Virtue and Meat-Eating—Part II

Virtue and Meat-Eating—Part II

In the last post, I gave a brief explanation of Aristotle’s virtue ethics and of the virtues. In this post, I discuss the virtue of temperance and the vice of intemperance, and connect both to eating meat.

The virtue of temperance, according to Aristotle, moderates our desires for the sensual pleasures of eating, drinking, and having sex. But although it is about sense pleasures, Aristotle thinks (for reasons that I won’t go into) that it concerns mostly the senses of taste and touch, especially touch—he gives an example of a glutton who wished to have a long throat so that he can feel more (or for longer) the food as it goes go down it. I think that Aristotle was right about touch when it comes to sexual desire, but I am not sure that he was right about the centrality of touch when it comes to food and drink, where taste seems to play a much more prominent role than Aristotle allows. In any case, let’s agree that temperance and intemperance are the virtue and vice that moderate our desires for the pleasures of eating, drinking, and having sex, let’s set aside the issue of which sense is most prominent, and let’s focus on eating (I will address in future posts temperance and sexual desire, a topic on which I have published a bit already.)

Who is the temperate person, and who is the intemperate one? There seem to be two crucial, relevant ideas here: the idea of right and wrong object, and the idea of too much and too little. To explain: Aristotle wishes to say that there are wrong things to eat (examples can be the flesh—or the blood—of another human being, feces, earth, wood, and so on). Right things to eat include things such as bread, vegetables, and fruits. But note that even if, say, fruits are right things to eat, this does not mean that any quantity is acceptable. Indeed, here enters the second notion, of “too much” (or “too little”). Even if fruits are the right things to eat, one can be intemperate in eating too much of them. (Keep in mind that we are discussing virtues and vices, which are traits of character. Thus, binging on mangos once or twice in your life does not make you intemperate; instead, it is the intemperate person who has the disposition or tendency to eat too much or to eat the wrong things.)

Things, however, are slightly more complicated. Let’s go back to the idea of wrong things to eat. In general, and sticking with our example of fruits, fruits are a perfectly good example of right things to eat. But this does not mean that there are no circumstances in which they are the wrong things to eat. Which circumstances? Well, imagine that you are sitting idly on the beach on a hot summer day, and your eye lustfully catches the Tupperware full of mango slices sitting atop the beach bag of the person next to you. She goes to swim and you realize that you can steal the mangos and eat them (it will have to be quick, while she is swimming). Clearly, the stolen mango is the wrong thing to eat, because it is stolen (duh!). Sometimes, Aristotle expresses this idea by saying that the temperate person would not eat the right things in the wrong way: so perhaps in this case we can say that those mango slices are the right things to eat, but to eat them through theft is to eat them in the wrong way.

Now imagine that we live in a world in which mangos are produced by the labor of enslaved human beings (this scenario is not that far from the reality of many agricultural workers). Mangoes are still right things to eat, but surely we can now claim that enjoying or eating them is wrong because they are farmed by slave laborers. Mangos are thus the wrong things to eat in such circumstances (or, alternatively, eating them given their origin is eating the right things but in the wrong way).

(A side note: eating the above mangos is wrong not only because it is intemperate, but also because it is vicious in other ways, such as because it is unjust or greedy.)

At this point, a quick aside is important, because I can easily imagine someone raising an eyebrow and objecting, “But who is to decide what are the right and wrong things to eat, or the right and wrong ways to eat things, or how much is too much?” This is a question that my students never fail to raise in moral discussions, and it is (sometimes) a good one. Aristotle defines “virtue” as a state lying in a mean “defined by reference to reason, that is to say, to the reason by reference to which the prudent [wise] person would define it.” (By “mean” Aristotle means a state between excess and deficiency, between basically two forms of vice, which, in our case, would be the intemperance of desiring the wrong things or “too much,” and the intemperance of not desiring enough, of insensibility.) Now, as I understand Aristotle, he is not advancing a relativist thesis that says that it is the wise person who creates or makes up what is the “middle state between excess and deficiency.” The wise person, instead, tracks what is right and wrong—her wisdom tells her that the “mean state” is, say, to face this danger. Wisdom is a virtue to Aristotle, and it is one found in all the other virtues; it enables the virtuous person to know what is valuable in life in general and to perceive a situation correctly, thereby enabling her to also judge, feel, and act correctly.

So the right and wrong things to eat are decided by moral facts—considerations “in the world” that are independent of us—and it is the virtuous person who knows what they are (though non-virtuous people can know them, too). Thus, Aristotle insists that the temperate person enjoys the pleasures of food and drink as long as they are “conducive to health and fitness” and do not go against “the fine.” (I don’t think that Aristotle means to include things that are only conducive to health—a constant diet of broccoli, carrots, and kale—he is okay with enjoying the occasional few slices of pizza, as long as such enjoyments do not undermine one’s health.) And what is conducive to health and fitness and what is compatible with the fine are not matters up to our subjective opinions, but are objective states of the world. One cannot simply decide that stealing that piece of chocolate from that child and eating it is “fine”; it most certainly is not, because it is (1) taking something (2) that is not one’s to take, and that (3) is of no value to one, but that (4) has a lot of value to the child, and (5) that would cause a child a bit of misery, and that (6) is all done in a manner not befitting one’s status as an adult.

So then what are the wrong things to eat? Aside from the examples that I gave above (which, by the way, one can quibble with as far as their moral wrongness is concerned—I mean, what is morally wrong with eating poop?), we can confidently claim that products obtained in the wrong ways would be good examples. We have already encountered the example of the slave-harvested mangos. Animal products—most obviously meat—obtained in the wrong ways would be another obvious example. Veal and pâté de foie gras are prime examples. Given the vast industry of factory farming, however, and given the conditions under which farm animals live and are treated, from cows, to pigs, to chickens, it seems to be a no-brainer that eating such meat is vicious or intemperate. (Some people think that eating chicken is morally better than eating beef or pork, and I suppose this is correct if we assume that chickens, somehow, suffer less than pigs and cows do, or that they are dumber than cows and pigs. But, really, even if true, none of this negates the fact that chickens suffer horrible lives in order for chicken-eaters to enjoy the taste of their flesh.) That is, if we concede that eating veal and pâté de foie gras is wrong because of the way the animals are treated, we ought to concede the same about the vast majority of farm animals. (I will get to hunted animals in a bit.)

So, imagine four people are at a dinner party where fancy chicken burgers are served by roving waiters (the “fancy” part is not necessary for the example). The temperate person declines to eat them because, in addition to judging that it would be wrong to eat chicken, she does not desire to eat them. Her desires follow the lead of her reason. This is, after all, what it is to be virtuous. The continent person (remember her from the previous post?) would desire to eat them, because she really likes chicken, but judges this to be wrong and acts on her decision. The incontinent person desires the chicken, judges that eating it would be wrong, but, alas, the weak fool that she is, succumbs to her desire. The incontinent person desires the chicken, eats it, and thinks nothing of it (she might, but need not, go to the length of saying to herself something like, “Stupid chickens! What purpose do they serve other than to please to our palates?”).

But eating meat that is harvested in factory farms might not be the only wrong meat to eat. It could also be that eating any meat obtained by killing an animal is wrong. How so? Well, if killing an animal causes its death (which, by the way, it does), and if the death of the animal is a harm to the animal because, say, it cuts its life short, then to kill the animal (by us, human beings, who know about right and wrong) is to wrong it. Thus, eating the meat of a killed animal would be wrong. Thus, a virtuous person would not eat this meat. This would apply also to eating the meat of animals killed in hunting or, more generally, for sport.

Note two things before I wrap up this post. First, the argument in the above paragraph is a general one, and its conclusion does not preclude exceptions. For example, there might be instances in which killing and eating an animal is acceptable (for survival, e.g.). Moreover, the conclusion excludes meat obtained through means other than killing the animal, such as meat from roadkill or cultured meat. It might be that there is something off or dishonorable about eating meat, period, but if so the above considerations do not support it. Different considerations need to be marshalled in order to show that meat-eating in itself is wrong, regardless of the way in which it was obtained.

The second thing to note is related to the last point just made (and repeats a point made further above), namely, that we arrive at what is right and wrong not through being virtuous (and I’m not even sure what this means), but through philosophical argument about right and wrong. And then we declare that virtuous people are not disposed to engage in the kind of actions that involve moral wrongdoing. So we reason our way to the point that eating meat is wrong, and claim that, therefore a virtuous person would not be disposed to eat meat—neither to desire to do so nor to actually do it. We can ask the question, “What would a virtuous person do in such-and-such circumstances?” as a heuristic device to help us arrive at our answers, but the answer itself would need to be supported by reasons (“Why would the virtuous person not do so-and-so?” “Because he is not selfish, and such an action is selfish given that it ...”)

“Well,” a sassy (and perhaps cocky) person might ask, “if virtue ethics does not tell us what is right and what is wrong, what the hell does it tell us?” One answer: It tells us what a virtuous person would and would not do, what she would and would not feel, and what she would judge to be right. It tells us, in brief, what it is to be a good person, even a noble, honorable one at that, despite these words sounding archaic.

So the next time someone says to you, “C’mon! Eat this juicy chicken breast. The chicken is dead anyway. Besides, you are only one person, and you not eating it won’t make a difference,” you can reply, “True and (maybe) true, but I am not the kind of person who partakes in this heinous practice.”

Virtue and Meat-Eating—Part I

Virtue and Meat-Eating

“Virtue” is a concept that sounds dated. And the virtue of temperance, which is the subject of this blog, sounds even more dated—there was a Simpsons episode (if I remember correctly) in which a newly married colonial settler to America had “Temperance” as her name (it was Marge’s character, shot back a few centuries). Indeed, “virtue ethics” refers to a way (or theory, if you want) of thinking about ethics that goes back to the ancient Greeks, ancient Chinese, and medieval Christian and Islamic philosophy, to give a few examples.

Contemporary philosophy has revived these traditions, and today there’s a large number of philosophers who subscribe to virtue ethics as a theory that stands its own ground and defends its own philosophical territory, much like other moral theories do. Some virtue ethicists find their inspiration in Aristotle, others in Confucius, others in Thomas Aquinas, others in Hume, and others in Kant, to name a few. They also research how other historical philosophers have relied on virtues in their work, such as Nietzsche.

I approach virtue ethics using Aristotle’s views. And one of the main virtues that Aristotle discussed—indeed, it is one of the classical virtues—is temperance. Before we go into it, let me give an idea of Aristotle’s virtue ethics.

Aristotle thought that human beings’ activities, desires, and goals have a final destination, which is happiness or flourishing (“flourishing” is a better translation than “happiness” of the Greek concept “Eudaimonia”). Although one life goal of mine is to do a duet with Justin Bieber, while one life goal of yours is to become the Minister of Education in the Lebanese government, we both want these goals because we ultimately want to flourish, because we think it would be part of a good life. Aristotle added that although everyone agrees that flourishing is our goal, not everyone agrees on what it consists of—What is a flourishing, good, or happy life for human beings? He proposed that in order to answer this question, we should look to the unique function of human beings. What is our purpose in life that sets us apart from other creatures? It can’t be merely a life of growth, because this is shared with plants and animals; it can’t be merely a life of pleasure or sense-perception, because this is shared with animals. So, he reasoned, it must have something to do with our reason, because it is our reason or rationality that sets us apart from other creatures. (Aristotle forgot that reason does not set us apart from the gods, but let’s let this one slide.)

So our function is to live life in accordance with reason. But just because that’s our function, it doesn’t mean that everyone does it well, or it doesn’t in itself tell us what it is to do it well. A knife’s function is to cut, but not every knife cuts well, and we need to know what a good knife is. Why bother with goodness at this point? Because Aristotle is not concerned with the function of human beings as such; he is after what a good, flourishing life is. And he arrives at that answer by looking at our function. So the answer is that a flourishing human life is a life lived in accordance with reason well or excellently.

Although it sounds uninformative to say that human life is life in accordance with reason, and that a good human life is a life lived well in accordance with reason, to Aristotle this is not trivial at all. This is because living life well is an idea packed with “goodies,” specifically, living well is having and exercising the virtues, which are human excellences, such as courage, justice, honesty, wisdom, and temperance. So although all human beings (with a few exceptions) live life in accordance with reason, not all do so well. Some live life irrationally, stupidly, immorally, etc. Their reason tells them, “It’s okay to take that candy from that baby,” but this is bad advice. So their reasoning has gone awry. And if reasoning goes awry, it is not well. Hence, to live life well as a human being, one needs the virtues.

(Many philosophers have dumped on this argument by Aristotle, accusing it of all sorts of things, such as relying on the idea of a function as such for human beings, which seems crazy and to go against what evolution tells us, and such as begging the question against those who think that people can lead good lives without the virtues. I and other philosophers, however, happen to think that Aristotle was on the right track, but my aim here is not to defend Aristotle’s argument.)

The above does not mean that one’s vocation in life is to be virtuous; this makes little sense, and we do need, after all, to put food on the table. But it does mean that any type of work, hobby, activity, or personality can be part of a virtuous life or part of a non-virtuous life. So if your job is teaching, you can perform it virtuously or non-virtuously, and you do that not side by side with being virtuous, as if the two just luckily go together, but because you are virtuous (or non-virtuous). And if you have, say, an open personality, you express it virtuously (or non-virtuously). Being virtuous means that that’s how you are, so it permeates how you act and do things, including your job, hobby, relationships with others, and so on. Basically, being virtuous (or non-virtuous) penetrates every nook and cranny of your life because it is your character.

Of course, human beings are not merely receptacles for reason—we are not cold, calculating machines. We have emotions and we have values, so how do they fit in a life lived well in accordance with reason? Both emotion and values are subsumed under the concept of “virtue,” according to Aristotle, in that a virtue (or a vice) affects how one feels, thinks, judges, and assigns value to things. So someone who has the virtues is someone who not only reasons well, but who also feels well and his values are oriented in the right ways.

For example, consider the virtue of courage. It involves, according to Aristotle, the emotions of fear and confidence, but in the right ways. To keep things simple, let’s focus on fear. The courageous person feels fear but in the right “amount,” toward the right things, for the right reasons, at the right times, etc. Generally speaking, someone who feels no fear in the face of impending death is not courageous, but foolhardy, and someone who feels fear at having to talk to their teacher is also not courageous, but a coward (alas, many students today claim that they feel “unsafe” talking to their teachers). So a brave person is not someone who does not feel fear, but who feels it, and overcomes it, but she feels it only in certain circumstances (those that call for fear), in the right measure, and for the right reasons. Note one interesting detail: although death is one of the main things that are rightly feared, not every circumstance involving fear of death and overcoming it is courageous. Overcoming the fear of death as the civilian plane you commandeered is about to crash into a building to kill civilians is not courage, because it is not overcoming the fear of death for the right reasons. It is not, as Aristotle would say, for the sake of the “noble.”

Before ending the first part of this post, it is worth noting why above I have written “non-virtuous” instead of “vicious,” which seems to be the obvious opposite of “virtuous.” The reason is that Aristotle distinguished between four character states, not only two (he identified two more, but they need not concern us): in addition to virtue, we have continence, incontinence, and vice. Thus, the state of virtue has three other contrasting states, not just one (though the state of vice is its polar opposite).

Briefly, a continent person is someone who knows what the right thing to do is, does it, but has to struggle with base desires to do it. He is tempted but overcomes the temptation. The incontinent person knows what the right thing to do is, is tempted not to do it, and succumbs to the temptation. So all three—the virtuous, the continent, and the incontinent—have proper judgment about a particular situation, but the second two do not have their emotions, feelings, and (possibly) values aligned with their judgment, and only the first two act on the proper judgment.

The state of vice is quite interesting, and it can have various manifestations, but one crucial thing about it is that the vicious person does something because he thinks it is the right thing to do, whereas in fact he is wrong to think so. He also, unlike the incontinent person, does not regret what he did (probably because he thinks it is the right thing to do). It is important then to not think of the vicious person as someone who is necessarily evil, rubbing his hands together with malicious, joyful laughter (though he could be); a vicious person might very well do something out of moral ignorance.

All the above will be made concrete with the discussion of temperance and intemperance, in “Virtue and Meat-Eating—Part II.” Stay tuned!