowered to come together as distinct parts of a single organic unit, a magnificent polis or grand nation-state! Or we must all now start following and drawing our law from exactly the same religion or from some community-constructed ‘form of life’! Or (a present fashion) now we can start living by entirely new and deeper principles of equality, seeing every material difference between us as crying out for justification! Or (another present fashion) at last we can cast off our chains and start upholding stringent notions of absolute human freedom!

Practically no-one would advance these principles as ordinary rules of basic morality—as all of them effectively amount to using violence against people who are for the most part minding their own business and may well be upstanding and hardworking members of their local community. No-one would imagine that Alf should convert his neighbour Betty at the point of a sword, or force her to conform to some way of life he and his friends think constitutes objective happiness, or cut her down to his level when she prospers. But once we come together in a state, all this changes, and all these things are now possible: we effortlessly and unthinkingly adopt new political principles justifying all this and more.

So this is what I am arguing against: any autonomous political morality that puts forward new principles of justice that we would not propose as part of ordinary interpersonal morality.

John Locke’s ‘State of Nature’

I think this rejection of independent political morality helps us understand the views of the seventeenth century liberal philosopher John Locke and the way he uses the ‘State of Nature’. Effectively, Locke’s state of nature amounts to nothing more than ordinary people governed by ordinary morality. We all respect each other’s rights; we tolerate their religious practices; we make sure we don’t take up so much of the local resources that others don’t have their own resources to work on; we acknowledge that needy people in tough situations need help; and so on. And we never use violence—unless someone has breached one of these rules against us, in which case we may strike back and defend our rights. Sometimes theorists speak as if Locke’s state of nature must be anti-social, pre-social or pre-institutional. I suspect this view arises not so much from a misreading of Locke as from a failure to read him at all. To the contrary, in Locke’s state of nature we all live in communities, we travel, we trade, we build families and churches. We’re not perfect, of course. But almost all of us share a solid understanding of what the right thing to do is, and more often than not we do it.

Locke’s state of nature differs dramatically from that of his fellow seventeenth century political theorist, Thomas Hobbes. In Hobbes’ state of nature, no-one accepts any moral rules. Trapped in Hobbes’ brutal state of nature, fearful for my own security and unbound by laws, Hobbes recommends I strike at my neighbours before they can strike at me, and his state of nature collapses into the war of all against all. And this collapse renders the life of man, in words that echoed down through the centuries, ‘solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short’.

In comparison, Locke’s state of nature sounds pretty idyllic, right? 

Wrong. 

In technical philosophical terms, Locke’s state of nature sucks. Why? Because its members acknowledge no settled and known law, they lack an agreed person to adjudicate when violations to the law occur, and they possess no accepted authorities to exact punishment or ensure compensation for wrongs done. Even if most of a community’s members really try to do the right thing most of the time, conflicts routinely erupt and foment further conflicts in turn. Each of us has the power to be judges in our own cases, exacting punishment as we see fit, with predictable enough results. Each person sees themselves as performing just retribution and compensation. Everyone else sees them hell-bent on revenge and theft. We didn’t start where Hobbes thought we did—but, on Locke’s telling, we sure do finish there.

Still, humans often rise to the level of creative, problem-solving creatures. Can’t they fix things? Hobbes and Locke both thought they could. However, because Hobbes thought humans were so selfish and bereft of human virtue, he thought they needed a radical solution to the state of nature. They needed to hand over almost all their rights to a supreme political sovereign, who would wield enough absolute power to keep them all in check. So far as any morality enters into Hobbes’ scheme, it enters here. The violence of the state of nature horrifies the people so much that they create morality to defend against it. So Hobbes’ position turns out to be the exact opposite of Locke’s. For Hobbes, people possess no ordinary everyday morality, only political morality.

Locke’s people in the state of nature suffer the same threat of violence, but here’s the good news: they have more to work with than Hobbes’s warmongers. They don’t need to invent morality—they already possess it. And while things would be improved if there were settled and reliable punishments for doing the wrong thing, they don’t need fear of punishment to do all the work in driving their moral action. They already possess the capacity for virtue and decency. Their problems are alarming, yes, but rather specific for all that. They just need to get together, in a good faith and an amicable way, and work out ways of setting down stable laws, coming up with independent judges to adjudicate on them, and on a police force and army that will execute them. I mean execute the laws, that is. The people must remain vigilant not to make a police and army that executes them, the people. That would just swap the problem of local internecine violence for the problem of systematic slaughter and oppression. That problem may not have worried Hobbes (seriously, what was he thinking?), but it worried Locke; and rightly so.

So what’s the result? The citizens come together and create institutions to fix their problems. They create democracy, the rule of law, rights and the separation of powers. They don’t do this because they came to any profound moral realizations about new ethical principles that must suddenly apply because they have joined together into one political community. To the contrary, they craft these new political principles because given empirical descriptive facts about humans, power and institutions, practices like democracy and the rule of law prove necessary to realise the original moral principles they all held in the state of nature.

So that’s what I mean when I say there exists no political morality independent of ordinary morality. We derive all of our political principles from our pre-existing moral ones. I don’t pretend this will prove an easy or straightforward process. In fact it poses a raft of challenges. Instead of invoking some abstract political theory—some exciting new contract theory from an original position, for example—we have to slowly learn, through trial-and-error as much as theory, about how institutions and practices both protect and threaten the common-sense rights we held in the state of nature.

Why believe it?

But why believe this idea about the non-reality of political morality? Here are four quick reasons. One, we find much less disagreement about what ordinary common-sense morality requires, as compared with political principles. Lots of moral theorists suggest that there are striking similarities across cultures regarding proper treatment of one’s fellows. Now maybe you think this is taking it a bit far, but no-one would even pretend to make the same claim about political morality. For when it comes to what a political regime should do, theories and practices clash violently. If we can get by without provoking all these disagreements by relying on an area of moral thinking where we find more substantial agreement, then that seems a welcome result.

Second, if we want peace and prosperity to reign, then people need to comply with and support the laws and institutions governing them. If the community-members recognize that the coercive institutions governing them ensure that they perform duties they readily acknowledge as morally required, then their own moral emotions, habits-of-life and ways of thinking bulwark those institutions. For example, they contribute to institutions to help the needy because they can all imagine small-scale situations (children drowning in ponds, for example) where they would be duty-bound to help nearby people in desperate need. While people can agree to exacting political principles in the abstract, in my experience this is never accompanied by a revolution in their moral psychology and habits of life. Divesting ourselves of autonomous political morality helps forge a match between our moral emotions and what the institutions around us are trying to do.

Three, this theory accords with many intuitions I think we might share regarding political institutions and their legitimacy. If trying to create ordinary morality on a political scale led to lots of crazy results, then that would be a reason to doubt what I am saying. But instead we can move—as Locke himself described—from the dictates of ordinary morality to show how their institutional implementation gives rise to many of our most prized political institutions and principles, including democracy, rule of law, separation of church and state, toleration, separation of powers and so on. In other words, from a concern with ordinary morality we arrive at a decent picture of political morality, upholding many of the most important institutions of western democracies, and sitting neither to the extreme left or right of the political spectrum.

Four: Ockham’s razor. If we can derive a decent theory of political morality from ordinary morality, then why complicate matters by appealing to something altogether new? The simplest solution appeals to as few elements as possible, using one set of (moral) principles to explain a different set of (political) principles.

Conclusion

Of course, I can’t pretend to have said everything that needs to be said to vindicate my position, or even to fully explain how it works in practice. But I hope I have done enough to open your eyes to the possibility of a distinct way of thinking about political morality—namely, that it doesn’t exist in its own right! If I am correct—and if thinkers like Locke were correct—then we build political morality from the scaffold of ordinary interpersonal morality. 

Meanness: Philosophical reflections

Meanness: Topic No. 92 that philosophers and ethicists never seem to talk about.

Meanness seems to me to be a pretty common occurrence. It forms part of the social backdrop in which we all live, play and work. Most of us, I think, can think of discrete examples of mean behaviour we have witnessed in the not-too-distant past, and many of us would know someone we think of as mean.

Yet meanness has not been subject to much philosophical attention. Out of curiosity, I recently searched a few academic and philosophy databases for works on meanness. Even in the context of psychology there was surprisingly little—and most of it about school-age children. In terms of philosophical or ethical analysis, there was almost nothing. This seems to me to be startling—surely meanness, as much as selfishness, is one of the key drivers of human misery in the modern world. Perhaps it is more visible when performed to and by schoolchildren, but it is hardly an exclusive concern of that age-group.

Defining meanness

What do I mean by meanness? Meanness is not simply selfishness or callousness. The callous person is amoral: they are someone who is willing to do whatever it takes to secure their desired ends: power, money, influence and so on. But the harm the callous person inflicts is not performed for its own sake, as an end in itself. It is done only instrumentally, as a means to some other, distinct value. The mean person, however, performs the harm for its own sake, and not for any further good. He wants to inflict harm, to drag another person down, to wreck her self-belief and undermine her self-esteem. Meanness, then, is low-grade cruelty. Meanness is cruelty for people without a work ethic.

Meanness, so defined, is everywhere. I submit that it motivates harassment in the workplace, bullying online, vitriol in the twittersphere, spousal abuse in relationships, point-scoring in conversations, road rage and verbal attacks on random strangers in public places. To be sure, all these actions can happen for motivations distinct from meanness. But very often, I think, they are a result of a naked will to harm for its own sake.

Why are people mean? Meanness as will to power

Why are people mean? This seems to me a much more perplexing question than the more general one of, ‘why are people selfish?’ People are selfish because they don’t accept any moral constraints on getting what they want (or maybe they think they have valid reasons to resist applying morality in this instance). Selfish people simply see what they want and they go for it. But this is not meanness. Meanness is not amoral but immoral. Meanness involves enjoying inflicting harm for its own sake—not merely as an instrument to some further, independent wish. As such, it is not only different to selfishness, but can often conflict with the narrow pursuit of one’s other desires. Mean people often undermine their own self-interest when they are mean. Instead of facilitating relationships that might prove massively beneficial for their future, mean people go around unnecessarily making enemies. Soundlessly, invisibly, mean people are cut off from future job opportunities, helpful associations, fun events, positions of authority, wonderful friendships and rewarding relationships, and all because they couldn’t resist the temptation to knock someone down a peg.

But this very fact makes meanness perplexing. If it isn’t performed on the basis of self-interested prudence, then, why are so many of us mean, at least on the odd occasion? To be honest I’m not really sure of the answer here—but here’s one thought. Perhaps meanness is an expression of what Nietzsche called the will to power—the wish to feel and know that one is powerful.  Meanness gives the mean person the thrill of mattering in the world, of being an object of others’ attentions, of having an impact on what others are doing and feeling. It is an action one can perform where one can see the immediate effect one has on the world. A mean action makes a difference, it is a way the world is changed by one’s actions, it is an achievement (albeit one easy to accomplish). If that is right, meanness is a strategy against insignificance; it is a prop for an ego that needs to see its will impact upon the world.

Perhaps we can go further, and speculate on a deeper socio-biological link between meanness and the feeling of power. It is not hard to imagine that, once upon a time, meanness was an accurate indicator of physical, social and political power. Living in smaller communities, if you inflict abuse on another person, someone who is actually physically present and who knows who you are, you demonstrate that they do not have the power to stop you. You show that the victim does not have the power or courage to hit back—to requite, as Nietzsche would put it. Only the powerful and the brave (or, at least, those heedless of the risks of physical or social battle) can be gratuitously mean. If the weak person attempts meanness, he will suffer retribution; he will be put back in his place, through social or physical means. Succeeding in a mean action demonstrates that others do not have that power over you. It impresses this sense of power upon the mean person himself, upon the victim who is forced to endure the ill-treatment, and upon third-parties who can be impressed by the power and confidence of the mean person. In small, tight-knit communities where physical proximity and non-anonymity were the rule, meanness really was a demonstration of personal and social power. It showed clearly that one resided at the top of the pecking order.

Sometimes, this link between meanness and genuine power is still in effect in the modern world. I have been in situations where a physically strong person (usually a man), clearly unafraid of the situation collapsing into a contest of brute force, gratuitously abuses people or otherwise picks fights with them. It is an ugly and in many respects scornful show of strength—but it is a show of strength nonetheless.

But in the modern world, everyone can now get away with being mean. You can abuse or harass people online, with various levels of anonymity, and walk away unscathed. In such situations it is possible to feel the thrill of the genuinely strong person, without actually possessing their power. The anonymity of the internet or the city street lets any one of us feel what it is like to push someone’s buttons knowing they have no capacity to retaliate. It provides us with a feeling of power that was hitherto only possible for the tribal chief, the feudal lord, the aristocratic princess. It lets us pretend for a moment that we are at the top of the pecking order, carelessly exacting our will on those beneath us as we please. Just because we can.

Racism and sexism as organized meanness

If we take meanness seriously as a real and abiding fact of human behaviour, then it might change the way we think about other vices.

So here’s a contentious thought: maybe we don’t—as a world, as a country, as a culture—have a problem with racism and sexism. Maybe at base we really have a problem with meanness.

Sometimes social commentators seem to speak as if racists are otherwise decent, reasonable folk who—if only they could only be disabused of their irrational notions about racial difference—would thereafter be good and worthy citizens. On this view, the problem is fundamentally one about their views and values on race in particular, and not a more general one about their moral psychology.

I accept that there are probably some people who are like this—it’s not hard to imagine an otherwise good-hearted person who grew up in a culture where every child is taught that racial differences are morally relevant, or who lives in a world where all the people with a particular skin colour are poor and uneducated, and who mistakenly concludes that racial difference correlates with differences of character or rationality. But in my own world of twenty-first century Australia, I honestly don’t think I’ve ever actually met anyone like that. Pretty much every person I’ve ever met who espoused genuinely racist or sexist views was not otherwise a nice person. Their character flaws were by no means limited to their particular views on discrete classes of people. They were mean in a much more unqualified and generic sense.  

This point needs to be distinguished from a person being insensitive to racial or sexual issues. Certainly someone can be a decent person who, through lack of awareness about current society or prior history, or entrenched and institutional structures that permeate inequalities, acts without a proper degree of sensitivity to minorities. Education can fix a decent person who is culturally insensitive—they just need to learn that their behaviour hurts others and to understand why it does so. But such a course of consciousness-raising cannot cure meanness. The mean person wants to hurt others. Showing them the effects of their actions just underscores that they are succeeding.

Now I’m not implying that all instances of racism and sexism are just simple products of meanness—as if mean people just use bigoted attitudes when they interact with others who they can target racially or on the basis of gender or sexuality, and then switch to different types of abuse when they encounter others. This view would assert that bigotry is just window-dressing to the actual motivation, which is just to be mean generically, to anyone who they can get away with it.

Instead, I suspect it is in the nature of meanness to organize itself. Mean people want to be effective in their meanness, and being effective requires being organized. If I really want to hurt someone, to impact upon her wellbeing, then what I want to do is to oppress her. Anonymous random abuse is all very well for the mean person, but such occurrences are all too easy for victims to ignore, or even laugh away. And that ruins the fun. The type of abuse that is impossible to ignore is the abuse that is well-organized and pervasive. If a mean person wakes up in the morning and wants to oppress a tall, healthy, well-educated white male in my culture, I submit it is almost impossible for them to do so. This is because oppression requires coordination; it requires the victim to be aware that wherever they turn, they will encounter this same harassment and abuse. You can use pointless cruelty to ruin the day of this white male, but that won’t contribute to ruining his life unless you (the mean person) can rely on other mean people ruining his tomorrows as well. For this reason, salient, visible features are crucial—in an anonymous world the mean person will want to target specific features like gender, ethnicity and visible religiousness (even shortness or slowness) in the expectation that his other comrades-in-meanness can do the same in future, and have done the same in the past.

Now in a non-anonymous community, the mean person can pick and communicate his victims more deliberately. The bullying gang therefore picks a particular target and works on them, rather than dissipating their cruelty randomly and ineffectively. But in an anonymous context, if a mean person wants to coordinate their efforts with other mean people they don’t actually know personally, then salient feature like race, sex, ethnicity or visible religion are helpful markers to direct their abuse.

If this is right, then it means that a lot of what looks like racism or sexism may not be actually based upon a belief that the category of victimized people is inferior, or a genuine value-commitment that they are hated. Rather, there is simply a free-floating meanness—a will to feel the power of abusing, harming and oppressing others (any others)—that converges on salient targets.

Even if this was the full story on racism and sexism (which it isn't), it wouldn’t mean that as a society it isn’t worth making the effort to rid the world of such bigotries. It is worth getting rid of these behaviours precisely for the reason that the mean person gravitates towards them. If racist and sexist behaviours were socially expunged, then the mean person would be robbed of that ability to organize their attacks that allowed them to get together collectively to oppress.

But an awareness of meanness would imply that dealing with racism and sexism may not be getting towards the moral root of the matter, which is the underlying desire to be mean. Robbed of an ability to organize targets in an anonymous world, the mean person might just direct their attention to other specific targets they know personally. They will vent their will to power on partners, spouses, children and employees.

Where to from here?

If some of what I have been saying here is along the right track, then why don’t we see a more concerted effort to focus on and rid the world of meanness? Why do we focus instead on particular, discrete manifestations on it—racism, sexism, bullying-at-school, trolling online, harassment at work, spousal abuse, vitriol on twitter? Is it because these more specified problems appear more manageable? Or is it because we don’t have the first idea why people are mean, or how to rid them of the vice?

If a person is simply selfish then it seems to me they are (morally speaking) at least manageable. One can speak in a Hobbesian spirit about the many benefits (security, material prosperity, social approval etc) that arise from moral action. Even more, one can show the person a picture of a world where many of their self-centred desires are met, even though that person accepts moral constraints. It is possible for us all to enjoy prosperity, after all. One person’s pursuit of happiness need not undermine the similar pursuits of others, and to accept moral constraints is not to renounce altogether one’s self-interested ambitions. That, in a nutshell, is why human rights have proven so successful as a moral idea.

But we cannot engage in this way with the mean person. They want to undermine the other person’s happiness, not as a means to something else, but for its own sake. There is no possible world where everyone gets their meanness kicks without everyone also being on the receiving end. This is what makes meanness so frustrating for any social reformer or moral philosopher. There seems to be nothing to work with, nothing that we can build out from towards virtue and duty.

So, in the end, I don’t have any simple answers. Maybe if people lived in a world where they could feel their sense of power in the world in lots of other ways (competitive sports, meaningful employment creating genuinely satisfied customers, direct charity work, relationships that cement their feeling of worthwhileness, artistic and creative pursuits, and so on) then they wouldn’t feel a need for the quick thrill of pushing people’s buttons and upsetting them. The guiding idea here is that the will to power is (as Nietzsche thought) an ineradicable feature of the human character. Since we can’t eradicate it, we need to recognise it and sublimate it—to mould it into a shape where it is no longer socially damaging. 

But this is just one speculation. What I do think, though, is that meanness is real and that it is a powerful source of human misery. If we want to improve the lot of humankind, then we need to think seriously about why people are mean, and what can be done to face this problem.

Rawls’ Political Liberalism: a common-sense account

John Rawls’ second book, Political Liberalism, deals with a crucial question. Rawls is trying to work out how it is that a liberal democracy can be understood by its citizenry as legitimate, just and stable, given that its citizenry is composed of people who hold irreconcilable fundamental beliefs. As he puts it: “How is it possible for those affirming a fundamental worldview, religious or nonreligious, and in particular doctrines based on religious authority, such as the Church or the Bible, also to hold a reasonable political conception of justice that supports a constitutional democratic society?”

Now it is not only religious faiths that Rawls has in mind here, but also citizens that have irreconcilable philosophical worldviews. The secular philosopher, no less than the devout religious believer, has a belief system about the most basic nature of the world and human existence, and the meaning and substance of ethics. These views differ profoundly amongst themselves, and the history of philosophy suggests there is little prospect for overcoming disagreement on who is right. Given these divergent belief systems—this ‘fact of pluralism’ as Rawls calls it—how is it possible that Christians and Muslims, Kantians and Aristotelians, atheists and spiritualists, can all accept and morally uphold the same system of government and the same set of laws?

Rawls’ solution, the central thesis of political liberalism, is to appeal to an ‘overlapping consensus’. An overlapping consensus occurs when a diverse community of people agree on key principles of justice, even as they disagree on the deeper reasons for those principles, and on more comprehensive details about how lives should morally be lived and what is valuable in human life. An overlapping consensus is a genuine commitment to shared principles. It is not about ‘putting up’ with a system for the time being until things can be changed for the better when one’s faction has more power.  It is not a mere compromise or balance of power—not a ‘modus vivendi’.

I think much of what Rawls says in fact taps in to the way many people in liberal democracies think about the nature of legitimacy, and in what follows I am going to try to give an account of how this works. While I will depart from Rawls a little on a couple of points, the intention is to give a pretty clear and non-technical account of his basic theory.

Why is this a good idea, given that I’m afraid it’s going to make for a pretty long blogpost? (So buckle in, we’re here for a while.) Unfortunately, the importance of Rawls’ book is matched only by its lack of clarity. Even outright enthusiasts for the work acknowledge it is not an easy read, and Rawls himself admitted some of his early formulations of what he was saying were inconsistent and misleading. So the aim here is to give a sensible overview of what I think is a pretty perplexing theory at first reading.

While important, the perplexities in Rawls' work can give rise to all sorts of fevered scribblings...

The core elements

Let’s begin by explaining a few elements of the system, and then we will look at how they all fit together. I have renamed some of Rawls’ terms here, because his terminology can be a bit confusing and longwinded.

First, a ‘fundamental worldview’ is a belief system about the nature of the world, society, human nature and morality. Religions are obvious examples, but so too are philosophies. One can hold to Kant’s philosophical worldview as a fundamental worldview, for example. Fundamental worldviews have three key features. Feature one is that they give an account not only of what general political arrangements are justified, but also about how one should live one’s life. In philosophical terminology, they tell us not only about what is ‘right’ (explaining what rules and laws should we have) but also about what is ‘good’ (explaining what is valuable in human life and relationships). Feature two is that fundamental worldviews answer the most foundational questions of philosophy—they provide an account of what things exist and of their nature and relations: in technical terms, they provide an ‘ontology’. Feature three is that fundamental worldviews are general in nature. Because they announce the key truths about human existence, they aim to apply to everybody universally. If you believe what Kant says we should do, or what Jesus says we should do, then you think that, ideally speaking at least, everyone should do what Kant or Jesus say as well.

Second, a ‘life-plan’ is a person's plan for how they intend their life to go, an account of what is valuable in one’s own life. Each person possesses their own life-plan. Of course one’s life-plan will be influenced by whatever fundamental worldview one holds, but even among adherents of a single religion there will be people pursuing different professions, different relations, different ambitions and different priorities.  Each person crafts their own life-plan, even though they may share a fundamental worldview.

Third, ‘liberal principles’ comprise a set of basic values familiar in liberal democracies. They include, for example, a conception of all people as free and equal, living under the rule of law, and an idea of society as a system of fair cooperation. One paramount principle is of reciprocity—a pervading awareness that unless we are willing for others’ beliefs and truths to rule our lives, then we should not be hoping for our truths to rule their lives. If we are to engage in rule-making with other people, then, we need to try and speak in terms that they can recognize as making sense to them. For example, we can’t appeal to what it says in our Bible to explain why other people should accept a rule. Instead we should appeal to the liberal principles. As well as dictating how we should engage in public debate (namely, by appealing to principles every citizen can be expected to accept) these liberal principles also include some substantive rules about how people are to be treated. For example, the liberal principles will affirm that everyone has a set of basic rights that have a special priority, and that everyone needs some minimum of resources that allows them the type of independence and security necessary to enjoy those basic rights.

These liberal principles are pretty general. They probably rule out a no-holds-barred libertarianism on the political right (because of the requirement of minimum resources to all citizens), and various forms of socialism on the left (because of the prioritization of citizen's individual rights). Otherwise, though, the liberal principles can accord with a family of more specific liberal philosophies. We’ll turn to these specific political ‘liberal philosophies’ in a moment, but for now it is worth noting that the liberal political principles can give us an outline of a basic constitutional structure. If we all agree on the general liberal principles, then we should be able to work out what broad political structure we should have. For example, the liberal principles might lay down a bill of rights, a separation of powers to ensure the rule of law, and rules about the nature and makeup of legislative bodies that will determine the finer-grained laws we are all to live by.

Justice-as-fairness: now just one of a family
of reasonable liberal philosophies.

The fourth element is made up of the specific ‘liberal philosophies’ I mentioned in the last paragraph. For our purposes here a ‘liberal philosophy’ is a specific, coherent and systematic account of a political regime that conforms to the more general liberal principles, for instance of understanding all citizens as free and equal. Such a liberal philosophy is quite detailed—we are able to use our specific liberal philosophy to determine the exact boundaries of each of the rights, what sort of equality of opportunity people deserve, and what resources people are entitled to. Rawls’ first work, A Theory of Justice, was framed by him as a fundamental worldview that put forward a correct account of justice, namely ‘justice-as-fairness’. In his later work, though, he has changed the status of this account. Now justice-as-fairness is no longer understood as a fundamental worldview developing universal principles of justice. Rather, Rawls reconceives justice-as-fairness as just one of a family of liberal philosophies that align with the general liberal principles. (Rawls thinks that justice-as-fairness represents‘the most reasonable’ of the liberal philosophies, but nothing in his overall picture depends on us accepting this. I don't.)

In other words, Rawls’ justice-as-fairness presents one example of a liberal philosophy that will supply particular answers to our major policy questions—but it is not the only such example. Other interpretations of the liberal principles are possible, precisely because these principles are general. For instance, left-libertarianism, Lockean liberalism and perhaps some brands of utilitarian liberalism are all liberal philosophies that accord with the liberal principles as I described them above. I will use these three specific liberal philosophies, along with justice-as-fairness, as my examples of liberal philosophies, but don’t worry if you don’t really know exactly what these are. All that matters is that that they are specific and systematic accounts that share the larger idea that all citizens are free and equal, but interpret that idea in slightly different ways. You can think of the liberal philosophies as something like a more coherent version of the political positions of all the mainstream political parties in western democracies (conservative, liberal, labour, republican, democrat, green etc).

The liberal philosophies share much in common, but they differ in their specific policies; adherents of each will disagree on key questions regarding the boundaries of different rights, the legal duties we owe to each other and the requirements of distributive justice (such as the merits of welfarist taxation). While each liberal philosophy agrees that all citizens are free and equal persons joined in society for fair cooperation, they will understand each of those terms differently, and so will argue, and vote, for different sorts of policies as they engage in public debates and enact legislation. 

Importantly, the liberal philosophy is not the same as a fundamental worldview. The liberal philosophy is a systematic and coherent account of rights, duties and legal processes. However, it makes no specific claims about the fundamental worldviews that might lie beneath that account. It is a political philosophy that avoids all the controversies of ‘first philosophy’—that is, it is agnostic about deeper questions of metaphysics, epistemology, axiology and suchlike. Also, the liberal philosophy does not aim to fill out every detail of a person’s moral life. It says what a person’s legal rights and duties are, but assets nothing about how citizens should use those rights in order to live a ‘proper’ or ‘perfect’ life. In just those two ways the liberal philosophy differs from the fundamental worldview.

I think this distinction between liberal philosophies and fundamental worldviews makes sense when we think about the history of political philosophy in general. For example, very diverse people can and do find many of the arguments, and the broader political philosophy, of John Locke’s Second Treatise of Government to be compelling. But that doesn’t mean they commit to the natural law and Christian underpinnings of that work. Locke’s liberal philosophy is ‘modular’, as it might be put. It is a systematic and coherent account of rights and duties, and reasons for them, that can be embraced by people holding very different fundamental worldviews—including even people like me, who are quite agnostic about religion and religion’s relationship to ethics.

How do these four elements fit together in Rawls’ system?

We can think of three of these elements as different types of overlapping consensuses—that is, beliefs and values that are shared despite deeper or more personal differences of belief and value.

To explain, let’s begin with a single person, Amy. Amy has her own life-plan—her own ideas on how her life will go and her picture of what is valuable in her life. This life-plan is not shared by anyone else; it is Amy’s plan about how Amy’s life should go. But Amy also has a fundamental worldview, a set of deep philosophical, moral or religious views that she holds as true. Let’s suppose for argument’s sake that Amy is a Christian. (I use Christianity just because I am more familiar with it than with other religions, and so hopefully less likely to make a blunder about its beliefs. But most other religions should be able to slot into everything I say here.)

So Amy is a Christian, and let’s say she shares this belief system with others in her society, including Betty and Cathy. Let’s suppose also that their Christian worldview is what Rawls’ calls a ‘reasonable’ fundamental worldview. This means that it is consistent with the liberal principles—it envisages all citizens as free and equal. (Why might we expect fundamental worldviews to be reasonable? We’ll consider that important question below.) Amy, Betty and Cathy therefore all agree on the liberal principles. Because they agree on these, they can also agree on a liberal basic structure for society—a constitutional setup. But this doesn’t mean they agree politically on everything. In fact, Amy and Betty think that the best liberal philosophy, and the one that best fits with their Christianity, is (let’s suppose) a pretty egalitarian one, such as justice-as-fairness. For that reason they tend to vote towards the political left (democrat, labour, etc). Cathy disagrees, however. When she reflects on the nature of freedom and equality, she selects a political system where each person has a guaranteed minimum of resources from which to begin, but then is allowed to keep whatever she can make of those resources. Cathy therefore opts for left-libertarianism as her liberal philosophy; she directs her votes towards more right-wing and conservative parties. While Cathy agrees with Amy and Betty about what the general constitutional structure of the society should be, and with their fundamental worldview of the Christian faith, she disagrees with them on matters of taxation and equal opportunity. From her left-libertarian standpoint, she argues with Amy and Betty in public forums, and she votes against their more egalitarian legislative proposals.

Now consider David and Ernie. David is a Kantian—he believes all of Kant’s deep philosophical arguments about the nature of reality and human existence, and he uses Kant’s categorical imperative as a moral guide for every piece of decision-making in his life. David also believes in God (as Kant himself did), and situates this belief within his larger Kantian philosophical worldview. David is impressed with the liberal philosophy of justice-as-fairness as a powerful account of what Kant's categorical imperative requires in terms of justice. So, like Amy and Betty, he sees justice-as-fairness as the correct liberal philosophy. Ernie, on the other hand, does not believe in any sort of God. His value system is an ecological one. Following the writings of the environmental philosopher Aldo Leopold, Ernie sees himself as a fellow-traveller on the Earth with all other living creatures, functioning together with them in a larger community. As Leopold himself did, Ernie agrees with the liberal principles—in his view the rights of animals and parts of the ecosystem overlay across the rights of people and citizens. So let’s suppose that, envisaging human beings as animals engaged in the business of looking after their lives, Ernie holds to a Lockean liberal philosophy—albeit one that gives a strong place to stewardship and care of the natural world.

These five citizens all live together and constitute a society that each of them sees as legitimate. They all affirm its constitutional setup and agree on the legitimacy of the laws it legislates. But how is this agreement possible? There is no shared fundamental worldview on the nature of existence and the reasons for being moral. There is no agreement even on a liberal philosophy about what rights and duties each person should have.

The reason a shared view of political legitimacy is possible is because all five of these citizens share an overlapping consensus on the general liberal political principles, and therefore on the constitutional structure in which they all live. Within that structure, they argue with each other about what rights and rules are just. As things stand, Amy, Betty and David form a smaller overlapping consensus of their own—they all agree that justice-as-fairness is the best liberal philosophy. They vote on that basis, and because the three of them form a majority, the laws in the society reflect that specific liberal philosophy. The constitution, however, does not reflect the majority view of justice-as-fairness. It remains neutral between all the competing liberal philosophies. If Amy comes to be persuaded by Cathy’s political arguments, or if Betty suddenly converts to Ernie’s ecological worldview, then the voting majority will shift and new policies will be enacted as law. Again, of course, the over-arching constitutional structure will remain the same.

Why is this picture of the political landscape helpful?

This picture resonates, I think, with the actual way many people in liberal democracies accept as legitimate rules that they do not themselves accept as fully just. Ernie, for example, does not agree with the liberal philosophy held by the majority, nor does he accept the fundamental worldview (the Christian religion) that the majority of other citizens use to ultimately ground their views. Ernie is not a part of either of those overlapping conceptions. He is, however, part of the crucial overlapping consensus on the general liberal political principles and the constitutional arrangements that follow from them.

From Ernie’s perspective then:

i) Ernie agrees with everyone else about the liberal principles, and would reject as utterly illegitimate any deviation from the rights and decision-making processes enshrined in the constitution. He views rules violating the constitution and its liberal principles, such as the breaching of basic rights, as illegitimate and to be rightfully resisted.

ii) Ernie disagrees with the specific liberal philosophy that is currently reigning as a majority in the legislature—he thinks the laws enacted from this conception by the majority are not fully just, in the sense that he believes a different liberal philosophy is right. He thinks those legislated laws are, however, legitimate and he agrees to abide by them. Ernie’s acceptance of the legislated laws is guaranteed by his commitment to the rule-making procedures set down in the constitution, and it would be a betrayal of these for Ernie to use his disagreement with the law as an excuse to break the law. Of course, Ernie is a vocal opponent of many of these laws, and he hopes over time he can convince others to change their minds, so that his liberal philosophy will gain a majority in a future legislature, and he will then be able to live under the protection of rights and duties that he sees as being fully right, and not only legitimate. In summary, Ernie views locally enacted laws falling outside his liberal philosophy (but within the liberal principles) as unjust, but nevertheless legitimate. He disagrees with them vociferously, but acknowledges he morally ought to obey them.

iii) Ernie does not believe in the fundamental worldviews held by anyone else in his society. However, those doctrines held by others do not rule his life. When Amy, Betty, Cathy and David engage with Ernie in serious political dialogue, they don’t speak from the perspective of their fundamental worldviews, but rather from their specific liberal philosophy. Since this is a specification of the general liberal principles that Ernie also shares, they are speaking to him in a language he can understand and advocating a position that he can see as reasonable, even if not one that he himself upholds.

iv) Ernie lives his own life in the legal structure created by the constitution and the current legislation, through his own life-plan. Ernie’s life-plan differs from others’ plans for their lives, but this is seen by everyone as a perfectly fine situation. The political space created by the current laws and the constitutional protections give him freedom to follow his life-plan to a substantial degree.

The reason I have sympathy with Rawls’ idea of political liberalism is that it seems to me that something like the picture outlined above is actually operative in liberal democracies. That is, I see myself as someone a lot like Ernie. I have my own life-plan, but I wouldn’t want to recommend it for anyone but me. I have my own fundamental worldview or ‘first philosophy’. I think it’s mostly on the right track, but I don’t think anyone who is sceptical of it is being unreasonable or stubbornly ignorant. I have my own specific liberal philosophy—it’s basically a welfarist Lockean political theory. I think laws that depart too far from its classical liberal rights are unjust, but that doesn’t mean I think I am entitled to disobey those laws. To the contrary, if the majority of my citizenry vote for a particular party or policy, then I accept that result as legitimate. That doesn’t mean I’d accept anything, however. There are laws that could be passed, or political changes that could happen, that I would think are illegitimate and unacceptable. These would be laws that violated citizens' most basic rights, or those arising after an illicit seizing of power by a military coup. These fall outside what is allowed by the liberal principles and the constitutional structure I accept.

In other words, Rawls’ theory provides a sensible account of political positions that I think all of us can understand: it allows us to distinguish between ‘not something I’d choose’, ‘immoral, ‘unjust’ and ‘illegitimate’, and explains how we can form genuine allegiances and shared understandings with people from all sorts of diverse fundamental worldviews.

The Burdens of Judgment and the Fact of Incommunicability

Now all of this opens up two big questions. One, why should we expect the overlapping consensus on the liberal principles to arrive and to stay stable over time, from the point of view of each of the fundamental worldviews? Two, why does each citizen take their allegiance to the liberal principles as the priority, rather than their specific liberal philosophy?

The key answer to both questions lies in an awareness of reciprocity—a way in which we realize we are alike to others and they to us. We all have our fundamental worldviews, whether philosophical, moral or religious, and we have deep reasons to believe these are true. But we find that these reasons are, in a very potent sense, incommunicable. We cannot simply persuade others, with any guarantee of success, into believing our religion or first philosophy by reporting the certainty that gripped us when we first read the Bible or Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics. Even if we put those texts into others’ hands, they might not care to read them. Even if they do, we find there is no guarantee they will be converted. And even if they are converted, we may find to our dismay that their newfound beliefs are actually somewhat removed from ours.

What is to explain this perplexing difficulty in communicating the deepest truths from one person to another? The answer might be that reasoning and thinking about first principles and theoretical philosophy is a difficult and ambiguous business. Rawls calls these difficulties the ‘burdens of judgment’, and probably this is a part of the picture, at least in terms of why we struggle to get consensus on philosophical truths. But I don’t think we need to commit to this. Many people adopt their fundamental worldviews on the basis of faith, and the complexities of abstruse philosophical reasoning have nothing whatsoever to do with their choices. So I think we should dispense with Rawls’ idea of the burdens of judgment, and simply appeal to the undeniable fact, apparent to everyone, that truths about such matters are notoriously difficult to convey. Call this the ‘fact of incommunicability’. We encounter this fact every time we try and convert someone to our fundamental worldviews—and all the more every time they try and convert us right back. We feel we are not being unreasonable in resisting their alleged ‘truths’, and—we reflect—they are surely not being unreasonable in resisting ours.

The same holds true, though to a more limited extent, for the specific liberal philosophies. Here again, we witness what apparently reasonable people engaging in good faith with others, sharing their reasons, but without this giving rise to any shared consensus on whether justice-as-fairness, left-libertarianism or any other given liberal system of rights and duties is true.

For these reasons, we cannot expect to create legitimacy of government by a consensus on fundamental worldviews or on specific liberal philosophies. Humans are just too darn diverse for this to be possible. People split into a bewildering plurality of beliefs and values at a moment’s notice, and resist being reformed into a unity by persuasion, proselytizing or exhortation. Basic reciprocity requires that we can no more expect others to be ruled by our fundamental worldview than we ourselves would be willing to be ruled by their doctrines.

But shared agreement on more basic principles is possible—indeed, the very same argument given above as to why it is next to impossible to expect agreement or alignment on fundamental beliefs itself presses us towards the basic liberal ideas of tolerance, freedom and equality. Because everyone is different in their fundamental worldviews, and will remain so, we can all get together and agree on a political system that tolerates this difference.

If that little argument doesn’t convince you, then perhaps the point can be made simply through observation. Countless fundamental worldviews are in fact compatible with liberal principles. We witness this every day in western liberal democracies. Because we have this level of agreement—this overlapping consensus—we can agree on much of the substance of a constitution, namely, the protection of basic rights. But we also know that laws must be made, governing one way or the other further arrangements, such as those governing equality of opportunity and distributive justice. As such, we agree on ways of deciding these issues (for example through majority vote) and ways of giving each other reasons that they can understand for why they should adopt our political views. The specific liberal philosophy helps here. If we make arguments from our own liberal philosophy, then even when we speak to others who have a different liberal philosophy, we are dealing in concepts (freedom, equality, fairness, cooperation) that each of us understands. As such, we can have an overlapping consensus on a group of broad principles, and upon the procedures determining more specific legislation.

The liberal principles of equality and liberty are all we agree on. But when combined with the facts of pluralism and incommunicability, they force us to realise that all we can expect of others is acceptance of those liberal principles. There is no agreement beyond those principles (the fact of pluralism) and we cannot expect to produce such agreement either through argument or reporting about the revealed word of God (the fact of incommunicability). We are in the position of needing more specific rules than these general principles offer, so we have to come up with some ways of creating more specific rules notwithstanding the fact that those more specific rules will inevitably clash with elements of someone’s (perhaps our own) specific liberal philosophy.

Ultimately, the resulting conception of politics (political liberalism, as Rawls calls it) provides us with a way of holding our own views on what is true and just, but at the same time believing that our truth—because it is not communicable—cannot justifiably be a legitimate reason for demanding others conform to it.

It seems to me that this view really does help explain what is otherwise very perplexing—namely, that many citizens of liberal democracies, with very different fundamental worldviews, are able to genuinely perceive their nation’s laws as legitimate and justified, even when they in fact disagree with, object to, and vote against those laws.

What is the relationship between the fundamental worldview and the liberal principles?

This question may be asked differently. We might ask—why should we expect an overlapping consensus on general liberal principles, given the breathtaking diversity of people’s fundamental worldviews? Why don’t people simply read off what is right and good from their fundamental worldviews and reject as illegitimate anything that departs from this specific account?

Rawls is, I think, less than explicit on this question. He does point out that there is usually a certain amount of ‘slackness’ in fundamental worldviews that make them open to different interpretations. As such, there will usually be a way of making them compatible with the liberal principles. Rawls’ argument is probably true, but it only gets us so far. Saying that Christianity is compatible with liberal principles is not the same as telling us that all Christians have compelling reasons to actually interpret their religion in this way.

So are there such reasons? I won’t go into any details here, but I think there is much to be said on this question. One promising answer is that any given fundamental worldview is likely to give general commandments to value peace, cooperation, respect, dignity and fairness. Given the evident facts of pluralism and incommunicability, it makes sense to interpret these values in accord with liberal principles. That is, because everyone is bound to have different worldviews, and we can’t expect to convert them just by showing them the Bible/Quran/Nicomachean Ethics, peace and respect for dignity demand that we show them tolerance, thereby seeing them as free to do their own thing, and equal with us in their entitlement to do so. Imagine yourself in the position of John Locke, sitting down to pen 'A Letter Concerning Toleration'. As a devout Christian, you look around at the horrific conflict and internecine violence caused by clashes between different religious groups. Whatever Jesus wanted, you think to yourself, he didn't want this. From a Biblically-justified concern with peace and gentleness, then, you are moved to adopt tolerant liberal principles.

Another promising answer is that people that hold a fundamental worldview also have moral intuitions and feelings about particular situations. Almost every non-psychopath can feel sympathy and empathy, feel that violence needs a special justification if it is to be legitimate, and feel the moral pull of reciprocity. As such, ordinary people may well try to stake out a political philosophy that accords with both their fundamental worldview and those moral judgments about specific questions (Rawls calls this a method of ‘reflective equilibrium’). As an example of this, one of my esteemed colleagues at Griffith University, Associate Professor and Imam Mohamad Abdalla, says that when he speaks to young Australian Muslims about values, he tells them to take from Australian culture everything they think is good in it, and to take from Islam everything they think is good in it. That seems to me perfectly sensible advice—advice, moreover, that could certainly motivate the alignment of a fundamental worldview with broad liberal principles of equality, freedom and tolerance.

There are other ways I think fundamental worldviews could have reasons to be brought to undergird and commit to liberal principles, but I will not try the reader’s patience any further—given what has already been a pretty long discussion.

To sum up, Rawls’ theory of political liberalism offers a useful model of how it is possible for people with conflicting and irreconcilable fundamental worldviews to come to genuinely commit to a liberal constitutional structure, and accept as legitimate laws enacted within that constitutional structure, even if they view any particular one of those laws as strictly speaking unjust.

A few notes on reading Rawls

In the foregoing I have renamed a few of Rawls’s key terms. What Rawls calls a ‘comprehensive doctrine’ I’ve term a ‘fundamental worldview’. What Rawls calls a specific liberal ‘political conception of justice’ I’ve called a ‘liberal philosophy’. What Rawls calls a ‘conception of the good’ I’ve call a ‘life-plan’.

One of the reasons Rawls’ theory of political liberalism is so difficult is that Rawls developed the position over a long period of years (from around 1985-1997), shifting what he said as he responded to reviews and objections. Unfortunately however, Rawls never left us with a full and comprehensive statement of his views before he died, so his final position needs to be gleaned from several different sources. A good place to start is his final article on the subject:

John Rawls, ‘The Idea of Public Reason Revisited’ The University of Chicago Law Review, Vol. 64, No. 3 (Summer, 1997), pp. 765-807 (reprinted in the Expanded Edition of Political Liberalism, Columbia University Press, 2005, pp. 440-490).

There is some excellent secondary literature, of course. Two that I found particularly helpful in developing the above account, and that I highly recommend, are:

Wenar, L. (1995). Political Liberalism: An Internal Critique. Ethics, 106(1), 32-62.

Dreben, B. (2003). On Rawls and Political Liberalism. In S. Freeman (Ed.), Cambridge Companion to Rawls (pp. 316-346). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.