what is the virtue essay

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Virtue Ethics

Author: David Merry Category: Ethics , Historical Philosophy Word Count: 1000

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Think of the (morally) best person you know. It could be a friend, parent, teacher, religious leader, thinker, or activist.

The person you thought of is probably kind, brave, and wise. They are probably not greedy, cruel, or foolish.

The first list of ‘character traits’ ( kind, brave, etc.) are virtues, and the second list ( arrogant, greedy, etc.) are vices . Virtues are ways in which people are good; vices are ways in which people are bad.

This essay presents virtue ethics, a theory that sees virtues and vices as central to understanding who we should be, and what we should do.

1. Virtue and Happiness

Virtues are excellent traits of character. [1] They shape how we act, think, and feel. They make us who we are. Virtues are acquired through good habits, over a long period of time.

1.1. Eudaimonia

According to Aristotle (384-322 BCE) virtues are those, and only those, character traits we need to be happy. [2] Many virtue ethicists today agree. [3] These virtue ethicists are called eudaimonists, after the Greek word eudaimonia, usually translated as “happiness,” “flourishing,” or “well-being . ” [4]

For eudaimonists, happiness is more than a feeling: it involves living well with others and pursuing worthwhile goals. This includes cultivating strong relationships, and succeeding at such projects as raising a family, fighting for justice, and (moderate yet enthusiastic) enjoyment of pleasure. [5]

Eudaimonists believe our happiness is not easily separated from that of other people. Many would consider the happiness of their friends and family as part of their own. Eudaimonists may extend this to complete strangers, and non-human animals. Similarly for causes or ideals: eudaimonists believe complicity in injustice and deceit reduces a person’s happiness. , [6]

If eudaimonists are right about happiness, then it is plausible that we need virtues such as honesty, kindness, gratitude and justice to be happy. This is not to say that the virtues will guarantee happiness. But eudaimonists believe we cannot be truly happy without them.

One concern is that vicious people often seem happy. For example, dictators live in palaces, apparently rather pleasantly. Eudaimonists may not think this amounts to happiness, but many would disagree. And if dictators can be happy, then we certainly can be happy without the virtues. Answering this objection is an ongoing project for eudaimonists. [7]

1.2. Emotion, Intelligence, and Developing Virtue

Eudaimonists believe emotions are essential to happiness, and that our emotions are shaped by our habits. Good emotional habits are a question of balance.

For example, eudaimonists argue that honest people habitually want to and enjoy telling the truth, but not so much that they will ignore all other considerations–a habit of enjoying pointing out other people’s shortcomings will leave us friendless, and so is not part of honesty. [8]

Because virtue requires balancing competing considerations, such as telling the truth and considering other people’s feelings, virtue also requires experience in making moral decisions. Virtue ethicists call this intellectual ability practical intelligence, or wisdom. [9]

2. Virtue and Right Action

Virtue ethicists believe we can use virtue to understand how we should act, or what makes actions right.

According to some virtue ethicists, an action is right if, and only if, it is what a virtuous person would characteristically do under the circumstances. [10] On rare occasions, virtuous people do the wrong thing. But this is not acting characteristically.

2.1. Being Specific

“Do what virtuous people would do” is not very specific, and we may be left wondering what the theory is actually saying we should do.

One way to make it more specific is to generate rules for each of the virtues and vices, called “v-rules.” Two examples of v-rules are: be kind, don’t be cruel. The v-rules give specific guidance in many cases: writing an email just to hurt someone’s feelings is cruel, so don’t do it. [11]

Unfortunately, the virtues can conflict: if a friend asks whether we like their new partner, it may be more honest to say we do not , but kinder to say we do. In this case it is hard to say what the virtuous person would do.

Virtue ethicists might respond that other ethical theories will also struggle to give clear guidance in hard cases. [12]

Second, they might try to understand how a virtuous person would think about the situation. Remember that virtuous people have practical intelligence, and habitually care about other people’s happiness and telling the truth. So they may consider a lot of particular details, including how close the friendship is, how bad the partner is, how gently the friend may be told. [13]

This may not provide a specific answer, but virtue ethicists hope they can at least provide a helpful model for thinking about hard cases. [14]

2.2. Explaining Why

We have seen how virtue ethics tells us what to do. But we also want to know why we should do it.

Virtue ethicists point out that if we ask virtuous people, they will explain why they did what they did. [15] Their reasoning results from their excellent emotional habits and practical intelligence–that is, from their virtue. And if we want to be happy, we need to cultivate virtue. So these should be our reasons too.

But in explaining their decision, the virtuous person won’t necessarily mention virtue. They might, for example, say, “I wanted to avoid hurting their feelings, so I told the truth gently.” [16]

It might then seem that something other than virtue–in our example, the importance of other people’s feelings–explains why the action is right . But then this other thing should be central to ethical theory, instead of virtue.

Virtue ethicists may respond that the moral weight of this other thing depends on which character traits are virtues. Accordingly, if kindness were not a virtue, there may be no moral reason to care about others’ feelings. [17]

3. Conclusion

Virtue ethicists recommend reflecting on the character traits we need to be happy. They hope this will help us make better moral decisions. Virtue ethics may not always yield clear answers, but perhaps acknowledging moral uncertainty is not a vice.

[1] Others may define virtue as admirable or merely good traits of character. For additional definitions of virtue and understandings of virtue ethics, see Hursthouse and Pettigrove’s “Virtue Ethics.”

[2] Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics , Book One, Chapter 9, Lines 1099b25-29. For this interpretation, see Nussbaum, The Fragility of Goodness, p. 6.

[3] Hursthouse, On Virtue Ethics , pp. 165-169, “Virtue Theory and Abortion”, p. 226, Foot, Natural Goodness , pp. 99-116.

There are many other accounts of virtue worth considering. One major alternative is sentimentalist accounts, such as that of Hume and Zagbzebski, who define virtues as those character traits that attract love or admiration. Some scholars argue that Confucian ethics is a virtue ethic, though this is debated: see Wong, “Chinese Ethics.” Also see John Ramsey’s Mengzi’s Moral Psychology, Part 1: The Four Moral Sprouts . For an African understanding of virtue, see Thaddeus Metz’s The African Ethic of Ubuntu .

[4] Hursthouse has a detailed and accessible discussion of the merits of different translations of eudaimonia in On Virtue Ethics, pp. 9-10.

[5] Some people find this account of virtue surprising because they think virtue must involve sacrificing one’s own happiness for the sake of other people, and living like a saint, a monk, or just being a really boring and miserable person. In this case it may be more helpful to think in terms of ‘good character’ than ‘virtue’. David Hume amusingly argued that some alleged virtues, such as humility, celibacy, silence, and solitude, were vices. See his Enquiry 9.1.

[6] The idea that injustice erodes everybody’s happiness is not to deny that it especially harms people who are treated unjustly. However, eudaimonists consider being unjust, or deceiving others to be bad for us.

[7] For a compelling discussion of this objection to eudaimonism, see Blackburn, Being Good, pp. 112-118 . Eudaimonists have been trying to answer this objection for a long time. Indeed, arguing that it is more beneficial to be just than unjust is one of the major themes of Plato’s Republic. For more recent attempts to make the case, see Hursthouse’s On Virtue Ethics, Chapter 8, or Foot, Natural Goodness, especially Chapter 7. See also Kiki Berk’s Happiness .

[8] The idea that the virtues involve finding a balance is called ‘the doctrine of the mean.’ See Nicomachean Ethics, Book II, Chapter 6, lines 1106b30-1107a5. For one contemporary account of the emotional aspects of virtue, see Hursthouse’s On Virtue Ethics, pp.108-121.

[9] Aristotle discusses practical intelligence in Nicomachean Ethics Book 6. For a contemporary account see Hursthouse’s On Virtue Ethics, pp. 59-62.

[10] Hursthouse, On Virtue Ethics, pp. 28-29. This is sometimes called a qualified-agent account. For some alternatives, see van Zyl’s “Virtue Ethics and Right Action”.

[11] Hursthouse, On Virtue Ethics, pp. 28-29.

[12] For other moral theories, see Deontology: Kantian Ethics by Andrew Chapman and Introduction to Consequentialism by Shane Gronholz. When reading, you might consider whether these theories would give you clearer guidance about your friend’s partner.

[13] See Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, Book 2, chapter 9, lines 1109a25-30. Hursthouse, On Virtue Ethics pp. 128-129.

[14] For two examples of how virtue ethics may be helpfully applied to tough moral decisions, see Hursthouse’s “Virtue Theory and Abortion”, and Foot’s “Euthanasia”.

[15] Hursthouse, “Virtue Ethics and Abortion”, especially p. 227, pp. 234-237. “Do what a virtuous person would do” is only supposed to tell us what we should do, not how we should think .

[16] This objection is discussed in Shafer-Landau’s The Fundamentals of Ethics, pp. 272-274.

[17] On this connection between facts about morality on facts about virtue and human happiness, see Hursthouse “Virtue Theory and Abortion”, pp. 236-238.

Aristotle. Nicomachean Ethics . C. 355-322 BCE. Trans. Roger Crisp. Cambridge UP. 2014.

Blackburn, S. Being Good. Oxford UP. 2001.

Boxill, B. “How Injustice Pays.” Philosophy and Public Affairs, 9(4): 359-371. 1980.

Foot, P. Natural Goodness. Oxford UP. 2001.

Foot, P. “Euthanasia”. Philosophy and Public Affairs, 6(2): 85–112. 1977.

Foot, P. “Moral Beliefs.” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society. 59: 83-104. 1958.

Hume, An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals. 1777.      

Hursthouse, R. “Virtue Theory and Abortion.” Philosophy & Public Affairs . 20(3): 223-246. 1991.

Hursthouse, R. On Virtue Ethics. Oxford UP. 1999.

Hursthouse, Rosalind and Glen Pettigrove, “Virtue Ethics”. Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2018 Edition), Zalta, E.N (ed.). 2018,

Nussbaum, M. The Fragility of Goodness. Cambridge UP. 2nd Edition, 2001.

van Zyl, L. “Virtue Ethics and Right Action”. In Russell, D. C (ed.) The Cambridge Companion to Virtue Ethics. Cambridge UP. 2013.

Plato. Republic. C. 375 BCE. Trans. Paul Shorey. Harvard UP. 1969.

Shafer-Landau, R. The Fundamentals of Ethics . Fourth Edition. Oxford UP. 2017.

Wong, D. “Chinese Ethics”. Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2021 Edition) . Zalta, E.N (ed). 2021.

Zagzebski, L.T. Exemplarist Moral Theory. Oxford UP. 2017.

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About the Author

David Merry’s research is mostly about ethics and dialectic in ancient Greek and Roman philosophy, although he also occasionally works on contemporary ethics and philosophy of medicine. He received a Ph.D. from the Humboldt University of Berlin, and an M.A in philosophy from the University of Auckland. He is co-editor of Essays on Argumentation in Antiquity . He offers interactive, discussion-based online philosophy classes and maintains a blog at Kayepos.com .

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Virtue Ethics

Virtue Ethics is a normative philosophical approach that urges people to live a moral life by cultivating virtuous habits.

Virtue ethics is a philosophy developed by Aristotle and other ancient Greeks. It is the quest to understand and live a life of moral character.

This character-based approach to morality assumes that we acquire virtue through practice. By practicing being honest, brave, just, generous, and so on, a person develops an honorable and moral character. According to Aristotle, by honing virtuous habits, people will likely make the right choice when faced with ethical challenges.

To illustrate the difference among three key moral philosophies, ethicists Mark White and Robert Arp refer to the film The Dark Knight where Batman has the opportunity to kill the Joker. Utilitarians, White and Arp suggest, would endorse killing the Joker. By taking this one life, Batman could save multitudes. Deontologists, on the other hand, would reject killing the Joker simply because it’s wrong to kill. But a virtue ethicist “would highlight the character of the person who kills the Joker. Does Batman want to be the kind of person who takes his enemies’ lives?” No, in fact, he doesn’t.

So, virtue ethics helps us understand what it means to be a virtuous human being. And, it gives us a guide for living life without giving us specific rules for resolving ethical dilemmas.

Related Terms

Integrity is an indispensable moral virtue that includes acting with honesty, fairness, and decency.

Moral Philosophy

Moral Philosophy studies what is right and wrong, and related philosophical issues.

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• Introduction

Aristotle’s conception of moral virtue

Religious conceptions of moral virtue, virtue ethics.

• What is ethics?
• How is ethics different from morality?
• Why does ethics matter?
• Is ethics a social science?

moral virtue

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• University of Notre Dame - Philosophical Reviews - From Natural Character to Moral Virtue in Aristotle
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moral virtue , in ethics , those qualities or states of character that find expression in morally good actions and morally good purposes or intentions. Moral virtues are persistent patterns of behaviour and thought rather than transient emotions , aspects of intelligence , or physical characteristics.

Contemporary theories of moral virtue are heavily influenced by the ancient Greek philosopher Aristotle (384–322 bce ), who conceived of virtue as an excellence giving rise to actions that constitute a “ golden mean ” between deficiency and excess. For Aristotle, such an excellence must be cultivated to be maintained and can be lost if neglected; it is not a fixed or innate trait. The virtues, besides being concerned with means of action and passion, are themselves means in the sense that they occupy a middle ground between two contrary vices. Thus, the virtue of courage is flanked on one side by foolhardiness and on the other by cowardice.

Aristotle distinguished moral virtues from intellectual virtues, such as wisdom, which governs ethical behaviour, and understanding, which is expressed in scientific endeavour and contemplation. Finding the rational mean necessary to exercise a moral virtue often requires the use of wisdom. However, moral virtue does not lie simply in finding and performing the right action but in developing the traits of character that make performing the right action natural. For example, understanding when to give money to a cause requires the intellectual virtue of wisdom, but actually giving money to a cause on the basis of a natural disposition requires the moral virtue of generosity.

The concept of virtue as a cultivated excellence was familiar to Greeks prior to Aristotle. Well before his time, Greek culture had come to recognize a conventional set of virtues that included prudence , temperance, fortitude , and justice (the four “cardinal” virtues later recognized by Christianity ), among others. Aristotle’s teacher, Plato (428/27–348/47 bce ), also explored the nature of the virtues in a set of dialogues featuring the character Socrates—a portrayal of Plato’s real-life teacher, Socrates (c. 470–399 bce ), who wrote nothing himself. However, Aristotle’s account of virtue in the Nicomachean Ethics has become the most influential treatment of the subject.

Concepts akin to moral virtue can be found in many cultures and traditions. In Christianity, the four cardinal virtues were combined with three theological virtues— faith , hope , and charity , or love—yielding the religion’s traditional seven virtues ( see also moral theology ). According to Christian teaching, the theological virtues do not originate from humanity, as do the natural virtues; instead they are imparted by God. In the religion of ancient Egypt , the concept of maat (“order”) was crucial in human life and embraced notions of reciprocity , justice, truth, and moderation. Maat was personified as a goddess—the daughter of the sun god Re —and became the object of a dedicated cult. In India, the philosophies associated with Hinduism , Buddhism , and Jainism have influenced one another through their sharing of moral virtues such as ahimsa ( Sanskrit : “noninjury”), or the avoidance of causing harm to other living things.

Virtue ethics is one of the three major schools of normative ethics . Whereas deontological ethics concerns itself with moral duties and rules and consequentialist ethics with achieving the right outcomes, virtue ethics is founded on the development of personal character ( see also ethics: Virtue ethics ). Suppose, for example, that one faced a situation in which one could benefit oneself by lying. A deontologist might say that one should not lie because there is a moral duty to tell the truth . A consequentialist might say that one should tell the truth because lying may cause harm to others who are victims of the lie. A virtue ethicist, however, might say that one has an ethical obligation to tell the truth because doing so would be honest, and honesty is a virtue.

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Ethics guide

Virtue ethics

Virtue ethics is person rather than action based. It looks at the moral character of the person carrying out an action.

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Character-based ethics

• A right act is the action a virtuous person would do in the same circumstances.

Virtue ethics is person rather than action based: it looks at the virtue or moral character of the person carrying out an action, rather than at ethical duties and rules, or the consequences of particular actions.

Virtue ethics not only deals with the rightness or wrongness of individual actions, it provides guidance as to the sort of characteristics and behaviours a good person will seek to achieve.

In that way, virtue ethics is concerned with the whole of a person's life, rather than particular episodes or actions.

• A good person is someone who lives virtuously - who possesses and lives the virtues.

It's a useful theory since human beings are often more interested in assessing the character of another person than they are in assessing the goodness or badness of a particular action.

This suggests that the way to build a good society is to help its members to be good people, rather than to use laws and punishments to prevent or deter bad actions.

But it wouldn't be helpful if a person had to be a saint to count as virtuous. For virtue theory to be really useful it needs to suggest only a minimum set of characteristics that a person needs to possess in order to be regarded as virtuous.

...being virtuous is more than having a particular habit of acting, e.g. generosity. Rather, it means having a fundamental set of related virtues that enable a person to live and act morally well. James F Keenan, Proposing Cardinal Virtues, Theological Studies, 1995

Virtue ethics teaches:

• An action is only right if it is an action that a virtuous person would carry out in the same circumstances.
• A virtuous person is a person who acts virtuously
• A person acts virtuously if they "possess and live the virtues"
• A virtue is a moral characteristic that a person needs to live well.

Most virtue theorists would also insist that the virtuous person is one who acts in a virtuous way as the result of rational thought (rather than, say, instinct).

The three questions

The modern philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre proposed three questions as being at the heart of moral thinking:

• Who ought I to become?
• How ought I to get there?

Lists of the virtues

Most virtue theorists say that there is a common set of virtues that all human beings would benefit from, rather than different sets for different sorts of people, and that these virtues are natural to mature human beings - even if they are hard to acquire.

This poses a problem, since lists of virtues from different times in history and different societies show significant differences.

The traditional list of cardinal virtues was:

• Fortitude / Bravery

The modern theologian James F Keenan suggests:

• Justice requires us to treat all human beings equally and impartially.
• Fidelity requires that we treat people closer to us with special care.
• We each have a unique responsibility to care for ourselves, affectively, mentally, physically, and spiritually.
• The prudent person must always consider Justice, Fidelity and Self-care.
• The prudent person must always look for opportunities to acquire more of the other three virtues

Good points of virtue ethics

• It centres ethics on the person and what it means to be human
• It includes the whole of a person's life

Bad points of virtue ethics

• although it does provide general guidance on how to be a good person
• presumably a totally virtuous person would know what to do and we could consider them a suitable role model to guide us
• and it may be that any list of virtues will be relative to the culture in which it is being drawn up.

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Aristotle’s Ethics

Aristotle conceives of ethical theory as a field distinct from the theoretical sciences. Its methodology must match its subject matter—good action—and must respect the fact that in this field many generalizations hold only for the most part. We study ethics in order to improve our lives, and therefore its principal concern is the nature of human well-being. Aristotle follows Socrates and Plato in taking the virtues to be central to a well-lived life. Like Plato, he regards the ethical virtues (justice, courage, temperance and so on) as complex rational, emotional and social skills. But he rejects Plato’s idea that to be completely virtuous one must acquire, through a training in the sciences, mathematics, and philosophy, an understanding of what goodness is. What we need, in order to live well, is a proper appreciation of the way in which such goods as friendship, pleasure, virtue, honor and wealth fit together as a whole. In order to apply that general understanding to particular cases, we must acquire, through proper upbringing and habits, the ability to see, on each occasion, which course of action is best supported by reasons. Therefore practical wisdom, as he conceives it, cannot be acquired solely by learning general rules. We must also acquire, through practice, those deliberative, emotional, and social skills that enable us to put our general understanding of well-being into practice in ways that are suitable to each occasion.

1. Preliminaries

2. the human good and the function argument, 3.1 traditional virtues and the skeptic, 3.2 differences from and affinities to plato, 4. virtues and deficiencies, continence and incontinence, 5.1 ethical virtue as disposition, 5.2 ethical theory does not offer a decision procedure, 5.3 the starting point for practical reasoning, 6. intellectual virtues, 8. pleasure, 9. friendship, 10. three lives compared, a. single-authored overviews, b. anthologies, c.1 the chronological order of aristotle’s ethical treatises, c.2 the methodology and metaphysics of ethical theory, c.3 the human good and the human function, c.4 the nature of virtue and accounts of particular virtues, c.5 practical reasoning, moral psychology, and action, c.6 pleasure, c.7 friendship, c.8 feminism and aristotle, c.9 aristotle and contemporary ethics, d. bibliographies, primary literature, secondary literature, other internet resources, related entries.

Aristotle wrote two ethical treatises: the Nicomachean Ethics and the Eudemian Ethics . He does not himself use either of these titles, although in the Politics (1295a36) he refers back to one of them—probably the Eudemian Ethics —as “ ta êthika ”—his writings about character. The words “ Eudemian ” and “ Nicomachean ” were added later, perhaps because the former was edited by his friend, Eudemus, and the latter by his son, Nicomachus. In any case, these two works cover more or less the same ground: they begin with a discussion of eudaimonia (“happiness”, “flourishing”), and turn to an examination of the nature of aretê (“virtue”, “excellence”) and the character traits that human beings need in order to live life at its best. Both treatises examine the conditions in which praise or blame are appropriate, and the nature of pleasure and friendship; near the end of each work, we find a brief discussion of the proper relationship between human beings and the divine.

Though the general point of view expressed in each work is the same, there are many subtle differences in organization and content as well. Clearly, one is a re-working of the other, and although no single piece of evidence shows conclusively what their order is, it is widely assumed that the Nicomachean Ethics is a later and improved version of the Eudemian Ethics . (Not all of the Eudemian Ethics was revised: its Books IV, V, and VI re-appear as V, VI, VII of the Nicomachean Ethics .) Perhaps the most telling indication of this ordering is that in several instances the Nicomachean Ethics develops a theme about which its Eudemian cousin is silent. Only the Nicomachean Ethics discusses the close relationship between ethical inquiry and politics; only the Nicomachean Ethics critically examines Solon’s paradoxical dictum that no man should be counted happy until he is dead; and only the Nicomachean Ethics gives a series of arguments for the superiority of the philosophical life to the political life. The remainder of this article will therefore focus on this work. [Note: Page and line numbers shall henceforth refer to this treatise.]

A third treatise, called the Magna Moralia (the “Big Ethics”) is included in complete editions of Aristotle’s works, but its authorship is disputed by scholars. It ranges over topics discussed more fully in the other two works and its point of view is similar to theirs. (Why, being briefer, is it named the Magna Moralia ? Because each of the two papyrus rolls into which it is divided is unusually long. Just as a big mouse can be a small animal, two big chapters can make a small book. This work was evidently named “big” with reference to its parts, not the whole.) A few authors in antiquity refer to a work with this name and attribute it to Aristotle, but it is not mentioned by several authorities, such as Cicero and Diogenes Laertius, whom we would expect to have known of it. Some scholars hold that it is Aristotle’s earliest course on ethics—perhaps his own lecture notes or those of a student; others regard it as a post-Aristotelian compilation or adaption of one or both of his genuine ethical treatises.

Although Aristotle is deeply indebted to Plato’s moral philosophy, particularly Plato’s central insight that moral thinking must be integrated with our emotions and appetites, and that the preparation for such unity of character should begin with childhood education, the systematic character of Aristotle’s discussion of these themes was a remarkable innovation. No one had written ethical treatises before Aristotle. Plato’s Republic , for example, does not treat ethics as a distinct subject matter; nor does it offer a systematic examination of the nature of happiness, virtue, voluntariness, pleasure, or friendship. To be sure, we can find in Plato’s works important discussions of these phenomena, but they are not brought together and unified as they are in Aristotle’s ethical writings.

The principal idea with which Aristotle begins is that there are differences of opinion about what is best for human beings, and that to profit from ethical inquiry we must resolve this disagreement. He insists that ethics is not a theoretical discipline: we are asking what the good for human beings is not simply because we want to have knowledge, but because we will be better able to achieve our good if we develop a fuller understanding of what it is to flourish. In raising this question—what is the good?—Aristotle is not looking for a list of items that are good. He assumes that such a list can be compiled rather easily; most would agree, for example, that it is good to have friends, to experience pleasure, to be healthy, to be honored, and to have such virtues as courage at least to some degree. The difficult and controversial question arises when we ask whether certain of these goods are more desirable than others. Aristotle’s search for the good is a search for the highest good, and he assumes that the highest good, whatever it turns out to be, has three characteristics: it is desirable for itself, it is not desirable for the sake of some other good, and all other goods are desirable for its sake.

Aristotle thinks everyone will agree that the terms “ eudaimonia ” (“happiness”) and “ eu zên ” (“living well”) designate such an end. The Greek term “ eudaimon ” is composed of two parts: “ eu ” means “well” and “ daimon ” means “divinity” or “spirit”. To be eudaimon is therefore to be living in a way that is well-favored by a god. But Aristotle never calls attention to this etymology in his ethical writings, and it seems to have little influence on his thinking. He regards “ eudaimon ” as a mere substitute for eu zên (“living well”). These terms play an evaluative role, and are not simply descriptions of someone’s state of mind.

No one tries to live well for the sake of some further goal; rather, being eudaimon is the highest end, and all subordinate goals—health, wealth, and other such resources—are sought because they promote well-being, not because they are what well-being consists in. But unless we can determine which good or goods happiness consists in, it is of little use to acknowledge that it is the highest end. To resolve this issue, Aristotle asks what the ergon (“function”, “task”, “work”) of a human being is, and argues that it consists in activity of the rational part of the soul in accordance with virtue (1097b22–1098a20). One important component of this argument is expressed in terms of distinctions he makes in his psychological and biological works. The soul is analyzed into a connected series of capacities: the nutritive soul is responsible for growth and reproduction, the locomotive soul for motion, the perceptive soul for perception, and so on. The biological fact Aristotle makes use of is that human beings are the only species that has not only these lower capacities but a rational soul as well. The good of a human being must have something to do with being human; and what sets humanity off from other species, giving us the potential to live a better life, is our capacity to guide ourselves by using reason. If we use reason well, we live well as human beings; or, to be more precise, using reason well over the course of a full life is what happiness consists in. Doing anything well requires virtue or excellence, and therefore living well consists in activities caused by the rational soul in accordance with virtue or excellence.

Aristotle’s conclusion about the nature of happiness is in a sense uniquely his own. No other writer or thinker had said precisely what he says about what it is to live well. But at the same time his view is not too distant from a common idea. As he himself points out, one traditional conception of happiness identifies it with virtue (1098b30–1). Aristotle’s theory should be construed as a refinement of this position. He says, not that happiness is virtue, but that it is virtuous activity . Living well consists in doing something, not just being in a certain state or condition. It consists in those lifelong activities that actualize the virtues of the rational part of the soul.

At the same time, Aristotle makes it clear that in order to be happy one must possess others goods as well—such goods as friends, wealth, and power. And one’s happiness is endangered if one is severely lacking in certain advantages—if, for example, one is extremely ugly, or has lost children or good friends through death (1099a31–b6). But why so? If one’s ultimate end should simply be virtuous activity, then why should it make any difference to one’s happiness whether one has or lacks these other types of good? Aristotle’s reply is that one’s virtuous activity will be to some extent diminished or defective, if one lacks an adequate supply of other goods (1153b17–19). Someone who is friendless, childless, powerless, weak, and ugly will simply not be able to find many opportunities for virtuous activity over a long period of time, and what little he can accomplish will not be of great merit. To some extent, then, living well requires good fortune; happenstance can rob even the most excellent human beings of happiness. Nonetheless, Aristotle insists, the highest good, virtuous activity, is not something that comes to us by chance. Although we must be fortunate enough to have parents and fellow citizens who help us become virtuous, we ourselves share much of the responsibility for acquiring and exercising the virtues.

3. Methodology

A common complaint about Aristotle’s attempt to defend his conception of happiness is that his argument is too general to show that it is in one’s interest to possess any of the particular virtues as they are traditionally conceived. Suppose we grant, at least for the sake of argument, that doing anything well, including living well, consists in exercising certain skills; and let us call these skills, whatever they turn out to be, virtues. Even so, that point does not by itself allow us to infer that such qualities as temperance, justice, courage, as they are normally understood, are virtues. They should be counted as virtues only if it can be shown that actualizing precisely these skills is what happiness consists in. What Aristotle owes us, then, is an account of these traditional qualities that explains why they must play a central role in any well-lived life.

But perhaps Aristotle disagrees, and refuses to accept this argumentative burden. In one of several important methodological remarks he makes near the beginning of the Nicomachean Ethics , he says that in order to profit from the sort of study he is undertaking, one must already have been brought up in good habits (1095b4–6). The audience he is addressing, in other words, consists of people who are already just, courageous, and generous; or, at any rate, they are well on their way to possessing these virtues. Why such a restricted audience? Why does he not address those who have serious doubts about the value of these traditional qualities, and who therefore have not yet decided to cultivate and embrace them?

Addressing the moral skeptic, after all, is the project Plato undertook in the Republic : in Book I he rehearses an argument to show that justice is not really a virtue, and the remainder of this work is an attempt to rebut this thesis. Aristotle’s project seems, at least on the surface, to be quite different. He does not appear to be addressing someone who has genuine doubts about the value of justice or kindred qualities. Perhaps, then, he realizes how little can be accomplished, in the study of ethics, to provide it with a rational foundation. Perhaps he thinks that no reason can be given for being just, generous, and courageous. These are qualities one learns to love when one is a child, and having been properly habituated, one no longer looks for or needs a reason to exercise them. One can show, as a general point, that happiness consists in exercising some skills or other, but that the moral skills of a virtuous person are what one needs is not a proposition that can be established on the basis of argument.

This is not the only way of reading the Ethics , however. For surely we cannot expect Aristotle to show what it is about the traditional virtues that makes them so worthwhile until he has fully discussed the nature of those virtues. He himself warns us that his initial statement of what happiness is should be treated as a rough outline whose details are to be filled in later (1098a20–22). His intention in Book I of the Ethics is to indicate in a general way why the virtues are important; why particular virtues—courage, justice, and the like—are components of happiness is something we should be able to better understand only at a later point.

In any case, Aristotle’s assertion that his audience must already have begun to cultivate the virtues need not be taken to mean that no reasons can be found for being courageous, just, and generous. His point, rather, may be that in ethics, as in any other study, we cannot make progress towards understanding why things are as they are unless we begin with certain assumptions about what is the case. Neither theoretical nor practical inquiry starts from scratch. Someone who has made no observations of astronomical or biological phenomena is not yet equipped with sufficient data to develop an understanding of these sciences. The parallel point in ethics is that to make progress in this sphere we must already have come to enjoy doing what is just, courageous, generous and the like. We must experience these activities not as burdensome constraints, but as noble, worthwhile, and enjoyable in themselves. Then, when we engage in ethical inquiry, we can ask what it is about these activities that makes them worthwhile. We can also compare these goods with other things that are desirable in themselves—pleasure, friendship, honor, and so on—and ask whether any of them is more desirable than the others. We approach ethical theory with a disorganized bundle of likes and dislikes based on habit and experience; such disorder is an inevitable feature of childhood. But what is not inevitable is that our early experience will be rich enough to provide an adequate basis for worthwhile ethical reflection; that is why we need to have been brought up well. Yet such an upbringing can take us only so far. We seek a deeper understanding of the objects of our childhood enthusiasms, and we must systematize our goals so that as adults we have a coherent plan of life. We need to engage in ethical theory, and to reason well in this field, if we are to move beyond the low-grade form of virtue we acquired as children.

Read in this way, Aristotle is engaged in a project similar in some respects to the one Plato carried out in the Republic . One of Plato’s central points is that it is a great advantage to establish a hierarchical ordering of the elements in one’s soul; and he shows how the traditional virtues can be interpreted to foster or express the proper relation between reason and less rational elements of the psyche. Aristotle’s approach is similar: his “function argument” shows in a general way that our good lies in the dominance of reason, and the detailed studies of the particular virtues reveal how each of them involves the right kind of ordering of the soul. Aristotle’s goal is to arrive at conclusions like Plato’s, but without relying on the Platonic metaphysics that plays a central role in the argument of the Republic . He rejects the existence of Plato’s forms in general and the form of the good in particular; and he rejects the idea that in order to become fully virtuous one must study mathematics and the sciences, and see all branches of knowledge as a unified whole. Even though Aristotle’s ethical theory sometimes relies on philosophical distinctions that are more fully developed in his other works, he never proposes that students of ethics need to engage in a specialized study of the natural world, or mathematics, or eternal and changing objects. His project is to make ethics an autonomous field, and to show why a full understanding of what is good does not require expertise in any other field.

There is another contrast with Plato that should be emphasized: In Book II of the Republic , we are told that the best type of good is one that is desirable both in itself and for the sake of its results (357d–358a). Plato argues that justice should be placed in this category, but since it is generally agreed that it is desirable for its consequences, he devotes most of his time to establishing his more controversial point—that justice is to be sought for its own sake. By contrast, Aristotle assumes that if A is desirable for the sake of B , then B is better than A (1094a14–16); therefore, the highest kind of good must be one that is not desirable for the sake of anything else. To show that A deserves to be our ultimate end, one must show that all other goods are best thought of as instruments that promote A in some way or other. Accordingly, it would not serve Aristotle’s purpose to consider virtuous activity in isolation from all other goods. He needs to discuss honor, wealth, pleasure, and friendship in order to show how these goods, properly understood, can be seen as resources that serve the higher goal of virtuous activity. He vindicates the centrality of virtue in a well-lived life by showing that in the normal course of things a virtuous person will not live a life devoid of friends, honor, wealth, pleasure, and the like. Virtuous activity makes a life happy not by guaranteeing happiness in all circumstances, but by serving as the goal for the sake of which lesser goods are to be pursued. Aristotle’s methodology in ethics therefore pays more attention than does Plato’s to the connections that normally obtain between virtue and other goods. That is why he stresses that in this sort of study one must be satisfied with conclusions that hold only for the most part (1094b11–22). Poverty, isolation, and dishonor are normally impediments to the exercise of virtue and therefore to happiness, although there may be special circumstances in which they are not. The possibility of exceptions does not undermine the point that, as a rule, to live well is to have sufficient resources for the pursuit of virtue over the course of a lifetime.

Aristotle distinguishes two kinds of virtue (1103a1–10): those that pertain to the part of the soul that engages in reasoning (virtues of mind or intellect), and those that pertain to the part of the soul that cannot itself reason but is nonetheless capable of following reason (ethical virtues, virtues of character). Intellectual virtues are in turn divided into two sorts: those that pertain to theoretical reasoning, and those that pertain to practical thinking (1139a3–8). He organizes his material by first studying ethical virtue in general, then moving to a discussion of particular ethical virtues (temperance, courage, and so on), and finally completing his survey by considering the intellectual virtues (practical wisdom, theoretical wisdom, etc.).

All free males are born with the potential to become ethically virtuous and practically wise, but to achieve these goals they must go through two stages: during their childhood, they must develop the proper habits; and then, when their reason is fully developed, they must acquire practical wisdom ( phronêsis ). This does not mean that first we fully acquire the ethical virtues, and then, at a later stage, add on practical wisdom. Ethical virtue is fully developed only when it is combined with practical wisdom (1144b14–17). A low-grade form of ethical virtue emerges in us during childhood as we are repeatedly placed in situations that call for appropriate actions and emotions; but as we rely less on others and become capable of doing more of our own thinking, we learn to develop a larger picture of human life, our deliberative skills improve, and our emotional responses are perfected. Like anyone who has developed a skill in performing a complex and difficult activity, the virtuous person takes pleasure in exercising his intellectual skills. Furthermore, when he has decided what to do, he does not have to contend with internal pressures to act otherwise. He does not long to do something that he regards as shameful; and he is not greatly distressed at having to give up a pleasure that he realizes he should forego.

Aristotle places those who suffer from such internal disorders into one of three categories: (A) Some agents, having reached a decision about what to do on a particular occasion, experience some counter-pressure brought on by an appetite for pleasure, or anger, or some other emotion; and this countervailing influence is not completely under the control of reason. (1) Within this category, some are typically better able to resist these counter-rational pressures than is the average person. Such people are not virtuous, although they generally do what a virtuous person does. Aristotle calls them “continent” ( enkratês ). But (2) others are less successful than the average person in resisting these counter-pressures. They are “incontinent” ( akratês ). (The explanation of akrasia is a topic to which we will return in section 7.) In addition, (B) there is a type of agent who refuses even to try to do what an ethically virtuous agent would do, because he has become convinced that justice, temperance, generosity and the like are of little or no value. Such people Aristotle calls evil ( kakos , phaulos ). He assumes that evil people are driven by desires for domination and luxury, and although they are single-minded in their pursuit of these goals, he portrays them as deeply divided, because their pleonexia —their desire for more and more—leaves them dissatisfied and full of self-hatred.

It should be noticed that all three of these deficiencies—continence, incontinence, vice—involve some lack of internal harmony. (Here Aristotle’s debt to Plato is particularly evident, for one of the central ideas of the Republic is that the life of a good person is harmonious, and all other lives deviate to some degree from this ideal.) The evil person may wholeheartedly endorse some evil plan of action at a particular moment, but over the course of time, Aristotle supposes, he will regret his decision, because whatever he does will prove inadequate for the achievement of his goals (1166b5–29). Aristotle assumes that when someone systematically makes bad decisions about how to live his life, his failures are caused by psychological forces that are less than fully rational. His desires for pleasure, power or some other external goal have become so strong that they make him care too little or not at all about acting ethically. To keep such destructive inner forces at bay, we need to develop the proper habits and emotional responses when we are children, and to reflect intelligently on our aims when we are adults. But some vulnerability to these disruptive forces is present even in more-or-less virtuous people; that is why even a good political community needs laws and the threat of punishment. Clear thinking about the best goals of human life and the proper way to put them into practice is a rare achievement, because the human psyche is not a hospitable environment for the development of these insights.

5. The Doctrine of the Mean

Aristotle describes ethical virtue as a “ hexis ” (“state” “condition” “disposition”)—a tendency or disposition, induced by our habits, to have appropriate feelings (1105b25–6). Defective states of character are hexeis (plural of hexis ) as well, but they are tendencies to have inappropriate feelings. The significance of Aristotle’s characterization of these states as hexeis is his decisive rejection of the thesis, found throughout Plato’s early dialogues, that virtue is nothing but a kind of knowledge and vice nothing but a lack of knowledge. Although Aristotle frequently draws analogies between the crafts and the virtues (and similarly between physical health and eudaimonia ), he insists that the virtues differ from the crafts and all branches of knowledge in that the former involve appropriate emotional responses and are not purely intellectual conditions.

Furthermore, every ethical virtue is a condition intermediate (a “golden mean” as it is popularly known) between two other states, one involving excess, and the other deficiency (1106a26–b28). In this respect, Aristotle says, the virtues are no different from technical skills: every skilled worker knows how to avoid excess and deficiency, and is in a condition intermediate between two extremes. The courageous person, for example, judges that some dangers are worth facing and others not, and experiences fear to a degree that is appropriate to his circumstances. He lies between the coward, who flees every danger and experiences excessive fear, and the rash person, who judges every danger worth facing and experiences little or no fear. Aristotle holds that this same topography applies to every ethical virtue: all are located on a map that places the virtues between states of excess and deficiency. He is careful to add, however, that the mean is to be determined in a way that takes into account the particular circumstances of the individual (1106a36–b7). The arithmetic mean between 10 and 2 is 6, and this is so invariably, whatever is being counted. But the intermediate point that is chosen by an expert in any of the crafts will vary from one situation to another. There is no universal rule, for example, about how much food an athlete should eat, and it would be absurd to infer from the fact that 10 lbs. is too much and 2 lbs. too little for me that I should eat 6 lbs. Finding the mean in any given situation is not a mechanical or thoughtless procedure, but requires a full and detailed acquaintance with the circumstances.

It should be evident that Aristotle’s treatment of virtues as mean states endorses the idea that we should sometimes have strong feelings—when such feelings are called for by our situation. Sometimes only a small degree of anger is appropriate; but at other times, circumstances call for great anger. The right amount is not some quantity between zero and the highest possible level, but rather the amount, whatever it happens to be, that is proportionate to the seriousness of the situation. Of course, Aristotle is committed to saying that anger should never reach the point at which it undermines reason; and this means that our passion should always fall short of the extreme point at which we would lose control. But it is possible to be very angry without going to this extreme, and Aristotle does not intend to deny this.

The theory of the mean is open to several objections, but before considering them, we should recognize that in fact there are two distinct theses each of which might be called a doctrine of the mean. First, there is the thesis that every virtue is a state that lies between two vices, one of excess and the other of deficiency. Second, there is the idea that whenever a virtuous person chooses to perform a virtuous act, he can be described as aiming at an act that is in some way or other intermediate between alternatives that he rejects. It is this second thesis that is most likely to be found objectionable. A critic might concede that in some cases virtuous acts can be described in Aristotle’s terms. If, for example, one is trying to decide how much to spend on a wedding present, one is looking for an amount that is neither excessive nor deficient. But surely many other problems that confront a virtuous agent are not susceptible to this quantitative analysis. If one must decide whether to attend a wedding or respect a competing obligation instead, it would not be illuminating to describe this as a search for a mean between extremes—unless “aiming at the mean” simply becomes another phrase for trying to make the right decision. The objection, then, is that Aristotle’s doctrine of the mean, taken as a doctrine about what the ethical agent does when he deliberates, is in many cases inapplicable or unilluminating.

A defense of Aristotle would have to say that the virtuous person does after all aim at a mean, if we allow for a broad enough notion of what sort of aiming is involved. For example, consider a juror who must determine whether a defendant is guilty as charged. He does not have before his mind a quantitative question; he is trying to decide whether the accused committed the crime, and is not looking for some quantity of action intermediate between extremes. Nonetheless, an excellent juror can be described as someone who, in trying to arrive at the correct decision, seeks to express the right degree of concern for all relevant considerations. He searches for the verdict that results from a deliberative process that is neither overly credulous nor unduly skeptical. Similarly, in facing situations that arouse anger, a virtuous agent must determine what action (if any) to take in response to an insult, and although this is not itself a quantitative question, his attempt to answer it properly requires him to have the right degree of concern for his standing as a member of the community. He aims at a mean in the sense that he looks for a response that avoids too much or too little attention to factors that must be taken into account in making a wise decision.

Perhaps a greater difficulty can be raised if we ask how Aristotle determines which emotions are governed by the doctrine of the mean. Consider someone who loves to wrestle, for example. Is this passion something that must be felt by every human being at appropriate times and to the right degree? Surely someone who never felt this emotion to any degree could still live a perfectly happy life. Why then should we not say the same about at least some of the emotions that Aristotle builds into his analysis of the ethically virtuous agent? Why should we experience anger at all, or fear, or the degree of concern for wealth and honor that Aristotle commends? These are precisely the questions that were asked in antiquity by the Stoics, and they came to the conclusion that such common emotions as anger and fear are always inappropriate. Aristotle assumes, on the contrary, not simply that these common passions are sometimes appropriate, but that it is essential that every human being learn how to master them and experience them in the right way at the right times. A defense of his position would have to show that the emotions that figure in his account of the virtues are valuable components of any well-lived human life, when they are experienced properly. Perhaps such a project could be carried out, but Aristotle himself does not attempt to do so.

He often says, in the course of his discussion, that when the good person chooses to act virtuously, he does so for the sake of the “ kalon ”—a word that can mean “beautiful”, “noble”, or “fine” (see for example 1120a23–4). This term indicates that Aristotle sees in ethical activity an attraction that is comparable to the beauty of well-crafted artifacts, including such artifacts as poetry, music, and drama. He draws this analogy in his discussion of the mean, when he says that every craft tries to produce a work from which nothing should be taken away and to which nothing further should be added (1106b5–14). A craft product, when well designed and produced by a good craftsman, is not merely useful, but also has such elements as balance, proportion and harmony—for these are properties that help make it useful. Similarly, Aristotle holds that a well-executed project that expresses the ethical virtues will not merely be advantageous but kalon as well—for the balance it strikes is part of what makes it advantageous. The young person learning to acquire the virtues must develop a love of doing what is kalon and a strong aversion to its opposite—the aischron , the shameful and ugly. Determining what is kalon is difficult (1106b28–33, 1109a24–30), and the normal human aversion to embracing difficulties helps account for the scarcity of virtue (1104b10–11).

It should be clear that neither the thesis that virtues lie between extremes nor the thesis that the good person aims at what is intermediate is intended as a procedure for making decisions. These doctrines of the mean help show what is attractive about the virtues, and they also help systematize our understanding of which qualities are virtues. Once we see that temperance, courage, and other generally recognized characteristics are mean states, we are in a position to generalize and to identify other mean states as virtues, even though they are not qualities for which we have a name. Aristotle remarks, for example, that the mean state with respect to anger has no name in Greek (1125b26–7). Though he is guided to some degree by distinctions captured by ordinary terms, his methodology allows him to recognize states for which no names exist.

So far from offering a decision procedure, Aristotle insists that this is something that no ethical theory can do. His theory elucidates the nature of virtue, but what must be done on any particular occasion by a virtuous agent depends on the circumstances, and these vary so much from one occasion to another that there is no possibility of stating a series of rules, however complicated, that collectively solve every practical problem. This feature of ethical theory is not unique; Aristotle thinks it applies to many crafts, such as medicine and navigation (1104a7–10). He says that the virtuous person “sees the truth in each case, being as it were a standard and measure of them” (1113a32–3); but this appeal to the good person’s vision should not be taken to mean that he has an inarticulate and incommunicable insight into the truth. Aristotle thinks of the good person as someone who is good at deliberation, and he describes deliberation as a process of rational inquiry. The intermediate point that the good person tries to find is

determined by logos (“reason”, “account”) and in the way that the person of practical reason would determine it. (1107a1–2)

To say that such a person “sees” what to do is simply a way of registering the point that the good person’s reasoning does succeed in discovering what is best in each situation. He is “as it were a standard and measure” in the sense that his views should be regarded as authoritative by other members of the community. A standard or measure is something that settles disputes; and because good people are so skilled at discovering the mean in difficult cases, their advice must be sought and heeded.

Although there is no possibility of writing a book of rules, however long, that will serve as a complete guide to wise decision-making, it would be a mistake to attribute to Aristotle the opposite position, namely that every purported rule admits of exceptions, so that even a small rule-book that applies to a limited number of situations is an impossibility. He makes it clear that certain emotions (spite, shamelessness, envy) and actions (adultery, theft, murder) are always wrong, regardless of the circumstances (1107a8–12). Although he says that the names of these emotions and actions convey their wrongness, he should not be taken to mean that their wrongness derives from linguistic usage. He defends the family as a social institution against the criticisms of Plato ( Politics II.3–4), and so when he says that adultery is always wrong, he is prepared to argue for his point by explaining why marriage is a valuable custom and why extra-marital intercourse undermines the relationship between husband and wife. He is not making the tautological claim that wrongful sexual activity is wrong, but the more specific and contentious point that marriages ought to be governed by a rule of strict fidelity. Similarly, when he says that murder and theft are always wrong, he does not mean that wrongful killing and taking are wrong, but that the current system of laws regarding these matters ought to be strictly enforced. So, although Aristotle holds that ethics cannot be reduced to a system of rules, however complex, he insists that some rules are inviolable.

We have seen that the decisions of a practically wise person are not mere intuitions, but can be justified by a chain of reasoning. (This is why Aristotle often talks in term of a practical syllogism, with a major premise that identifies some good to be achieved, and a minor premise that locates the good in some present-to-hand situation.) At the same time, he is acutely aware of the fact that reasoning can always be traced back to a starting point that is not itself justified by further reasoning. Neither good theoretical reasoning nor good practical reasoning moves in a circle; true thinking always presupposes and progresses in linear fashion from proper starting points. And that leads him to ask for an account of how the proper starting points of reasoning are to be determined. Practical reasoning always presupposes that one has some end, some goal one is trying to achieve; and the task of reasoning is to determine how that goal is to be accomplished. (This need not be means-end reasoning in the conventional sense; if, for example, our goal is the just resolution of a conflict, we must determine what constitutes justice in these particular circumstances. Here we are engaged in ethical inquiry, and are not asking a purely instrumental question.) But if practical reasoning is correct only if it begins from a correct premise, what is it that insures the correctness of its starting point?

Aristotle replies: “Virtue makes the goal right, practical wisdom the things leading to it” (1144a7–8). By this he cannot mean that there is no room for reasoning about our ultimate end. For as we have seen, he gives a reasoned defense of his conception of happiness as virtuous activity. What he must have in mind, when he says that virtue makes the goal right, is that deliberation typically proceeds from a goal that is far more specific than the goal of attaining happiness by acting virtuously. To be sure, there may be occasions when a good person approaches an ethical problem by beginning with the premise that happiness consists in virtuous activity. But more often what happens is that a concrete goal presents itself as his starting point—helping a friend in need, or supporting a worthwhile civic project. Which specific project we set for ourselves is determined by our character. A good person starts from worthwhile concrete ends because his habits and emotional orientation have given him the ability to recognize that such goals are within reach, here and now. Those who are defective in character may have the rational skill needed to achieve their ends—the skill Aristotle calls cleverness (1144a23–8)—but often the ends they seek are worthless. The cause of this deficiency lies not in some impairment in their capacity to reason—for we are assuming that they are normal in this respect—but in the training of their passions.

Since Aristotle often calls attention to the imprecision of ethical theory (see e.g. 1104a1–7), it comes as a surprise to many readers of the Ethics that he begins Book VI with the admission that his earlier statements about the mean need supplementation because they are not yet clear ( saphes ). In every practical discipline, the expert aims at a mark and uses right reason to avoid the twin extremes of excess and deficiency. But what is this right reason, and by what standard ( horos ) is it to be determined? Aristotle says that unless we answer that question, we will be none the wiser—just as a student of medicine will have failed to master his subject if he can only say that the right medicines to administer are the ones that are prescribed by medical expertise, but has no standard other than this (1138b18–34).

It is not easy to understand the point Aristotle is making here. Has he not already told us that there can be no complete theoretical guide to ethics, that the best one can hope for is that in particular situations one’s ethical habits and practical wisdom will help one determine what to do? Furthermore, Aristotle nowhere announces, in the remainder of Book VI, that we have achieved the greater degree of accuracy that he seems to be looking for. The rest of this Book is a discussion of the various kinds of intellectual virtues: theoretical wisdom, science ( epistêmê ), intuitive understanding ( nous ), practical wisdom, and craft expertise. Aristotle explains what each of these states of mind is, draws various contrasts among them, and takes up various questions that can be raised about their usefulness. At no point does he explicitly return to the question he raised at the beginning of Book VI; he never says, “and now we have the standard of right reason that we were looking for”. Nor is it easy to see how his discussion of these five intellectual virtues can bring greater precision to the doctrine of the mean.

We can make some progress towards solving this problem if we remind ourselves that at the beginning of the Ethics , Aristotle describes his inquiry as an attempt to develop a better understanding of what our ultimate aim should be. The sketchy answer he gives in Book I is that happiness consists in virtuous activity. In Books II through V, he describes the virtues of the part of the soul that is rational in that it can be attentive to reason, even though it is not capable of deliberating. But precisely because these virtues are rational only in this derivative way, they are a less important component of our ultimate end than is the intellectual virtue—practical wisdom—with which they are integrated. If what we know about virtue is only what is said in Books II through V, then our grasp of our ultimate end is radically incomplete, because we still have not studied the intellectual virtue that enables us to reason well in any given situation. One of the things, at least, towards which Aristotle is gesturing, as he begins Book VI, is practical wisdom. This state of mind has not yet been analyzed, and that is one reason why he complains that his account of our ultimate end is not yet clear enough.

But is practical wisdom the only ingredient of our ultimate end that has not yet been sufficiently discussed? Book VI discusses five intellectual virtues, not just practical wisdom, but it is clear that at least one of these—craft knowledge—is considered only in order to provide a contrast with the others. Aristotle is not recommending that his readers make this intellectual virtue part of their ultimate aim. But what of the remaining three: science, intuitive understanding, and the virtue that combines them, theoretical wisdom? Are these present in Book VI only in order to provide a contrast with practical wisdom, or is Aristotle saying that these too must be components of our goal? He does not fully address this issue, but it is evident from several of his remarks in Book VI that he takes theoretical wisdom to be a more valuable state of mind than practical wisdom.

It is strange if someone thinks that politics or practical wisdom is the most excellent kind of knowledge, unless man is the best thing in the cosmos. (1141a20–22)

He says that theoretical wisdom produces happiness by being a part of virtue (1144a3–6), and that practical wisdom looks to the development of theoretical wisdom, and issues commands for its sake (1145a8–11). So it is clear that exercising theoretical wisdom is a more important component of our ultimate goal than practical wisdom.

Even so, it may still seem perplexing that these two intellectual virtues, either separately or collectively, should somehow fill a gap in the doctrine of the mean. Having read Book VI and completed our study of what these two forms of wisdom are, how are we better able to succeed in finding the mean in particular situations?

The answer to this question may be that Aristotle does not intend Book VI to provide a full answer to that question, but rather to serve as a prolegomenon to an answer. For it is only near the end of Book X that he presents a full discussion of the relative merits of these two kinds of intellectual virtue, and comments on the different degrees to which each needs to be provided with resources. In X.7–8, he argues that the happiest kind of life is that of a philosopher—someone who exercises, over a long period of time, the virtue of theoretical wisdom, and has sufficient resources for doing so. (We will discuss these chapters more fully in section 10 below.) One of his reasons for thinking that such a life is superior to the second-best kind of life—that of a political leader, someone who devotes himself to the exercise of practical rather than theoretical wisdom—is that it requires less external equipment (1178a23–b7). Aristotle has already made it clear in his discussion of the ethical virtues that someone who is greatly honored by his community and commands large financial resources is in a position to exercise a higher order of ethical virtue than is someone who receives few honors and has little property. The virtue of magnificence is superior to mere liberality, and similarly greatness of soul is a higher excellence than the ordinary virtue that has to do with honor. (These qualities are discussed in IV.1–4.) The grandest expression of ethical virtue requires great political power, because it is the political leader who is in a position to do the greatest amount of good for the community. The person who chooses to lead a political life, and who aims at the fullest expression of practical wisdom, has a standard for deciding what level of resources he needs: he should have friends, property, and honors in sufficient quantities to allow his practical wisdom to express itself without impediment. But if one chooses instead the life of a philosopher, then one will look to a different standard—the fullest expression of theoretical wisdom—and one will need a smaller supply of these resources.

This enables us to see how Aristotle’s treatment of the intellectual virtues does give greater content and precision to the doctrine of the mean. The best standard is the one adopted by the philosopher; the second-best is the one adopted by the political leader. In either case, it is the exercise of an intellectual virtue that provides a guideline for making important quantitative decisions. This supplement to the doctrine of the mean is fully compatible with Aristotle’s thesis that no set of rules, no matter how long and detailed, obviates the need for deliberative and ethical virtue. If one chooses the life of a philosopher, one should keep the level of one’s resources high enough to secure the leisure necessary for such a life, but not so high that one’s external equipment becomes a burden and a distraction rather than an aid to living well. That gives one a firmer idea of how to hit the mean, but it still leaves the details to be worked out. The philosopher will need to determine, in particular situations, where justice lies, how to spend wisely, when to meet or avoid a danger, and so on. All of the normal difficulties of ethical life remain, and they can be solved only by means of a detailed understanding of the particulars of each situation. Having philosophy as one’s ultimate aim does not put an end to the need for developing and exercising practical wisdom and the ethical virtues.

In VII.1–10 Aristotle investigates character traits—continence and incontinence—that are not as blameworthy as the vices but not as praiseworthy as the virtues. (We began our discussion of these qualities in section 4.) The Greek terms are akrasia (“incontinence”; literally: “lack of mastery”) and enkrateia (“continence”; literally “mastery”). An akratic person goes against reason as a result of some pathos (“emotion”, “feeling”). Like the akratic, an enkratic person experiences a feeling that is contrary to reason; but unlike the akratic, he acts in accordance with reason. His defect consists solely in the fact that, more than most people, he experiences passions that conflict with his rational choice. The akratic person has not only this defect, but has the further flaw that he gives in to feeling rather than reason more often than the average person.

Aristotle distinguishes two kinds of akrasia: impetuosity ( propeteia ) and weakness ( astheneia ). The person who is weak goes through a process of deliberation and makes a choice; but rather than act in accordance with his reasoned choice, he acts under the influence of a passion. By contrast, the impetuous person does not go through a process of deliberation and does not make a reasoned choice; he simply acts under the influence of a passion. At the time of action, the impetuous person experiences no internal conflict. But once his act has been completed, he regrets what he has done. One could say that he deliberates, if deliberation were something that post-dated rather than preceded action; but the thought process he goes through after he acts comes too late to save him from error.

It is important to bear in mind that when Aristotle talks about impetuosity and weakness, he is discussing chronic conditions. The impetuous person is someone who acts emotionally and fails to deliberate not just once or twice but with some frequency; he makes this error more than most people do. Because of this pattern in his actions, we would be justified in saying of the impetuous person that had his passions not prevented him from doing so, he would have deliberated and chosen an action different from the one he did perform.

The two kinds of passions that Aristotle focuses on, in his treatment of akrasia , are the appetite for pleasure and anger. Either can lead to impetuosity and weakness. But Aristotle gives pride of place to the appetite for pleasure as the passion that undermines reason. He calls the kind of akrasia caused by an appetite for pleasure “unqualified akrasia ”—or, as we might say, akrasia “full stop”; akrasia caused by anger he considers a qualified form of akrasia and calls it akrasia “with respect to anger”. We thus have these four forms of akrasia : (A) impetuosity caused by pleasure, (B) impetuosity caused by anger, (C) weakness caused by pleasure (D) weakness caused by anger. It should be noticed that Aristotle’s treatment of akrasia is heavily influenced by Plato’s tripartite division of the soul in the Republic . Plato holds that either the spirited part (which houses anger, as well as other emotions) or the appetitive part (which houses the desire for physical pleasures) can disrupt the dictates of reason and result in action contrary to reason. The same threefold division of the soul can be seen in Aristotle’s approach to this topic.

Although Aristotle characterizes akrasia and enkrateia in terms of a conflict between reason and feeling, his detailed analysis of these states of mind shows that what takes place is best described in a more complicated way. For the feeling that undermines reason contains some thought, which may be implicitly general. As Aristotle says, anger “reasoning as it were that one must fight against such a thing, is immediately provoked” (1149a33–4). And although in the next sentence he denies that our appetite for pleasure works in this way, he earlier had said that there can be a syllogism that favors pursuing enjoyment: “Everything sweet is pleasant, and this is sweet” leads to the pursuit of a particular pleasure (1147a31–30). Perhaps what he has in mind is that pleasure can operate in either way: it can prompt action unmediated by a general premise, or it can prompt us to act on such a syllogism. By contrast, anger always moves us by presenting itself as a bit of general, although hasty, reasoning.

But of course Aristotle does not mean that a conflicted person has more than one faculty of reason. Rather his idea seems to be that in addition to our full-fledged reasoning capacity, we also have psychological mechanisms that are capable of a limited range of reasoning. When feeling conflicts with reason, what occurs is better described as a fight between feeling-allied-with-limited-reasoning and full-fledged reason. Part of us—reason—can remove itself from the distorting influence of feeling and consider all relevant factors, positive and negative. But another part of us—feeling or emotion—has a more limited field of reasoning—and sometimes it does not even make use of it.

Although “passion” is sometimes used as a translation of Aristotle’s word pathos (other alternatives are “emotion” and “feeling”), it is important to bear in mind that his term does not necessarily designate a strong psychological force. Anger is a pathos whether it is weak or strong; so too is the appetite for bodily pleasures. And he clearly indicates that it is possible for an akratic person to be defeated by a weak pathos —the kind that most people would easily be able to control (1150a9–b16). So the general explanation for the occurrence of akrasia cannot be that the strength of a passion overwhelms reason. Aristotle should therefore be acquitted of an accusation made against him by J.L. Austin in a well-known footnote to his paper, “A Plea For Excuses”. Plato and Aristotle, he says, collapsed all succumbing to temptation into losing control of ourselves—a mistake illustrated by this example:

I am very partial to ice cream, and a bombe is served divided into segments corresponding one to one with the persons at High Table: I am tempted to help myself to two segments and do so, thus succumbing to temptation and even conceivably (but why necessarily?) going against my principles. But do I lose control of myself? Do I raven, do I snatch the morsels from the dish and wolf them down, impervious to the consternation of my colleagues? Not a bit of it. We often succumb to temptation with calm and even with finesse. (1957: 24, fn 13 [1961: 146])

With this, Aristotle can agree: the pathos for the bombe can be a weak one, and in some people that will be enough to get them to act in a way that is disapproved by their reason at the very time of action.

What is most remarkable about Aristotle’s discussion of akrasia is that he defends a position close to that of Socrates. When he first introduces the topic of akrasia , and surveys some of the problems involved in understanding this phenomenon, he says (1145b25–8) that Socrates held that there is no akrasia , and he describes this as a thesis that clearly conflicts with the appearances ( phainomena ). Since he says that his goal is to preserve as many of the appearances as possible (1145b2–7), it may come as a surprise that when he analyzes the conflict between reason and feeling, he arrives at the conclusion that in a way Socrates was right after all (1147b13–17). For, he says, the person who acts against reason does not have what is thought to be unqualified knowledge; in a way he has knowledge, but in a way does not.

Aristotle explains what he has in mind by comparing akrasia to the condition of other people who might be described as knowing in a way, but not in an unqualified way. His examples are people who are asleep, mad, or drunk; he also compares the akratic to a student who has just begun to learn a subject, or an actor on the stage (1147a10–24). All of these people, he says, can utter the very words used by those who have knowledge; but their talk does not prove that they really have knowledge, strictly speaking.

These analogies can be taken to mean that the form of akrasia that Aristotle calls weakness rather than impetuosity always results from some diminution of cognitive or intellectual acuity at the moment of action. The akratic says, at the time of action, that he ought not to indulge in this particular pleasure at this time. But does he know or even believe that he should refrain? Aristotle might be taken to reply: yes and no. He has some degree of recognition that he must not do this now, but not full recognition. His feeling, even if it is weak, has to some degree prevented him from completely grasping or affirming the point that he should not do this. And so in a way Socrates was right. When reason remains unimpaired and unclouded, its dictates will carry us all the way to action, so long as we are able to act.

But Aristotle’s agreement with Socrates is only partial, because he insists on the power of the emotions to rival, weaken or bypass reason. Emotion challenges reason in all three of these ways. In both the akratic and the enkratic, it competes with reason for control over action; even when reason wins, it faces the difficult task of having to struggle with an internal rival. Second, in the akratic, it temporarily robs reason of its full acuity, thus handicapping it as a competitor. It is not merely a rival force, in these cases; it is a force that keeps reason from fully exercising its power. And third, passion can make someone impetuous; here its victory over reason is so powerful that the latter does not even enter into the arena of conscious reflection until it is too late to influence action.

Supplementary Document: Alternate Readings of Aristotle on Akrasia

Aristotle frequently emphasizes the importance of pleasure to human life and therefore to his study of how we should live (see for example 1099a7–20 and 1104b3–1105a16), but his full-scale examination of the nature and value of pleasure is found in two places: VII.11–14 and X.1–5. It is odd that pleasure receives two lengthy treatments; no other topic in the Ethics is revisited in this way. Book VII of the Nicomachean Ethics is identical to Book VI of the Eudemian Ethics ; for unknown reasons, the editor of the former decided to include within it both the treatment of pleasure that is unique to that work (X.1–5) and the study that is common to both treatises (VII.11–14). The two accounts are broadly similar. They agree about the value of pleasure, defend a theory about its nature, and oppose competing theories. Aristotle holds that a happy life must include pleasure, and he therefore opposes those who argue that pleasure is by its nature bad. He insists that there are other pleasures besides those of the senses, and that the best pleasures are the ones experienced by virtuous people who have sufficient resources for excellent activity.

Book VII offers a brief account of what pleasure is and is not. It is not a process but an unimpeded activity of a natural state (1153a7–17). Aristotle does not elaborate on what a natural state is, but he obviously has in mind the healthy condition of the body, especially its sense faculties, and the virtuous condition of the soul. Little is said about what it is for an activity to be unimpeded, but Aristotle does remind us that virtuous activity is impeded by the absence of a sufficient supply of external goods (1153b17–19). One might object that people who are sick or who have moral deficiencies can experience pleasure, even though Aristotle does not take them to be in a natural state. He has two strategies for responding. First, when a sick person experiences some degree of pleasure as he is being restored to health, the pleasure he is feeling is caused by the fact that he is no longer completely ill. Some small part of him is in a natural state and is acting without impediment (1152b35–6). Second, Aristotle is willing to say that what seems pleasant to some people may in fact not be pleasant (1152b31–2), just as what tastes bitter to an unhealthy palate may not be bitter. To call something a pleasure is not only to report a state of mind but also to endorse it to others. Aristotle’s analysis of the nature of pleasure is not meant to apply to every case in which something seems pleasant to someone, but only to activities that really are pleasures. All of these are unimpeded activities of a natural state.

It follows from this conception of pleasure that every instance of pleasure must be good to some extent. For how could an unimpeded activity of a natural state be bad or a matter of indifference? On the other hand, Aristotle does not mean to imply that every pleasure should be chosen. He briefly mentions the point that pleasures compete with each other, so that the enjoyment of one kind of activity impedes other activities that cannot be carried out at the same time (1153a20–22). His point is simply that although some pleasures may be good, they are not worth choosing when they interfere with other activities that are far better. This point is developed more fully in Ethics X.5.

Furthermore, Aristotle’s analysis allows him to speak of certain pleasures as “bad without qualification” (1152b26–33), even though pleasure is the unimpeded activity of a natural state. To call a pleasure “bad without qualification” is to insist that it should be avoided, but allow that nonetheless it should be chosen in constraining circumstances. The pleasure of recovering from an illness, for example, is bad without qualification—meaning that it is not one of the pleasures one would ideally choose, if one could completely control one’s circumstances. Although it really is a pleasure and so something can be said in its favor, it is so inferior to other goods that ideally one ought to forego it. Nonetheless, it is a pleasure worth having—if one adds the qualification that it is only worth having in undesirable circumstances. The pleasure of recovering from an illness is good, because some small part of oneself is in a natural state and is acting without impediment; but it can also be called bad, if what one means by this is that one should avoid getting into a situation in which one experiences that pleasure.

Aristotle indicates several times in VII.11–14 that merely to say that pleasure is a good does not do it enough justice; he also wants to say that the highest good is a pleasure. Here he is influenced by an idea expressed in the opening line of the Ethics : the good is that at which all things aim. In VII.13, he hints at the idea that all living things imitate the contemplative activity of god (1153b31–2). Plants and non-human animals seek to reproduce themselves because that is their way of participating in an unending series, and this is the closest they can come to the ceaseless thinking of the unmoved mover. Aristotle makes this point in several of his works (see for example De Anima 415a23–b7), and in Ethics X.7–8 he gives a full defense of the idea that the happiest human life resembles the life of a divine being. He conceives of god as a being who continually enjoys a “single and simple pleasure” (1154b26)—the pleasure of pure thought—whereas human beings, because of their complexity, grow weary of whatever they do. He will elaborate on these points in X.8; in VII.11–14, he appeals to his conception of divine activity only in order to defend the thesis that our highest good consists in a certain kind of pleasure. Human happiness does not consist in every kind of pleasure, but it does consist in one kind of pleasure—the pleasure felt by a human being who engages in theoretical activity and thereby imitates the pleasurable thinking of god.

Book X offers a much more elaborate account of what pleasure is and what it is not. It is not a process, because processes go through developmental stages: building a temple is a process because the temple is not present all at once, but only comes into being through stages that unfold over time. By contrast, pleasure, like seeing and many other activities, is not something that comes into existence through a developmental process. If I am enjoying a conversation, for example, I do not need to wait until it is finished in order to feel pleased; I take pleasure in the activity all along the way. The defining nature of pleasure is that it is an activity that accompanies other activities, and in some sense brings them to completion. Pleasure occurs when something within us, having been brought into good condition, is activated in relation to an external object that is also in good condition. The pleasure of drawing, for example, requires both the development of drawing ability and an object of attention that is worth drawing.

The conception of pleasure that Aristotle develops in Book X is obviously closely related to the analysis he gives in Book VII. But the theory proposed in the later Book brings out a point that had received too little attention earlier: pleasure is by its nature something that accompanies something else. It is not enough to say that it is what happens when we are in good condition and are active in unimpeded circumstances; one must add to that point the further idea that pleasure plays a certain role in complementing something other than itself. Drawing well and the pleasure of drawing well always occur together, and so they are easy to confuse, but Aristotle’s analysis in Book X emphasizes the importance of making this distinction.

He says that pleasure completes the activity that it accompanies, but then adds, mysteriously, that it completes the activity in the manner of an end that is added on. In the translation of W.D. Ross, it “supervenes as the bloom of youth does on those in the flower of their age” (1174b33). It is unclear what thought is being expressed here, but perhaps Aristotle is merely trying to avoid a possible misunderstanding: when he says that pleasure completes an activity, he does not mean that the activity it accompanies is in some way defective, and that the pleasure improves the activity by removing this defect. Aristotle’s language is open to that misinterpretation because the verb that is translated “complete” ( teleein ) can also mean “perfect”. The latter might be taken to mean that the activity accompanied by pleasure has not yet reached a sufficiently high level of excellence, and that the role of pleasure is to bring it to the point of perfection. Aristotle does not deny that when we take pleasure in an activity we get better at it, but when he says that pleasure completes an activity by supervening on it, like the bloom that accompanies those who have achieved the highest point of physical beauty, his point is that the activity complemented by pleasure is already perfect, and the pleasure that accompanies it is a bonus that serves no further purpose. Taking pleasure in an activity does help us improve at it, but enjoyment does not cease when perfection is achieved—on the contrary, that is when pleasure is at its peak. That is when it reveals most fully what it is: an added bonus that crowns our achievement.

It is clear, at any rate, that in Book X Aristotle gives a fuller account of what pleasure is than he had in Book VII. We should take note of a further difference between these two discussions: In Book X, he makes the point that pleasure is a good but not the good. He cites and endorses an argument given by Plato in the Philebus : If we imagine a life filled with pleasure and then mentally add wisdom to it, the result is made more desirable. But the good is something that cannot be improved upon in this way. Therefore pleasure is not the good (1172b23–35). By contrast, in Book VII Aristotle strongly implies that the pleasure of contemplation is the good, because in one way or another all living beings aim at this sort of pleasure. Aristotle observes in Book X that what all things aim at is good (1172b35–1173a1); significantly, he falls short of endorsing the argument that since all aim at pleasure, it must be the good.

Book VII makes the point that pleasures interfere with each other, and so even if all kinds of pleasures are good, it does not follow that all of them are worth choosing. One must make a selection among pleasures by determining which are better. But how is one to make this choice? Book VII does not say, but in Book X, Aristotle holds that the selection of pleasures is not to be made with reference to pleasure itself, but with reference to the activities they accompany.

Since activities differ with respect to goodness and badness, some being worth choosing, others worth avoiding, and others neither, the same is true of pleasures as well. (1175b24–6)

Aristotle’s statement implies that in order to determine whether (for example) the pleasure of virtuous activity is more desirable than that of eating, we are not to attend to the pleasures themselves but to the activities with which we are pleased. A pleasure’s goodness derives from the goodness of its associated activity. And surely the reason why pleasure is not the criterion to which we should look in making these decisions is that it is not the good. The standard we should use in making comparisons between rival options is virtuous activity, because that has been shown to be identical to happiness.

That is why Aristotle says that what is judged pleasant by a good man really is pleasant, because the good man is the measure of things (1176a15–19). He does not mean that the way to lead our lives is to search for a good man and continually rely on him to tell us what is pleasurable. Rather, his point is that there is no way of telling what is genuinely pleasurable (and therefore what is most pleasurable) unless we already have some other standard of value. Aristotle’s discussion of pleasure thus helps confirm his initial hypothesis that to live our lives well we must focus on one sort of good above all others: virtuous activity. It is the good in terms of which all other goods must be understood. Aristotle’s analysis of friendship supports the same conclusion.

The topic of Books VIII and IX of the Ethics is friendship. Although it is difficult to avoid the term “friendship” as a translation of “ philia ”, and this is an accurate term for the kind of relationship he is most interested in, we should bear in mind that he is discussing a wider range of phenomena than this translation might lead us to expect, for the Greeks use the term, “ philia ”, to name the relationship that holds among family members, and do not reserve it for voluntary relationships. Although Aristotle is interested in classifying the different forms that friendship takes, his main theme in Books VIII and IX is to show the close relationship between virtuous activity and friendship. He is vindicating his conception of happiness as virtuous activity by showing how satisfying are the relationships that a virtuous person can normally expect to have.

His taxonomy begins with the premise that there are three main reasons why one person might like someone else. (The verb, “ philein ”, which is cognate to the noun “ philia ”, can sometimes be translated “like” or even “love”—though in other cases philia involves very little in the way of feeling.) One might like someone because he is good, or because he is useful, or because he is pleasant. And so there are three bases for friendships, depending on which of these qualities binds friends together. When two individuals recognize that the other person is someone of good character, and they spend time with each other, engaged in activities that exercise their virtues, then they form one kind of friendship. If they are equally virtuous, their friendship is perfect. If, however, there is a large gap in their moral development (as between a parent and a small child, or between a husband and a wife), then although their relationship may be based on the other person’s good character, it will be imperfect precisely because of their inequality.

The imperfect friendships that Aristotle focuses on, however, are not unequal relationships based on good character. Rather, they are relationships held together because each individual regards the other as the source of some advantage to himself or some pleasure he receives. When Aristotle calls these relationships “imperfect”, he is tacitly relying on widely accepted assumptions about what makes a relationship satisfying. These friendships are defective, and have a smaller claim to be called “friendships”, because the individuals involved have little trust in each other, quarrel frequently, and are ready to break off their association abruptly. Aristotle does not mean to suggest that unequal relations based on the mutual recognition of good character are defective in these same ways. Rather, when he says that unequal relationships based on character are imperfect, his point is that people are friends in the fullest sense when they gladly spend their days together in shared activities, and this close and constant interaction is less available to those who are not equal in their moral development.

When Aristotle begins his discussion of friendship, he introduces a notion that is central to his understanding of this phenomenon: a genuine friend is someone who loves or likes another person for the sake of that other person. Wanting what is good for the sake of another he calls “good will” ( eunoia ), and friendship is reciprocal good will, provided that each recognizes the presence of this attitude in the other. Does such good will exist in all three kinds of friendship, or is it confined to relationships based on virtue? At first, Aristotle leaves open the first of these two possibilities. He says:

it is necessary that friends bear good will to each other and wish good things for each other, without this escaping their notice, because of one of the reasons mentioned. (1156a4–5)

The reasons mentioned are goodness, pleasure, and advantage; and so it seems that Aristotle is leaving room for the idea that in all three kinds of friendships, even those based on advantage and pleasure alone, the individuals wish each other well for the sake of the other.

But in fact, as Aristotle continues to develop his taxonomy, he does not choose to exploit this possibility. He speaks as though it is only in friendships based on character that one finds a desire to benefit the other person for the sake of the other person.

Those who wish good things to their friends for the sake of the latter are friends most of all, because they do so because of their friends themselves, and not coincidentally. (1156b9–11)

When one benefits someone not because of the kind of person he is, but only because of the advantages to oneself, then, Aristotle says, one is not a friend towards the other person, but only towards the profit that comes one’s way (1157a15–16).

In such statements as these, Aristotle comes rather close to saying that relationships based on profit or pleasure should not be called friendships at all. But he decides to stay close to common parlance and to use the term “friend” loosely. Friendships based on character are the ones in which each person benefits the other for the sake of other; and these are friendships most of all. Because each party benefits the other, it is advantageous to form such friendships. And since each enjoys the trust and companionship of the other, there is considerable pleasure in these relationships as well. Because these perfect friendships produce advantages and pleasures for each of the parties, there is some basis for going along with common usage and calling any relationship entered into for the sake of just one of these goods a friendship. Friendships based on advantage alone or pleasure alone deserve to be called friendships because in full-fledged friendships these two properties, advantage and pleasure, are present. It is striking that in the Ethics Aristotle never thinks of saying that the uniting factor in all friendships is the desire each friend has for the good of the other.

Aristotle does not raise questions about what it is to desire good for the sake of another person. He treats this as an easily understood phenomenon, and has no doubts about its existence. But it is also clear that he takes this motive to be compatible with a love of one’s own good and a desire for one’s own happiness. Someone who has practical wisdom will recognize that he needs friends and other resources in order to exercise his virtues over a long period of time. When he makes friends, and benefits friends he has made, he will be aware of the fact that such a relationship is good for him. And yet to have a friend is to want to benefit someone for that other person’s sake; it is not a merely self-interested strategy. Aristotle sees no difficulty here, and rightly so. For there is no reason why acts of friendship should not be undertaken partly for the good of one’s friend and partly for one’s own good. Acting for the sake of another does not in itself demand self-sacrifice. It requires caring about someone other than oneself, but does not demand some loss of care for oneself. For when we know how to benefit a friend for his sake, we exercise the ethical virtues, and this is precisely what our happiness consists in.

Aristotle makes it clear that the number of people with whom one can sustain the kind of relationship he calls a perfect friendship is quite small (IX.10). Even if one lived in a city populated entirely by perfectly virtuous citizens, the number with whom one could carry on a friendship of the perfect type would be at most a handful. For he thinks that this kind of friendship can exist only when one spends a great deal of time with the other person, participating in joint activities and engaging in mutually beneficial behavior; and one cannot cooperate on these close terms with every member of the political community. One may well ask why this kind of close friendship is necessary for happiness. If one lived in a community filled with good people, and cooperated on an occasional basis with each of them, in a spirit of good will and admiration, would that not provide sufficient scope for virtuous activity and a well-lived life? Admittedly, close friends are often in a better position to benefit each other than are fellow citizens, who generally have little knowledge of one’s individual circumstances. But this only shows that it is advantageous to be on the receiving end of a friend’s help. The more important question for Aristotle is why one needs to be on the giving end of this relationship. And obviously the answer cannot be that one needs to give in order to receive; that would turn active love for one’s friend into a mere means to the benefits received.

Aristotle attempts to answer this question in IX.11, but his treatment is disappointing. His fullest argument depends crucially on the notion that a friend is “another self”, someone, in other words, with whom one has a relationship very similar to the relationship one has with oneself. A virtuous person loves the recognition of himself as virtuous; to have a close friend is to possess yet another person, besides oneself, whose virtue one can recognize at extremely close quarters; and so, it must be desirable to have someone very much like oneself whose virtuous activity one can perceive. The argument is unconvincing because it does not explain why the perception of virtuous activity in fellow citizens would not be an adequate substitute for the perception of virtue in one’s friends.

Aristotle would be on stronger grounds if he could show that in the absence of close friends one would be severely restricted in the kinds of virtuous activities one could undertake. But he cannot present such an argument, because he does not believe it. He says that it is “finer and more godlike” to bring about the well being of a whole city than to sustain the happiness of just one person (1094b7–10). He refuses to regard private life—the realm of the household and the small circle of one’s friends—as the best or most favorable location for the exercise of virtue. He is convinced that the loss of this private sphere would greatly detract from a well-lived life, but he is hard put to explain why. He might have done better to focus on the benefits of being the object of a close friend’s solicitude. Just as property is ill cared for when it is owned by all, and just as a child would be poorly nurtured were he to receive no special parental care—points Aristotle makes in Politics II.2–5—so in the absence of friendship we would lose a benefit that could not be replaced by the care of the larger community. But Aristotle is not looking for a defense of this sort, because he conceives of friendship as lying primarily in activity rather than receptivity. It is difficult, within his framework, to show that virtuous activity towards a friend is a uniquely important good.

Since Aristotle thinks that the pursuit of one’s own happiness, properly understood, requires ethically virtuous activity and will therefore be of great value not only to one’s friends but to the larger political community as well, he argues that self-love is an entirely proper emotion—provided it is expressed in the love of virtue (IX.8). Self-love is rightly condemned when it consists in the pursuit of as large a share of external goods—particularly wealth and power—as one can acquire, because such self-love inevitably brings one into conflict with others and undermines the stability of the political community. It may be tempting to cast Aristotle’s defense of self-love into modern terms by calling him an egoist, and “egoism” is a broad enough term so that, properly defined, it can be made to fit Aristotle’s ethical outlook. If egoism is the thesis that one will always act rightly if one consults one’s self-interest, properly understood, then nothing would be amiss in identifying him as an egoist.

But egoism is sometimes understood in a stronger sense. Just as consequentialism is the thesis that one should maximize the general good, whatever the good turns out to be, so egoism can be defined as the parallel thesis that one should maximize one’s own good, whatever the good turns out to be. Egoism, in other words, can be treated as a purely formal thesis: it holds that whether the good is pleasure, or virtue, or the satisfaction of desires, one should not attempt to maximize the total amount of good in the world, but only one’s own. When egoism takes this abstract form, it is an expression of the idea that the claims of others are never worth attending to, unless in some way or other their good can be shown to serve one’s own. The only underived reason for action is self-interest; that an act helps another does not by itself provide a reason for performing it, unless some connection can be made between the good of that other and one’s own.

There is no reason to attribute this extreme form of egoism to Aristotle. On the contrary, his defense of self-love makes it clear that he is not willing to defend the bare idea that one ought to love oneself alone or above others; he defends self-love only when this emotion is tied to the correct theory of where one’s good lies, for it is only in this way that he can show that self-love need not be a destructive passion. He takes it for granted that self-love is properly condemned whenever it can be shown to be harmful to the community. It is praiseworthy only if it can be shown that a self-lover will be an admirable citizen. In making this assumption, Aristotle reveals that he thinks that the claims of other members of the community to proper treatment are intrinsically valid. This is precisely what a strong form of egoism cannot accept.

We should also keep in mind Aristotle’s statement in the Politics that the political community is prior to the individual citizen—just as the whole body is prior to any of its parts (1253a18–29). Aristotle makes use of this claim when he proposes that in the ideal community each child should receive the same education, and that the responsibility for providing such an education should be taken out of the hands of private individuals and made a matter of common concern (1337a21–7). No citizen, he says, belongs to himself; all belong to the city (1337a28–9). What he means is that when it comes to such matters as education, which affect the good of all, each individual should be guided by the collective decisions of the whole community. An individual citizen does not belong to himself, in the sense that it is not up to him alone to determine how he should act; he should subordinate his individual decision-making powers to those of the whole. The strong form of egoism we have been discussing cannot accept Aristotle’s doctrine of the priority of the city to the individual. It tells the individual that the good of others has, in itself, no valid claim on him, but that he should serve other members of the community only to the extent that he can connect their interests to his own. Such a doctrine leaves no room for the thought that the individual citizen does not belong to himself but to the whole.

In Book I Aristotle says that three kinds of lives are thought to be especially attractive: one is devoted to pleasure, a second to politics, and a third to knowledge and understanding (1095b17–19). In X.6–9 he returns to these three alternatives, and explores them more fully than he had in Book I. The life of pleasure is construed in Book I as a life devoted to physical pleasure, and is quickly dismissed because of its vulgarity. In X.6, Aristotle concedes that physical pleasures, and more generally, amusements of all sorts, are desirable in themselves, and therefore have some claim to be our ultimate end. But his discussion of happiness in Book X does not start from scratch; he builds on his thesis that pleasure cannot be our ultimate target, because what counts as pleasant must be judged by some standard other than pleasure itself, namely the judgment of the virtuous person. Amusements will not be absent from a happy life, since everyone needs relaxation, and amusements fill this need. But they play a subordinate role, because we seek relaxation in order to return to more important activities.

Aristotle turns therefore, in X.7–8, to the two remaining alternatives—politics and philosophy—and presents a series of arguments to show that the philosophical life, a life devoted to theoria (contemplation, study), is best. Theoria is not the process of learning that leads to understanding; that process is not a candidate for our ultimate end, because it is undertaken for the sake of a further goal. What Aristotle has in mind when he talks about theoria is the activity of someone who has already achieved theoretical wisdom. The happiest life is lived by someone who has a full understanding of the basic causal principles that govern the operation of the universe, and who has the resources needed for living a life devoted to the exercise of that understanding. Evidently Aristotle believes that his own life and that of his philosophical friends was the best available to a human being. He compares it to the life of a god: god thinks without interruption and endlessly, and a philosopher enjoys something similar for a limited period of time.

It may seem odd that after devoting so much attention to the practical virtues, Aristotle should conclude his treatise with the thesis that the best activity of the best life is not ethical. In fact, some scholars have held that X.7–8 are deeply at odds with the rest of the Ethics ; they take Aristotle to be saying that we should be prepared to act unethically, if need be, in order to devote ourselves as much as possible to contemplation. But it is difficult to believe that he intends to reverse himself so abruptly, and there are many indications that he intends the arguments of X.7–8 to be continuous with the themes he emphasizes throughout the rest of the Ethics . The best way to understand him is to take him to be assuming that one will need the ethical virtues in order to live the life of a philosopher, even though exercising those virtues is not the philosopher’s ultimate end. To be adequately equipped to live a life of thought and discussion, one will need practical wisdom, temperance, justice, and the other ethical virtues. To say that there is something better even than ethical activity, and that ethical activity promotes this higher goal, is entirely compatible with everything else that we find in the Ethics .

Although Aristotle’s principal goal in X.7–8 is to show the superiority of philosophy to politics, he does not deny that a political life is happy. Perfect happiness, he says, consists in contemplation; but he indicates that the life devoted to practical thought and ethical virtue is happy in a secondary way. He thinks of this second-best life as that of a political leader, because he assumes that the person who most fully exercises such qualities as justice and greatness of soul is the man who has the large resources needed to promote the common good of the city. The political life has a major defect, despite the fact that it consists in fully exercising the ethical virtues, because it is a life devoid of philosophical understanding and activity. Were someone to combine both careers, practicing politics at certain times and engaged in philosophical discussion at other times (as Plato’s philosopher-kings do), he would lead a life better than that of Aristotle’s politician, but worse than that of Aristotle’s philosopher.

But his complaint about the political life is not simply that it is devoid of philosophical activity. The points he makes against it reveal drawbacks inherent in ethical and political activity. Perhaps the most telling of these defects is that the life of the political leader is in a certain sense unleisurely (1177b4–15). What Aristotle has in mind when he makes this complaint is that ethical activities are remedial: they are needed when something has gone wrong, or threatens to do so. Courage, for example, is exercised in war, and war remedies an evil; it is not something we should wish for. Aristotle implies that all other political activities have the same feature, although perhaps to a smaller degree. Corrective justice would provide him with further evidence for his thesis—but what of justice in the distribution of goods? Perhaps Aristotle would reply that in existing political communities a virtuous person must accommodate himself to the least bad method of distribution, because, human nature being what it is, a certain amount of injustice must be tolerated. As the courageous person cannot be completely satisfied with his courageous action, no matter how much self-mastery it shows, because he is a peace-lover and not a killer, so the just person living in the real world must experience some degree of dissatisfaction with his attempts to give each person his due. The pleasures of exercising the ethical virtues are, in normal circumstances, mixed with pain. Unalloyed pleasure is available to us only when we remove ourselves from the all-too-human world and contemplate the rational order of the cosmos. No human life can consist solely in these pure pleasures; and in certain circumstances one may owe it to one’s community to forego a philosophical life and devote oneself to the good of the city. But the paradigms of human happiness are those people who are lucky enough to devote much of their time to the study of a world more orderly than the human world we inhabit.

Although Aristotle argues for the superiority of the philosophical life in X.7–8, he says in X.9, the final chapter of the Ethics , that his project is not yet complete, because we can make human beings virtuous, or good even to some small degree, only if we undertake a study of the art of legislation. The final section of the Ethics is therefore intended as a prolegomenon to Aristotle’s political writings. We must investigate the kinds of political systems exhibited by existing Greek cities, the forces that destroy or preserve cities, and the best sort of political order. Although the study of virtue Aristotle has just completed is meant to be helpful to all human beings who have been brought up well—even those who have no intention of pursuing a political career—it is also designed to serve a larger purpose. Human beings cannot achieve happiness, or even something that approximates happiness, unless they live in communities that foster good habits and provide the basic equipment of a well-lived life.

The study of the human good has therefore led to two conclusions: The best life is not to be found in the practice of politics. But the well being of whole communities depends on the willingness of some to lead a second-best life—a life devoted to the study and practice of the art of politics, and to the expression of those qualities of thought and passion that exhibit our rational self-mastery.

• appearances: phainomena
• beautiful: kalon
• clear: saphes
• complete (verb, also: to perfect): telein
• condition: hexis
• continence (literally: mastery): enkrateia
• continent: enkratês
• disposition: hexis
• emotion: pathos
• evil: kakos , phaulos
• excellence: aretê
• feeling: pathos
• fine: kalon
• flourishing: eudaimonia
• friendship: philia ; philein (the verb cognate to the noun “ philia ”, can sometimes be translated “like” or even “love”)
• function: ergon
• good will: eunoia
• happiness: eudaimonia
• happy: eudaimon
• impetuosity: propeteia
• incontinence (literally: lack of mastery): akrasia
• incontinent: akratês
• intuitive understanding: nous
• live well: eu zên
• practical wisdom: phronêsis
• science: epistêmê
• standard: horos
• state: hexis
• task: ergon
• virtue: aretê
• weakness: astheneia
• work: ergon

Further Reading

Broadie 1991; Bostock 2000; Burger 2008; Gauthier & Jolif 1958–59; Hall 2019; Hardie 1980; Pakaluk 2005; Price 2011; Reeve 2012a; Urmson 1987.

Anton & Preus (eds.) 1991; Barnes, Schofield, & Sorabji (eds.) 1977; Bartlett & Collins (eds.) 1999; Engstrom & Whiting (eds.) 1996; Heinaman (ed.) 1995; Kraut (ed.) 2006b; Miller (ed.) 2011; Natali (ed.) 2009; Pakaluk & Pearson (eds.) 2010; Polansky (ed.) 2014; Roche (ed.) 1988c; Rorty (ed.) 1980; Sherman (ed.) 1999; Sim (ed.) 1995.

C. Studies of Particular Topics

Kenny 1978, 1979, 1992; Rowe 1971.

Barnes 1980; Berryman 2019; J.M. Cooper 1999 (ch. 12); Frede 2012; Heinaman (ed.) 1995; Irwin 1988b; Karbowski 2014b, 2015a, 2015b, 2019; Kontos 2011; Kraut 1998; McDowell 1995; Nussbaum 1985, 1986 (chs 8–9); Reeve 1992 (ch. 1), 2012b; Roche 1988b, 1992; Scott 2015; Segvic 2002; Shields 2012a; Zingano 2007b.

Annas 1993 (ch. 18); Barney 2008; Broadie 2005, 2007a; Charles 1999; Clark 1975 (14–27, 145–63); J.M. Cooper 1986 (chs 1, 3), 1999 (chs 9, 13); Curzer 1991; Gadamer 1986; Gerson 2004; Gomez-Lobo 1989; Heinaman 2002, 2007; Irwin 2012; Keyt 1978; Korsgaard 1986a, 1986b; Kraut 1979a, 1979b, 1989, 2002 (ch. 3); Lawrence 1993, 1997, 2001; G.R. Lear 2000; J. Lear 2000; MacDonald 1989; Natali 2010; Nussbaum 1986 (chs 11, 12); Purinton 1998; Reeve 1992 (chs 3, 4); Roche 1988a; Santas 2001 (chs 6–7); Scott 1999, 2000; Segvic 2004; Suits 1974; Van Cleemput 2006; Wedin 1981; N. White 2002, 2006; S. White 1992; Whiting 1986, 1988; Wielenberg 2004; Williams 1985 (ch. 3).

Brickhouse 2003; Brown 1997; Brunschwig 1996; Clark 1975 (84–97); N. Cooper 1989; Curzer 1990, 1995, 1996, 1997, 2005, 2012; Di Muzio 2000; Gardiner 2001; Gottlieb 1991, 1994a, 1994b, 1996, 2009; Halper 1999; Hardie 1978; Hursthouse 1988; Hutchinson 1986; Irwin 1988a; Jimenez 2020; Kraut 2002 (ch. 4), 2012, 2013; Leunissen 2012, 2013, 2017; Lorenz 2009; McKerlie 2001; Pakaluk 2004; Pearson 2006, 2007; Peterson 1988; Russell 2012a; Santas 2001 (ch. 8); Scaltsas 1995; Schütrumpf 1989; Sherman 1989, 1997; Sim 2007; Taylor 2004; Telfer 1989–90; Tuozzo 1995; Whiting 1996; Young 1988; Yu 2007.

Broadie 1998; Charles 1984, 2007; Coope 2012; J. Cooper 1986 (ch. 1), 1999 (chs 10, 11, 19); Dahl 1984; Destrée 2007; Engberg-Pedersen 1983; Fortenbaugh 1975; Gottlieb, 2021; Gröngross 2007; Hursthouse 1984; Kontos 2018; Kontos 2021; Kraut 2006a; Lorenz 2006; McDowell 1996a, 1996b, 1998; McKerlie 1998; Meyer 1993; Milo 1966; Moss 2011, 2012; Natali (ed.) 2009; Nussbaum 1986 (ch. 10); Olfert 2017; Pakaluk & Pearson (eds.) 2010; Pickavé & Whiting 2008; Politis 1998; Reeve 1992 (ch. 2), 2013; Segvic 2009a; Sherman 2000; Taylor 2003b; Walsh 1963; Zingano 2007a.

Gosling &Taylor 1982 (chs 11–17); Gottlieb 1993; Natali (ed.) 2009; Owen 1971; Pearson 2012; Rorty 1974; Taylor 2003a, 2003b; Urmson 1967; Warren 2009; Wolfsdorf 2013 (ch. 6).

Annas 1977, 1993 (ch. 12); Brewer 2005; J.M. Cooper 1999 (chs 14, 15); Hitz 2011; Kahn 1981; Milgram 1987; Nehamas 2010; Pakaluk 1998; Pangle 2003; Price 1989 (chs 4–7); Rogers 1994; Schollmeier 1994; Sherman 1987; Stern-Gillet 1995; Walker 2014; Whiting 1991.

Freeland 1998; Karbowski 2014a; Modrak 1994; Ward (ed.) 1996.

Bielskis 2020; Broadie 2006; Chappell (ed.) 2006; Garver 2006; Gill (ed.) 2005; Kraut 2018; LeBar 2013; MacIntyre 1999; Peters 2014; Russell 2012b; Stohr 2003, 2009; Wiggins 2009.

Lockwood 2005.

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How to cite this entry . Preview the PDF version of this entry at the Friends of the SEP Society . Look up topics and thinkers related to this entry at the Internet Philosophy Ontology Project (InPhO). Enhanced bibliography for this entry at PhilPapers , with links to its database.

• Athenian Constitution , ed. Kenyon. (Greek)
• Athenian Constitution , ed. H. Rackham. (English)
• Economics , (Greek)
• Economics , (English)
• Eudemian Ethics , (Greek)
• Eudemian Ethics , (English)
• Metaphysics , (Greek)
• Metaphysics , (English)
• Nicomachean Ethics , ed. J. Bywater. (Greek)
• Nicomachean Ethics , ed. H. Rackham. (English)
• Poetics , (English)
• Politics , (Greek)
• Politics , (English)
• Rhetoric , ed. W. D. Ross. (Greek)
• Rhetoric , ed. J. H. Freese. (English)
• Virtues and Vices , ed. I. Bekker. (Greek)
• Virtues and Vices , ed. H. Rackham. (English)
• Nikomachische Ethik , in German, translated by Eugen Rolfes, Leipzig: F. Meiner, 1911, at the Projekt Gutenberg-DE

Aristotle | character, moral | egoism | ethics: virtue | friendship | Plato | pleasure | wisdom

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Virtues and Vices: and other essays in moral philosophy

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This collection of essays, written between 1957 and 1977, contains discussions of the moral philosophy of David Hume, Immanuel Kant, Friedrich Nietzsche, and some modern philosophers. It presents virtues and vices rather than rights and duties as the central concepts in moral philosophy. Throughout, the author rejects contemporary anti‐ naturalistic moral philosophies such as emotivism and prescriptivism, but defends the view that moral judgements may be hypothetical rather than (as Kant thought) categorical imperatives. The author also applies her moral philosophy to the current debates on euthanasia and abortion, the latter discussed in relation to the doctrine of the double effect. She argues against the suggestion, on the part of A. J. Ayer and others, that free will actually requires determinism. In a final essay, she asks whether the concept of moral approval can be understood except against a particular background of social practices.

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What is Virtue?

By rick lewis.

“You are a citizen of a great and powerful nation. Are you not ashamed that you give so much time to the pursuit of money and reputation, and honours, and care so little for truth and wisdom and the improvement of your soul?” Socrates, The Apology *

Socrates said that we should be concerned with the improvement of our souls, and this is, after a manner of speaking, the focus of one of the two special features in this issue. For the subject of our first two articles is the nature of virtue, and how can the development of virtue be described except as the improvement of one’s soul? One of the classic questions of philosophy is “what should I do?” However, from the earliest times some have argued that this question is less important than the question of what kind of people we should be . If we can become better people, they say, then good actions will follow naturally.

This approach to life is known as ‘virtue ethics’, and was first advocated by Confucius, but in the West it is particularly associated with Aristotle. Recently it has enjoyed a bit of a revival. This may be partly a backlash against all the ethical systems so earnestly discussed in the past few centuries which have attempted to lay down sets of rules for how we should behave. Whether Kant’s idea about our having duties founded on the categorical imperative, or Bentham and Mill’s utilitarianism, which is based on considering an action’s consequences, the aim has been to work out how people should behave in different circumstances. In other words, the focus has been on people’s consciously-chosen actions . But some have found this kind of rule-following ethics to be desiccated – they claim that it doesn’t take enough account of the emotions and affections of the moral agent, for instance, or encourages people to do good deeds grudgingly, even resentfully. Virtue ethics by contrast doesn’t look at morality in isolation but as something which is inescapably in the context of our lives and of society. Virtue ethicists suggest that we can acquire virtues in two ways. The first is by following the example of inspiring individuals (a soldier might be inspired with courage by the example of some great hero; or somebody might be inspired with tolerance and benevolence by the example of Gandhi). The other way is through practice – for instance, if one practices the virtue of patience, over time one becomes more patient (Or so I’m told. I’ve never tried it myself, actually).

But what exactly are the virtues that we should cultivate in this way? Kindness? Honesty? Courage? Diligence? All of the above and more? There are many virtues, so what is the nature of each, which are the most important and how do they interrelate with one another? Our first two articles in different ways both look at what virtue is. Philip Vassallo examines the gradual development of the idea of virtue or arête in ancient Greece. And Philip Cafaro examines some thoroughly modern conceptions of virtue with the aid of a shelf-full of self-help books. (This is a genre at which philosophers tend to sneer; but Cafaro points out that their vast sales suggest they reflect well some popular notions of virtue, and besides, he says, they also contain some very good insights and arguments.)

The other special feature in this issue is about one of the great 20th century existentialists, namely Peter Wessel Zapffe (1899- 1990). Zapffe was and is well known within his native Norway, partly due to his other careers as a humorist and mountaineer, but has been rather neglected elsewhere. Thanks to translator Gisle Tangenes, we are delighted to bring you the first-ever English publication of Zapffe’s classic 1933 essay ‘The Last Messiah’. Zapffe was clearly a remarkable thinker and a wonderful prose stylist, and Tangenes’ lively translation really does him justice. An introductory article by Tangenes sheds some light on Zapffe’s colourful and engaging personality as well as on his ideas. Tangenes remarked that as a philosopher, Zapffe is reminiscent of Camus, but “not so optimistic.”(!) He also reminded me that “there are a lot of fascinating thinkers around whose work remains buried in less-spoken languages, and it is nice to be able to do something about one such.” We’ll obviously have to keep a lookout for more such – so as usual, all suggestions welcomed!

[* with friendly acknowledgments to the philosophy TV show ‘No Dogs Or Philosophers Allowed’, which uses this quotation as its motto.]

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Summary and Analysis of Meno by Plato

What Is Virtue and Can It Be Taught?

Stefano Bianchetti / Corbis Historical / Getty Images

• Major Philosophers
• Philosophical Theories & Ideas
• Ph.D., Philosophy, The University of Texas at Austin
• M.A., Philosophy, McGill University
• B.A., Philosophy, University of Sheffield

Although fairly short, Plato 's dialog Meno is generally regarded as one of his most important and influential works. In a few pages, it ranges over several fundamental philosophical questions , such as:

• What is virtue?
• Can it be taught or is it innate?
• Do we know some things a priori (independent of experience)?
• What is the difference between really knowing something and merely holding a correct belief about it?

The dialog also has some dramatic significance. We see Socrates reduce Meno, who begins by confidently assuming that he knows what virtue is, to a state of confusion–an unpleasant experience presumably common among those who engaged Socrates in debate. We also see Anytus, who will one day be one of the prosecutors responsible for Socrates' trial and execution, warn Socrates that he should be careful what he says, especially about his fellow Athenians.

The  Meno  can be divided into four main parts:

• The unsuccessful search for a definition of virtue
• Socrates' proof that some of our knowledge is innate
• A discussion of whether virtue can be taught
• A discussion of why there are no teachers of virtue

Part One: The Search for a Definition of Virtue

The dialog opens with Meno asking Socrates a seemingly straightforward question: Can virtue be taught? Socrates, typically for him, says he doesn't know since he doesn't know what virtue is, and he hasn't met anyone who does. Meno is astonished at this reply and accepts Socrates' invitation to define the term.

The Greek word usually translated as "virtue" is arete, although it might also be translated as "excellence." The concept is closely linked to the idea of something fulfilling its purpose or function. Thus, the arete of a sword would be those qualities that make it a good weapon, for instance: sharpness, strength, balance. The arete of a horse would be qualities such as speed, stamina, and obedience.

Meno's first definition : Virtue is relative to the sort of person in question. For example, the virtue of a woman is to be good at managing a household and to be submissive to her husband. The virtue of a soldier is to be skilled at fighting and brave in battle.

Socrates' response : Given the meaning of arete,  Meno's answer is quite understandable. But Socrates rejects it. He argues that when Meno points to several things as instances of virtue, there must be something they all have in common, which is why they are all called virtues. A good definition of a concept should identify this common core or essence.

Meno's second definition : Virtue is the ability to rule men. This may strike a modern reader as rather odd, but the thinking behind it is probably something like this: Virtue is what makes possible the fulfillment of one's purpose. For men, the ultimate purpose is happiness; happiness consists of lots of pleasure; pleasure is the satisfaction of desire; and the key to satisfying one's desires is to wield power—in other words, to rule over men. This sort of reasoning would have been associated with the sophists .

Socrates' response : The ability to rule men is only good if the rule is just. But justice is only one of the virtues. So Meno has defined the general concept of virtue by identifying it with one specific kind of virtue. Socrates then clarifies what he wants with an analogy. The concept of 'shape' can't be defined by describing squares, circles or triangles. 'Shape' is what all these figures share. A general definition would be something like this: shape is that which is bounded by color.

Meno's third definition : Virtue is the desire to have and the ability to acquire fine and beautiful things.

Socrates' response : Everyone desires what they think is good (an idea one encounters in many of Plato's dialogues). So if people differ in virtue, as they do, this must be because they differ in their ability to acquire the fine things they consider good. But acquiring these things–satisfying one's desires–can be done in a good way or a bad way. Meno concedes that this ability is only a virtue if it is exercised in a good way–in other words, virtuously. So once again, Meno has built into his definition the very notion he's trying to define.

Part Two: Is Some of Our Knowledge Innate?

Meno declares himself utterly confused: 

O Socrates, I used to be told, before I knew you, that you were always doubting yourself and making others doubt; and now you are casting your spells over me, and I am simply getting bewitched and enchanted, and am at my wits' end. And if I may venture to make a jest upon you, you seem to me both in your appearance and in your power over others to be very like the flat torpedo fish, who torpifies those who come near him and touch him, as you have now torpified me, I think. For my soul and my tongue are really torpid, and I do not know how to answer you.

Meno's description of how he feels gives us some idea of the effect Socrates must have had on many people. The Greek term for the situation he finds himself in is aporia , which is often translated as "impasse" but also denotes perplexity. He then presents Socrates with a famous paradox.

Meno's paradox : Either we know something or we don't. If we know it, we don't need to inquire any further. But if we don't know it if we can't inquire since we don't know what we're looking for and won't recognize it if we found it.

Socrates dismisses Meno's paradox as a "debater's trick," but he nevertheless responds to the challenge, and his response is both surprising and sophisticated. He appeals to the testimony of priests and priestesses who say that the soul is immortal, entering and leaving one body after another, that in the process it acquires a comprehensive knowledge of all there is to know, and that what we call " learning " is actually just a process of recollecting what we already know. This is a doctrine that Plato may have learned from the Pythagoreans .

The enslaved boy demonstration:  Meno asks Socrates if he can prove that "all learning is recollection." Socrates responds by calling over an enslaved boy , who he establishes has had no mathematical training, and setting him a geometry problem. Drawing a square in the dirt, Socrates asks the boy how to double the area of the square. The boy's first guess is that one should double the length of the square's sides. Socrates shows that this is incorrect. The boy tries again, this time suggesting that one increase the length of the sides by 50%. He is shown that this is also wrong. The boy then declares himself to be at a loss. Socrates points out that the boy's situation now is similar to that of Meno. They both believed they knew something; they now realize their belief was mistaken; but this new awareness of their own ignorance , this feeling of perplexity, is, in fact, an improvement.

Socrates then proceeds to guide the boy to the right answer: you double the area of a square by using its diagonal as the basis for the larger square. He claims at the end to have demonstrated that the boy in some sense already had this knowledge within himself: all that was needed was someone to stir it up and make recollection easier. 

Many readers will be skeptical of this claim. Socrates certainly seems to ask the boy leading questions. But many philosophers have found something impressive about the passage. Most don't consider it a proof of the theory of reincarnation, and even Socrates concedes that this theory is highly speculative. But many have seen it as a convincing proof that human beings have some a priori knowledge (information that is self-evident). The boy may not be able to reach the correct conclusion unaided, but he is able to recognize the truth of the conclusion and the validity of the steps that lead him to it. He isn't simply repeating something he has been taught.

Socrates doesn't insist that his claims about reincarnation are certain. But he does argue that the demonstration supports his fervent belief that we will live better lives if we believe that knowledge is worth pursuing as opposed to lazily assuming that there is no point in trying.

Part Three: Can Virtue Be Taught?

Meno asks Socrates to return to their original question: Can virtue be taught? Socrates reluctantly agrees and constructs the following argument:

• Virtue is something beneficial; it's a good thing to have
• All good things are only good if they are accompanied by knowledge or wisdom (for example, courage is good in a wise person, but in a fool, it is mere recklessness)
• Therefore virtue is a kind of knowledge
• Therefore virtue can be taught

The argument is not especially convincing. The fact that all good things, in order to be beneficial, must be accompanied by wisdom doesn't really show that this wisdom is the same thing as virtue. The idea that virtue is a kind of knowledge, however, does seem to have been a central tenet of Plato's moral philosophy. Ultimately, the knowledge in question is the knowledge of what truly is in one's best long-term interests. Anyone who knows this will be virtuous since they know that living a good life is the surest path to happiness. And anyone who fails to be virtuous reveals that they don't understand this. Hence the flip side of "virtue is knowledge" is "all wrongdoing is ignorance," a claim that Plato spells out and seeks to justify in dialogues such as the Gorgias.  

Part Four: Why Are There No Teachers of Virtue?

Meno is content to conclude that virtue can be taught, but Socrates, to Meno's surprise, turns on his own argument and starts criticizing it. His objection is simple. If virtue could be taught there would be teachers of virtue. But there aren't any. Therefore it can't be teachable after all.

There follows an exchange with Anytus, who has joined the conversation, that is charged with dramatic irony. In response to Socrates' wondering, rather tongue-in-cheek query whether sophists might not be teachers of virtue, Anytus contemptuously dismisses the sophists as people who, far from teaching virtue, corrupt those who listen to them. Asked who could teach virtue, Anytus suggests that "any Athenian gentleman" should be able to do this by passing on what they have learned from preceding generations. Socrates is unconvinced. He points out that great Athenians like Pericles, Themistocles, and Aristides were all good men, and they managed to teach their sons specific skills like horse riding, or music. But they didn't teach their sons to be as virtuous as themselves, which they surely would have done if they had been able to.

Anytus leaves, ominously warning Socrates that he is too ready to speak ill of people and that he should take care in expressing such views. After he leaves Socrates confronts the paradox that he now finds himself with: on the one hand, virtue is teachable since it is a kind of knowledge; on the other hand, there are no teachers of virtue. He resolves it by distinguishing between real knowledge and correct opinion. 

Most of the time in practical life, we get by perfectly well if we simply have correct beliefs about something. For example, if you want to grow tomatoes and you correctly believe that planting them on the south side of the garden will produce a good crop, then if you do this you'll get the outcome you're aiming at. But to really be able to teach someone how to grow tomatoes, you need more than a bit of practical experience and a few rules of thumb; you need a genuine knowledge of horticulture, which includes an understanding of soils, climate, hydration, germination, and so on. The good men who fail to teach their sons virtue are like practical gardeners without theoretical knowledge. They do well enough themselves most of the time, but their opinions are not always reliable, and they aren't equipped to teach others.

How do these good men acquire virtue? Socrates suggests it is a gift from the gods, similar to the gift of poetic inspiration enjoyed by those who are able to write poetry but are unable to explain how they do it.

The Significance of the  Meno

The  Meno  offers a fine illustration of Socrates' argumentative methods and his search for definitions of moral concepts. Like many of Plato's early dialogues, it ends rather inconclusively. Virtue hasn't been defined. It has been identified with a kind of knowledge or wisdom, but exactly what this knowledge consists in hasn't been specified. It seems it can be taught, at least in principle, but there are no teachers of virtue since no one has an adequate theoretical understanding of its essential nature. Socrates implicitly includes himself among those who cannot teach virtue since he candidly admits at the outset that he doesn't know how to define it. 

Framed by all this uncertainty, however, is the episode with the enslaved boy where Socrates asserts the doctrine of reincarnation and demonstrates the existence of innate knowledge. Here he seems more confident about the truth of his claims. It is likely that these ideas about reincarnation and inborn knowledge represent the views of Plato rather than Socrates. They figure again in other dialogues, notably the Phaedo . This passage is one of the most celebrated in the history of philosophy and is the starting point for many subsequent debates about the nature and the possibility of a priori knowledge.

An Ominous Subtext

While the content of Meno is a classic in its form and metaphysical function, it also has an underlying and ominous subtext. Plato wrote Meno about 385 BCE, placing the events about 402 BCE, when Socrates was 67 years old, and about three years before he was executed for corrupting Athenian youth. Meno was a young man who was described in historical records as treacherous, eager for wealth and supremely self-confident. In the dialogue, Meno believes he is virtuous because he has given several discourses about it in the past: and Socrates proves that he can't know whether he's virtuous or not because he doesn't know what virtue is.

Anytus was the main prosecutor in the court case that led to Socrates's death. In Meno , Anytus threatens Socrates, "I think that you are too ready to speak evil of men: and, if you will take my advice, I would recommend you to be careful." Anytus is missing the point, but nevertheless, Socrates is, in fact, shoving this particular Athenian youth off his self-confident pedestal, which would definitely be construed in Anytus's eyes as a corrupting influence.

Resources and Further Reading

• Bluck, R. S. " Plato's 'Meno' ." Phronesis 6.2 (1961): 94–101. Print.
• Hoerber, Robert G. " Plato's 'Meno'. " Phronesis 5.2 (1960): 78–102. Print.
• Klein, Jacob. "A Commentary on Plato's Meno." Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1989.
• Kraut, Richard. " Plato ." The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Metaphysics Research Lab, Stanford University 2017. Web.
• Plato. Meno . Translated by Benjamin Jowett, Dover, 2019.
• Silverman, Allan. " Plato's Middle Period Metaphysics and Epistemology ." The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy . Metaphysics Research Lab, Stanford University 2014. Web.
• Tejera, V. " History and Rhetoric in Plato's 'Meno,' or on the Difficulties of Communicating Human Excellence ." Philosophy & Rhetoric 11.1 (1978): 19–42. Print.
• The Slave Boy Experiment in Plato's 'Meno'
• Understanding Socratic Ignorance
• Summary and Analysis of Plato's 'Euthyphro'
• Socratic Wisdom
• 30 Quotes by Aristotle
• What Does It Mean to Live the Good Life?
• An Introduction to Virtue Ethics
• Analysis of Plato's 'Crito'
• Plato's 'Apology'
• Plato and Aristotle on Women: Selected Quotes
• An Introduction to Plato and His Philosophical Ideas
• The 5 Great Schools of Ancient Greek Philosophy
• What Is the 'Ladder of Love' in Plato's 'Symposium'?
• Understand the Philosophical Theories of Nominalism and Realism
• The Allegory of the Cave From the Republic of Plato
• Ancient Philosophers

Philosophy: Aristotle on Moral Virtue Essay

• To find inspiration for your paper and overcome writer’s block
• As a source of information (ensure proper referencing)
• As a template for you assignment

Introduction

Moral virtue was defined by Aristotle as an individual’s disposition to make the right decisions as a mediating action targeted to balance excess and deficiencies, which were considered vices. People can learn moral virtue through establishing different habits as well as practicing reasonable actions. Thus, virtue can be described as a matter of establishing appropriate attitudes toward both pleasure and unpleasant moments. When discussing his theory of moral virtue, Aristotle made a point to suggest that the central goal is to achieve a balance between virtue and vice – a mean between extremes that exist in one’s actions, thoughts, behaviors. Within the moral virtue theory, Aristotle stated that people must do the right thing because it is considered right and not because there is a personal gain that can be achieved from it. Thus, moral virtue is something that people should understand intellectually and apply their knowledge to practice.

In contrast to virtue, vice is defined as a disposition to make wrong decisions as a means to respond to the outside factors; put simply, vice is the absence of virtue and therefore cannot allow an individual to become truly happy. While vices can be viewed from the perspective of being opposite to virtues, Aristotle made a different distinction. For each virtue, there are two vices, one of deficiency and one of excess, which aligns with the idea that virtue is needed to achieve balance. When discussing different spheres of action, a distinction between vices of excess and vices of deficiency can be made. For example, in the ‘wealth’ sphere of action, charity is considered a virtue while greed is a vice of excess and stinginess is a vice of deficiency.

Notions of virtue and vice directly relate to Aristotle’s ideas of character education, which he considered to reference the solid foundation of the philosophy of life, especially when it comes to educating oneself in politics and ethics. It is evident that character education for Aristotle lied in the “cultivation of the mind” as a “major concern in education” (p. 70). Both virtue and vice build one’s character and therefore can contribute to the view of happiness. Happy people are those who managed to cultivate their character and mind to high degrees and maintain the acquisition of goods within limits that they can manage. Therefore, character education leads to happiness that is equal to the amount of wisdom and virtue. The latter can be divided into two kinds: intellectual and moral. While intellectual virtue is improved and increased through instruction, moral virtue is the end product of habit.

In a general educational system, character education can be associated with teaching people how to exercise their virtue to contribute to the lives of others while also enriching their own lives. This can be done through charitable and community work, which is sometimes included in extra-curriculum work. However, such work is rarely the focus of educational programs because theoretical knowledge and other skills such as reading or writing are unfortunately considered more important than character education. Teaching students moral and civic virtues is an essential component of education because it will prepare them for future lives in a ‘grown-up’ world. Since moral virtue implies finding a balance between vices, character education will contribute to building interpersonal and societal skills, without which striking a balance between vices will be near to impossible.

Ladikos, A. (2010). Aristotle on intellectual and character education. Phronimon, 11 (2), 69-83.

• Aristotle’s Definition of Virtue
• Aristotle Philosophical Perspective
• Aristotle vs. Socrates: The Main Difference in the Concept of Virtue
• Socrates and the Root of Evil
• Ethical Theories and Nepotism Relationships
• Moral and Contemporary Philosophy
• Socrates: Unexamined Life Is Not Worth Living
• Philosophy: Hedonism and Desire Satisfaction Theory
• Chicago (A-D)
• Chicago (N-B)

IvyPanda. (2021, July 1). Philosophy: Aristotle on Moral Virtue. https://ivypanda.com/essays/philosophy-aristotle-on-moral-virtue/

"Philosophy: Aristotle on Moral Virtue." IvyPanda , 1 July 2021, ivypanda.com/essays/philosophy-aristotle-on-moral-virtue/.

IvyPanda . (2021) 'Philosophy: Aristotle on Moral Virtue'. 1 July.

IvyPanda . 2021. "Philosophy: Aristotle on Moral Virtue." July 1, 2021. https://ivypanda.com/essays/philosophy-aristotle-on-moral-virtue/.

1. IvyPanda . "Philosophy: Aristotle on Moral Virtue." July 1, 2021. https://ivypanda.com/essays/philosophy-aristotle-on-moral-virtue/.

Bibliography

IvyPanda . "Philosophy: Aristotle on Moral Virtue." July 1, 2021. https://ivypanda.com/essays/philosophy-aristotle-on-moral-virtue/.

What is virtue and why does it matter?

Contemporary education has become too technocratic and divorced from virtue. This is a disservice to students because it robs them of what a classical education provides: the tools students need to succeed, not just academically and professionally, but in the deep and abiding sense of being able to flourish as free and good human beings. It is therefore important that we put virtue back into the heart of education. To do that, however, we must be clear about what virtue is and why it matters.

The concept of virtue is most commonly traced back to classical Greek and Roman society, but is important to note that ancient Buddhist, Chinese, Hindu, Jewish, and Islamic traditions also placed virtue at the center of their account of the good life and society, and thus understood a proper education to focused on its cultivation. Though I typically refer to virtue in its more familiar European or Western context, we must remember that the concept is far more universally applicable.

When Plato and Aristotle discuss virtue, the Greek term they use is arete , which is best translated as “excellence.” Virtue, in its broadest sense, is an excellent quality of a thing that allows it to perform its function well. The virtue of a knife, for instance, is its excellent quality of sharpness because this is what allows a knife to cut well (dullness, by contrast, is a bad quality of a knife).

Obviously human beings are far more complex than knives, and yet we still have a characteristic function, which is to know and understand reality and to decide how best to organize our lives in light of this understanding. Human virtues, then, are stable dispositions of thought, action, and feeling that enable us to do this well. When we discuss virtues, we are either talking about good habits of mind that allow us to think, judge, reflect, and deliberate well, or good habits of desire that allow us to want and take our pleasure in what is truly good for us and for society.

Virtues are habits, or stable character traits. An honest man is one who tells the truth reliably, not just every now and again. And that means that he: (1) knows the value and importance of honesty; (2) tells the truth easily in a wide range of circumstances and finds it difficult to lie; and (3) is pleased by being honest and pained by the thought of being dishonest.

Virtues, as habits, are similar to but distinct from skills. Like skills, the cultivation of virtue requires training, discipline, and the acquisition of knowledge. Think of a bricklayer. He has a habit of knowledge. Put in a variety of novel circumstances, he will know how to use the relevant materials of his trade to execute his craft well. How does one acquire such a habit of knowledge? Not simply by reading a book or listening to a lecture or memorizing rules, but by practice . A master craftsman must learn his craft from another master. He must be trained over time to develop the habits of his craft under someone who already possesses them. No one is born knowing how to lay bricks—in fact, the task is quite difficult and mastery takes a long time.

Something similar is true with virtue. Unfortunately, we are not born just, honest, wise, or courageous, nor will we naturally develop these traits as we will naturally learn to walk or jump. Virtues must also be acquired, and it is the task of a proper education over time to acquire them, and children need virtuous examples to imitate. While virtue always involves knowledge first and foremost, it also involves the deliberate shaping of our faculties of perception, imagination, feeling, and desire. Virtue is a transformation of the whole person, and unlike skill, it is not ordered to the production of some specific work, but to human flourishing quite generally. Virtue, therefore, cannot be reduced to skill. To see why not, consider that an excellent grammarian can exercise her skill by displaying bad grammar in a malformed sentence and explaining what is wrong with it. But a just person cannot exercise her justice by stealing, cheating, or committing murder. Virtue is obviously a deeper, more personal transformation.

The Greeks understood that to have a flourishing society they needed to create good citizens, citizens who not only display civic virtues, such as civility, friendliness, and justice, but personal virtues, like courage, wisdom, and self-control. A proper education, which had the cultivation of virtue at its core, was ultimately a political imperative. The Greek conception of paideia was the process by which one formed an ideal type of person, someone who would embody Greek values and be equipped to realize and reproduce them in society. There is no possible discussion of education as the mere transmission of information or useful skills for the sake of work. A proper education is concerned with making young people into noble and free persons—with developing and shaping their potential so that they can flourish, both as individuals, and more crucially, as citizens in a flourishing society. The Greeks recognized that we do not flourish apart and alone, but together in common associations.

There are obstacles to the reintegration of knowledge and virtue, but it is first crucial to see what is at stake as we think creatively about how to move forward. A democracy is only as good as its citizens, and we need citizens who are not simply knowledgeable and skilled, but who have the civic and individual virtues that are necessary for society to flourish, who are honest, just, generous, civil, resourceful, self-controlled, and wise. The cultivation of these character traits should be at the heart of education.

Jennifer Frey is an associate professor of philosophy at the University of South Carolina. She earned a B.A. in philosophy and medieval studies (with a classics minor) at Indiana University, in Bloomington, Indiana. She earned her Ph.D. in philosophy from the University of Pittsburgh. Prior to teaching at UofSC, she was a junior fellow in the Society of the Liberal Arts at the University of Chicago and Collegiate Assistant…

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Virtue's Reasons: New Essays on Virtue, Character, and Reasons

Noell Birondo and S. Stewart Braun (eds.), Virtue's Reasons: New Essays on Virtue, Character, and Reasons , Routledge, 2017, 210pp., $150.00 (hbk), ISBN 9781138231733.

Reviewed by Jason Kawall, Colgate University

According to the editors, Noell Birondo and S. Stewart Braun,

The main aims of this book are . . . to foster a greater appreciation for the multiplicity of reasons surrounding the concept of the virtues and to shed light on what is presumably the paradigm case, of an individual agent responding to an array of potential reasons, often in diverse circumstances and contexts. (2-3)

While the virtues are often treated as allowing agents to recognize and respond appropriately to reasons, Birondo and Braun note that there are broader connections and questions concerning the relationship between reasons and the virtues that warrant examination: for example, are there distinctive kinds of reasons to become a certain kind of person, rather than simply reasons to act or respond in certain ways? Upon what reasons can agents act appropriately while developing the virtues, and can we simply will to act upon some reasons and not others?

The current volume consists of ten chapters intended to explore the relationship(s) between virtues and reasons, divided into three parts, with a short introductory essay by Birondo and Braun. As they note in their introduction, the volume is very wide-ranging, and

By addressing a diverse set of questions on the connections between virtues and reasons, the papers here do not offer a sustained treatment of one or two core issues; instead, the papers that we have collected here form, together, a kind of kaleidoscope of issues surrounding the notion of virtue's reasons. (2)

While each of the chapters mentions reasons, and some include extended discussion of such (in varying contexts), it is virtue theory and character that truly serve to unify the volume. With respect to reasons, there is significant discussion of work by John McDowell and Robert Audi, but little overall engagement with the broader, extensive recent literature on the topic. That said, however, the chapters in this volume tend to be of a very high quality -- and some are truly excellent, with the potential to shape future discussion in the area. Given that the chapters in this volume are so diverse, with widely varying topics and approaches, I will focus on providing overviews of each, rather than attempting to provide a unified, thematic discussion.

Part I, "Reasons, Character, and Agency", consists of four papers. While there are few connections linking them, each chapter is strong and raises interesting issues in its own right. Garrett Cullity's "Moral Virtues and Responsiveness for Reasons" is extremely dense and detailed; to be honest, I've read this chapter several times and remain uncertain whether I entirely grasp all of it. In the first part of the chapter Cullity provides criteria for the application of various aretaic terms to traits and dispositions, but also to actions and other entities. These criteria vary quite significantly -- for example, whether an action is honest depends solely on the aim of the action, whereas whether an action is kind depends on its aim, but also its motive, and the manner in which it is performed. In the later parts of his paper Cullity develops a unique taxonomy of the virtues. Moral virtues are characterized by responding appropriately to morally relevant reasons, and for each response there is the reason for the response, the object of the response, and the response itself. Cullity proposes a corresponding threefold set of categories of virtue: those characterized by good responsiveness to particular reasons , those involving responding well to particular objects , and those that involve responding well to a variety of different objects or reasons; Cullity distinguishes further subcategories of each. This is the barest sketch of Cullity's chapter, and omits a great deal -- the chapter rewards multiple readings. Still, I worry that the tremendous detail, including many qualifications and exceptions to his various proposals might limit the use of Cullity's taxonomy by others.

Justin Oakley's "Remote Scenarios and Warranted Virtue Attributions" is a thoughtful, lucid paper addressing the following issue: how does the behaviour (actual or counterfactual) of agents in unlikely or remote scenarios affect our epistemic justification for attributing virtues or vices to them? For example, how would an agent's counterfactual behaviour when caught on-board a ship during a severe storm affect our justification in attributing courage to her? A highly demanding answer would hold that all such remote circumstances are relevant -- if a person would act poorly under extreme conditions, then we should not attribute courage (or other relevant virtues) to her. Robert Adams defends what Oakley refers to as a 'probabilistic' approach, where the relevance of behaviour in remote situations is a function of how likely an agent is to find herself in such circumstances. Similarly, in a given remote situation, the more likely an agent is to act well compared to a second agent, the more justified we are in attributing the relevant virtue to her. Oakley argues, plausibly, that we need to further qualify the probabilistic approach in at least two ways. First, the reason(s) why an agent is likely to act in a certain way (in a given scenario) are relevant -- is it the result of training and reflection, or mere luck? Second, we need to consider whether the agent (in actual circumstances) would approve of her actions and the reasons for them in remote scenarios. A committed utilitarian might, under extreme circumstances, leave his spouse to assist an aid group instead. While such circumstances might be unlikely, if the utilitarian would now approve of his reasons and actions under the extreme conditions, this would be relevant to our attributions of such virtues as loyalty.

In "Vice, Reasons, and Wrongdoing", Damian Cox defends a form of 'vice ethics'. Where virtue ethics defines right action in terms of virtues, vice ethics defines wrongness -- and rightness -- in terms of vices. Cox argues that reasons to avoid vicious action are typically pro tanto while reasons to perform virtuous actions are typically only prima facie . He further suggests that we can treat actions as supererogatory (most virtuous actions), merely permissible (actions that are neither virtuous nor vicious), or wrong (most vicious actions). And more precisely, with respect to right action, Cox suggests

(R) An action is right iff it is the least vicious of available actions.

(W) An action is wrong iff it is not the least vicious of available actions. (55)

Often there will be multiple actions available to an agent that are equally free of vice; all would be right. Cox develops the proposal effectively, and it certainly warrants discussion in the literature. Still, some questions arise. Consider two agents in similar circumstances making charitable donations. One merely gives five dollars without any vicious motives, while the other gives several thousand dollars, almost entirely out of generosity, but also with the hint of a vain desire to impress some friends; the generosity would have been sufficient to motivate the action. On Cox's proposal, the agent merely giving five dollars acts rightly, while the far more generous donation is wrong because of the incidental vicious motive; it would not be among the least vicious actions available. As such, trace amounts of vice could implausibly render otherwise excellent actions wrong.

"Can Virtue Be Codified? An Inquiry on the Basis of Four Conceptions of Virtue" by Peter Shiu-Hwa Tsu is the final paper of part I. Tsu argues against McDowell's well-known "uncodifiability thesis", according to which the requirements and reasons of the virtues cannot be codified into rules. After drawing attention to the complexity and ambiguity of the uncodifiability thesis (e.g. what counts as a rule?), Tsu presents four conceptions of the relationship between virtues and rules. On the particularist conception, there are not even broad generalizations that hold between virtues and rules; on the prima facie conception, any rules would only roughly capture the basic content of virtues, and would have many exceptions. According to the pro tanto conception, pro tanto rules determine what a virtuous agent should do, while "in cases of moral conflicts . . . it takes practical wisdom or judgment to determine which rule 'outweighs' which" (80). Finally, according to the absolute conception, virtuous agents act in accordance with a (or a set of) absolute, exceptionless moral principle(s); this need not involve mechanical rule-following -- we can demonstrate judgment in applying the principle(s). Tsu argues that McDowell focuses on the first two conceptions, but that the absolute and pro tanto conceptions would allow for the codifiability of the reasons of virtue, and are in fact more attractive than the rival conceptions. This is another strong chapter -- though many of the objections raised by Tsu to particularist and prima facia conceptions rely on particular features of McDowell's view that need not be embraced by all those endorsing the uncodifiability thesis.

Part II, "Reasons and Virtues in Development", is the most unified section of the volume, consisting of three chapters addressing how non-virtuous agents can develop the virtues. Ramon Das considers how such agents can act rightly despite lacking the virtues. Emer O'Hagan addresses how agents might effectively and appropriately aim at developing their own virtues. And Audi addresses the nature and place of role-modeling in the development of the virtues.

In "Virtue, Reason, and Will" Das argues that two tempting positions for virtue ethicists -- holding that right action either requires acting from good motives or reasons, or (more strongly) requires acting from firm, stable virtues -- are implausibly demanding. After all, both would seem beyond the ability of anyone who is not already virtuous -- we can't simply will ourselves to have good motives. Das suggests that we need to more carefully distinguish good motives and good reasons. Broadly, Das sees motives as (paradigmatically) desires that are involuntary, while normative reasons are cognitive and capable of producing motives. Das argues that an agent might recognize a normative reason to help a person and as a result choose to help her (voluntarily) despite the lack of an antecedent desire or motive to do so. Das provides some admittedly brief remarks in defence of this view, and in turn argues that we would be best to move away from distinctively virtue-ethical approaches to right action requiring good motives or virtues. Das concludes by arguing against Dan Russell's proposal that we sharply distinguish between right action (a form of action evaluation) and what an agent ought to do (a matter of action guidance); this proposal would undermine concerns that ordinary people cannot act rightly given standard virtue ethics. Das's critique of Russell's proposal is compelling -- particularly in arguing that if we sharply distinguish between right action and what an agent ought to do, the normative significance of rightness becomes highly unclear. This is a strong chapter, developing Das's previous, influential critiques of virtue ethics in new ways.

In her "Self-Knowledge and the Development of Virtue" O'Hagan carefully explores how agents might intentionally develop the virtues, focusing on the ways in which a morally refined self-knowledge could shape their sensitivity to virtuous reasons. O'Hagan begins by noting constraints upon the reasons for which agents might act while developing the virtues. For example, they cannot (typically) perform an action because it would be the kind thing to do and would improve their character. Rather, they would need to perform the action out of a concern for the well-being of the person they would help. The latter reflects a nascent kindness; the former a potentially problematic concern with their own virtue. O'Hagan then considers how we might shape the reasons upon which we act. She agrees with Audi that we cannot directly will ourselves to act (or not) on a given reason or set of reasons. But O'Hagan argues that our ability to direct our attention through self-knowledge and self-awareness provides us with rich indirect control over the reasons for which we act; there is no need to see ourselves as limited in this regard. For example, we might learn that people tend to overlook morally salient reasons when they are in a great hurry. This knowledge could ground a concern to reflect and pay greater attention when feeling time-pressured, allowing us to recognize reasons we might otherwise miss, and providing an important form of control over the reasons for which we act.

The final paper of Part II is Audi's insightful and wide-ranging "Aretaic Role Modeling, Justificatory Reasons, and the Diversity of the Virtues". Audi first explores the nature of role-modeling of both moral and intellectual virtues, drawing attention to often-overlooked issues (e.g. distinguishing between role-modeling as such and providing commentary upon what one is doing to a learner). He then turns to arguing that reasons are explanatorily prior to virtues -- actions from virtue must be performed for an appropriate reason (132), and role-modeling virtues requires an appreciation or responsiveness to reasons on the part of both the agent and a learner (133). If there were not prior reasons to which virtuous agents were responsive, what would explain and justify their actions? In the second half of his paper, Audi explores a wide range of virtues, with an eye towards shedding light on both intellectual and moral virtues, as well as 'cross-over' virtues that are both (such as sensitivity and consistency). Audi draws attention to the rich breadth and variety of virtues, which in turn impacts how these virtues can be successfully role-modeled. I cannot do justice here to the full range of issues addressed by Audi in this paper; there is a tremendous amount of substance and insightful reflection concerning the virtues and their development.

The final section, Part III, "Specific Virtues for Finite Rational Agents", consists of three chapters. Here again, the individual chapters are rich and rewarding, even while there are not strong thematic connections between them.

Reasons pluralists argue that there are rationally incomparable, and thereby incommensurable, kinds of reasons. A familiar worry for such views is that we would too frequently lack practical rational guidance because we so often face incomparable sets of reasons. In his "Practical Wisdom: A Virtue for Resolving Conflicts among Practical Reasons", Andrés Luco defends reasons pluralism by proposing an "Override Principle" that can apply in (many) such cases of conflict. Luco's override principle states that when we face sets of incomparable reasons, then set A overrides set B if (i) a certain action is necessary for promoting some good associated with set A, and (ii) not acting on set B would not result in the loss of any goods associated with set B (153). We would thus have a principle of practical reason that could allow us, in a wide range of cases, to rationally endorse an action, even when faced with incomparable kinds of reasons. The majority of the chapter involves Luco considering how the override principle might be applied to such decisions as whether to pursue a career in philosophy (largely grounded in self-regarding reasons) or instead to pursue a career that would help others as much as possible, as recommended by effective altruists (grounded in impartial reasons). Luco's discussion is compelling as he notes the complexities of applying the override principle. Still, while Luco arrives at plausible answers for various test scenarios, it is perhaps unclear to what extent the override principle is in fact driving these answers, and to what extent Luco is instead appealing to other factors and intuitions and then "applying" the override principle in an ad hoc fashion to capture the desired results.

The final two chapters are by the volume's editors. Braun's chapter on "The Virtue of Modesty and the Egalitarian Ethos" provides an attractive, irenic account of modesty. He first distinguishes three broad approaches to modesty in the literature: Julia Driver's influential 'ignorance' view (that requires an underestimate of the agent's own talents and achievements), perspectival views (that require seeing one's accomplishments from some particular perspective -- perhaps recognizing the roles of luck or opportunity), and de-emphasis views (that require downplaying or directing attention away from one's accomplishments). Braun's engagement with these approaches leads to his own "Egalitarian" account: "A modest agent is an agent that is disposed to act in a manner consistent with attempts to avoid establishing or endorsing distinctions in social or civic standing, ranking, or respect, which are applicable to herself, both at an institutional level and at a local community level" (176-7). As Braun notes, modesty seems to involve an unwillingness to treat oneself as more worthy than others; the egalitarian account captures this unwillingness, and the embrace of social equality could explain why modesty is a moral virtue. Certain questions do arise -- for example, if a rejection of distinctions in social ranking underlies modesty, wouldn't activism and social protest against hierarchies count as paradigmatic instances of modesty? If not, why not? Still Braun's approach seems very promising and worthy of further development.

The volume closes with Birondo's "Virtue and Prejudice: Giving and Taking Reasons". Birondo addresses a familiar worry for eudaimonistic virtue ethics: that their foundational appeal to human nature (in determining what constitutes flourishing) is bound to be problematic. Birondo focuses his attention on a recent version of the worry presented by Jesse Prinz. Broadly, Prinz argues that if eudaimonists hold that a proper understanding of eudaimonia can only be achieved by those who are themselves virtuous, problematic circularities will arise. On the other hand, if eudaimonists embrace an external standard of eudaimonia that can be identified without possession of the virtues, this standard cannot be justified -- there is too much cultural variation in conceptions of flourishing and there is no non-question-begging way of determining which of these conceptions are superior to others; we cannot justify any antecedent, universal human nature that could ground eudaimonia and the virtues. In replying to Prinz, Birondo draws stark attention to the ways in which critics of virtue ethics often ignore relevant literature and responses by virtue ethicists. According to Birondo's own response to Prinz, we must recognize that our understandings of human nature and eudaimonia are works in progress across different cultures. Birondo argues for an internalist account of eudaimonia, where the nature of eudaimonia is determined by the virtuous, but where ordinary folk can still understand this conception. He further stresses that we need to be open to both taking and giving reasons across cultures to improve and refine our conceptions of virtue and eudaimonia over time; there is no foundational appeal to an antecedently identified human nature. This is a sharp paper that effectively defends a plausible, pluralist form of eudaimonism.

Overall, this is a strong collection of insightful and often thought-provoking papers. There are, of course, some limitations; most prominently, while there are suggestive and interesting contributions to understanding the connections between reasons and virtues, the chapters vary significantly in the depth of their engagement with such issues. But understood as a wide-ranging contribution to the leading-edge literature on virtue theory and character, the volume stands up very well.

Inner Strength For Life – The 12 Master Virtues

Our journey of growth in life can be described as a journey of developing both insights and also virtues (qualities of mind and heart). This article maps out what are the main qualities to develop, and what particular strengths or gifts are gained from each of them.

Developing virtues is not about being better than others, but about developing the potential of our own heart and mind. The philosophers of ancient Greece , Buddha , the Yogis, and the Positive Psychology movement all value the cultivation of certain personal qualities. In this essay I attempt to systematize these core strengths into 12 “buckets” or “power virtues”, as many of them share common features.

Each of these virtues, rather than being an inborn personal trait, are habits  and states of mind  that can be consciously cultivated using a systematic approach.

There are many books written about each of these virtues. In this post I can only cover a brief introduction of each, and suggest some further reading. Finally, I have separated them into virtues of mind and heart only for the sake of exposition – in truth there is great overlap between both.

Let us begin by talking about the need to develop virtues holistically.

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What is a Virtue

Balanced self-development, tranquility, virtues list, parting thoughts.

A virtue is a positive character trait that is consider a foundation for living well, and a key ingredient to greatness.

For some, the word “virtue” may have a bit of a Victorian puritanism associated with it. This is not my understanding of it, nor is this the spirit of this article.

Rather, a virtue is a personal asset , a shield to protect us from difficulty, trouble, and suffering. Each virtue is a special sort of “power” that enables us to experience a level of well-being that we wouldn’t be able to access otherwise. Indeed, “virtue”comes from the latin virtus (force, worth, power).

Let’s take the virtue of equanimity as an example.

Developing equanimity protects us from suffering through the ups and downs of life, and saves us from the pain of being criticized, wronged, or left behind. It unlocks a new level of well-being: the emotional stability of knowing we will always be ok.

The same is true for every virtue discussed in this essay.

We all have certain personal qualities more naturally developed than the others. And our tendency is often to double-down on the virtues that we already have, rather than developing  complementary virtues . For instance, people who are good at self-discipline may focus on getting even better at that, and overlook the need to develop the opposing virtue of flexibility.

There is no doubt that we need to play our strengths . But when we focus solely on our strengths and use them to overcompensate our weaknesses, the result is often not good. We can become victims of our own blessings.

Let’s take the case of a person whose natural strength is compassion and kindness. In certain relationships, this might be abused by other people (directly or indirectly). Dealing with this situation by becoming kinder would not be wise. Instead, the opposing virtue of self-assertiveness (the courage of setting boundaries), is to be exercised.

Here are some other examples of virtues that are incomplete (and potentially harmful) in isolation:

• Tranquility without joy and energy is stale;
• Detachment and equanimity without love can be cold;
• Trust without wisdom can be blind;
• Morality without humility can be self-righteous;
• Love without wisdom can cause harm to oneself;
• Focus and courage without love and wisdom is just blind power.

It took me years to get to this precious insight – and I’ll probably need a lifetime to learn how to implement it. 😉

Funnily enough, afterwards I discovered that this was already a concept praised by the Stoics. In Stoicism, it is called anacoluthia , the mutual entailment of virtues.

The point is: we need to focus on our strengths, but we also need to pay attention to the virtues we lack the most. Any development in these areas, however small, has the potential to be life-changing. I go deeper into this topic here .

Have a look at your current strengths. What complementary virtues might you be overlooking?

Best Virtues of Mind

“Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.” – Anais Nin

Related qualities: boldness, fearlessness, decisiveness, leadership, assertiveness, confidence, magnanimity.

Courage says: “The consequences of this action might be painful for me, but it’s the right thing to do. I’ll do it.”

Courage is the ability to hold on to the feeling “I need to do this”, ignore the fear mongering thoughts, and take action. For a few, it is the absence of fear; for most, it’s the willingness to act despite fear.

Examples: It takes courage to expose yourself, to try something new, to change directions, to take a risk, to let go of an attachment, to say “I was wrong”, to have a difficult conversation, to trust yourself. Its manifestations are many, both in small and big things in life.

Without courage we feel powerless. Because we know what we want to do, or what we need to do, but we lack the boldness to take action. We default to the easy way out, the path of least resistance. It might feel comfortable now, but in the long term it doesn’t make us happy.

Recommended book: Daring Greatly (Brené Brown)

“The more tranquil a man becomes, the greater his success, his influence, his power for good. Calmness of mind is one of the beautiful jewels of wisdom.” – James Allen

Related qualities: serenity, calmness, non-reactivity, gentleness, peace, acceptance.

Tranquility says:  “There is no need to stress. All is well.”

Tranquility involves keeping your mind and heart calm, like the ocean’s depth. You take your time to perceive what’s going on and act purposefully, without agitation, without hurry, and without overreacting. On a deeper level, it means to diminish rumination, worries, and useless thinking.

Examples:  Taking a deep breath before answering an email or phone call, or before responding to the hurtful behavior of someone else. Being ok with the fact that things are often not going to go as we expect. Not brooding about the past or worrying too much about the future. Shunning busyness in favor of a more purposeful living. Not living in fight-or-flight mode.

Without tranquility we expend more energy than what’s really needed. We experience a constant feeling of stress, anxiety, or agitation in the back of our minds. And sometimes we may be fooling ourselves thinking we are being “active” or “productive”.

Recommended book: The Path to Tranquility (Dalai Lama)

“Success is going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.” -Winston Churchill

Related qualities: energy, enthusiasm, passion, vitality, zeal, perseverance, willpower, determination, discipline, self-control, resolution, mindfulness, steadfastness, tenacity, grit.

Diligence says: “I am committed to this work / habit / path. I will continue it no matter what , even in the face of challenges, discouragement, and tiredness.”

Some may say that it is the most essential virtue for success in any field – career, art, sports or business. It is about making a decision once, in something that is good for you, and then keeping it up despite adversities and mood fluctuations.

Examples: Deciding to stop smoking and never again lighting acigarette. Deciding that I will meditate every day and keeping that up, like a perfect habit chain. Showing up to train / study / work in your passion project day after day, regardless of how you feel. Always getting up as soon as you fall. Having an unbreakable, almost stubborn, determination. Treating challenges like energy bars.

Without diligence we can’t accomplish anything meaningful. We can’t properly take care of our health, finances, mind, or relationships. We give up on everything too soon. We can’t create good habits, break bad habits, or manifest the things we want in our lives. We are a victim of circumstances, social/familial conditioning, and genetics.

Recommended books: The Willpower Instinct (Kelly McGonigal), Grit  (Angela Duckworth), Power of Habit (Charles Duhhig)

“The powers of the mind are like the rays of the sun – when they are concentrated they illumine.” – Swami Vivekananda

Related qualities: concentration, one-pointedness, depth, contemplation, essentialism, meditation, orderliness.

Focus says: “I will ignore distractions, ignore the thousand different trivial things, and put all my energy in the most important thing. I will keep going deeper into what really matters. I can tame my own mind.”

Focus, the ability to control your attention, is the core skill of meditation . It involves bringing your mind, moment after moment, to dwell where you want it to dwell, rather than being pulled by the gravity of all the noise going on inside and outside of you.

Examples:  Bringing your mind again and again to your breathing or mantra , during meditation. Cutting down on social media, TV and gossip. Learning to say “no” to 90% of good  opportunities, so you can say yes to the 10% of  great  opportunities. Staying on your chosen path and not chasing the next shiny thing.

Without focus  our energy is dissipated and our progress in any field is limited (like moving one mile in ten directions, rather than ten miles in a single direction). Focus, together with motivation and diligence, is a type of fire, and as such it needs to be balanced with more water-like virtues.

Recommended book: Essentialism (Greg McKeown)

“Happy is the man who can endure the highest and lowest fortune. He who has endured such vicissitudes with equanimity has deprived misfortune of its power.” – Seneca the Younger

Related qualities: balance, temperance, patience, forbearance, tolerance, acceptance, resilience, fortitude.

Equanimity says: “In highs and lows, victory and defeat, pleasure and pain, gain or loss – I keep evenness of temper. Nothing can mess me up.”

It is the ability to accept the present moment without emotional reaction, without agitation. It’s being unfuckwithable  , imperturbable.

Examples:  Not going into despair when we miss an opportunity, or lose some money. Not feeling elated when praised, or discouraged when criticized. Not taking offense from other people. Not indulging in emotional reactions to gain or loss, whatever shape they take. Being modest in success, and gracious in defeat.

Without equanimity , life is an emotional roller-coaster. We are attached to the highs, which brings pain because they are short-lived. And we are uncomfortable (perhaps even fearful) with the lows – which  also brings pain, because they can’t be fully avoided.

Recommended book: Letters from a Stoic (Seneca), Dhammapada (Buddha)

“A great man is always willing to be little.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

Related qualities: modesty, humbleness, discretion, egolessness, lack of conceit, simplicity, prudence, respect.

Humility says: “There are many things that I don’t know. Every person I meet is my teacher in something.”

Humility is letting go of the desire to feel superior to other people, either by means of wealth, fame, intelligence, beauty, titles, or influence. It’s about not comparing yourself with others, to be either superior or inferior. In the words of C.S. Lewis, True humility is not about thinking less of yourself; it is thinking of yourself less . In the deepest sense, humility is about transcending the ego.

This virtue is especially needed for overachievers and “successful people”.

Examples: Accepting your own mistakes. Learning to see virtue and good in others. Not dwelling on vanity and feelings of inflated self-importance. Being genuinely happy with other people’s successes. Accepting the uncertainty of life, and how small we are.

Without humility , we live stuck in an ego trap which prevents us from growing beyond the confines of our self-interests, and also poisons our relationships.

Recommended books: Ego is the Enemy (Ryan Holiday),  Humility: An Unlikely Biography of America’s Greatest Virtue

“Always do what is right. It will gratify half of mankind and astound the other.” – Mark Twain

Related qualities: character, justice, honor, truthfulness, sincerity, honesty, responsibility, reliability, morality, righteousness, ethics, idealism, loyalty, dignity.

Integrity says: “I will do what is right, according to my conscience, even if nobody is looking. I will choose thoughts and words based on my values, not on personal gains. I will be radically honest and authentic, with myself and others.”

Like many virtues, integrity is about choosing what is best , rather than what is easy . It invites us to resist instant gratification in favor of a higher type of satisfaction – that of doing the right thing. It’s not about being moralistic, but about being congruent to our own conscience and values, in all our actions.

Examples: Refusing to distort the truth in order to gain personal benefits. Sticking to our words. Acting as though all our real intentions were publicly visible by others. Letting go of the “but I can get away with it” thinking. Not promising what you know you cannot fulfill.

Without integrity , we are not perceived as trustable or genuine. We make decisions that favor a short term gain but are likely to bring disastrous consequences in the long run.

Recommended books: Lying (Sam Harris), Yoga Morality (Georg Feuerstein)

“Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom” – Aristotle

Related qualities: intelligence, discernment, insight, understanding, knowledge, transcendence, perspective, discrimination, contemplation, investigation, clarity, vision.

Wisdom says: “Let me contemplate deeply on this. Let me understand it from the inside out. Let me know myself.”

Unlike the other virtues listed so far, wisdom it is not something that you can directly practice. Rather, it is the result of contemplation, introspection, study, and experience. It unveils the other virtues, informs them, and makes their practice easier. It points out the truth behind the surface, and the connection among things.

Without wisdom , we don’t really know what we are doing. Life is small, often confusing, and there might be a sense of purposelessness.

Recommended books: This depends on your taste for traditional and philosophy ( here is my list). Or you can also join my Practical Wisdom Newsletter .

Best Virtues of Heart

“You have to trust in something – your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever.” – Steve Jobs

Related qualities: optimism, faith, openness, devotion, hope.

Trust says: “There is something larger than me. Life flows better when I trust resources larger than my own, and when I see purpose in random events.”

Trust is not a whimsical expectation that things will happen according to your preference; but rather a faith that things will happen in favor of your greater good. As Tony Robbins says, it is the attitude that life is happening for you , not to you .

Examples: Not dwelling on negative interpretations of what has happened in your life. Trusting that there is something good to be learned or gained from any situation. Having the feeling that if you keep true to your path, things will eventually work out ok.

Without trust , life can feel lonely, scary, or unfair. You are on your own, in the midst of random events, in a cold and careless universe.

Recommended book: Radical Acceptance (Tara Brach)

“Remain cheerful, for nothing destructivecan piece through the solid wall of cheerfulness.” – Sri Chinmoy

Related qualities: contentment, cheerfulness, satisfaction, gratitude, humor, appreciation.

Joy says: “I am cheerful, content, happy, and grateful. There is always something good in anything that happens. I feel well in my own skin, without depending on anything else.”

The disposition for joy is something that can be consciously cultivated. It is often the result of good vitality in the body, peace of mind, and an attitude of appreciation. It is also a natural consequence of a deep meditation practice , and the letting go of clinging.

Examples: Feeling good as a result of the positive states you have cultivated in your body (health), mind (peace), and heart (gratitude).

Without joy we are unhappy, cranky, gloomy, pessimistic, bored, neurotic.

Recommended books: The How of Happiness (Sonja Lyubomirsky), The Book of Joy (Dalai Lama et ali)

“The tighter you squeeze, the less you have.” – Zen Saying

Related qualities: dispassion, non-attachment, forgiveness, letting go, moderation, flexibility, frugality.

Detachment says: “I interact with things, I experience things, but I do not own them. Everything passes. I can let them be, and let them go.”

Learning how to let go is one of the most important things in overcoming suffering. It doesn’t mean that we live life less intensely; rather, we do what we are called to do with zest, and then we step back and watch what happens, without anxiety. It doesn’t mean we don’t love, play, work, or seek with intensity; but rather that we are detached from the results, knowing that we have full control only over the effort we make.

At the deepest level, detachment is a disillusionment with external desires and goals, and there is the realization that the only reliable source of happiness is internal. It also involves not holding onto any particular state.

Examples: Not being anxious about what the future brings. Letting go when things need to go. “Opening the hand” of your mind and allowing things to flow as they will. Having the feeling of not needing  anything .

Without detachment,  we suffer loss again and again. We can be manipulated. The mind is an open field for worries, fear, and insecurity.

Recommended books: Letting Go (David R. Hawkins),  Everything Arises, Everything Falls Away (Ajahn Chah)

Check also my online course on the topic:  Letting Go, Letting Be .

“The more you lose yourself in something bigger than yourself, the more energy you will have.” – Norman Vincent Peale

Related qualities: love, compassion, friendliness, service, generosity, sacrifice, selflessness, cooperation, nonviolence, consideration, tact, sensitivity.

Kindness says: “I feel others as myself, and take pleasure in doing good for them, in giving and serving. I wish everyone well. The well-being of others is my well-being.”

Kindness and related virtues (love, compassion, consideration) is the core “social virtue”. It invites us to expand our sense of well-being to include others as well. It gives us the ability to put ourselves in another person’s shoes, and feel what they feel as if it is happening to us, and if appropriate do something about it. The result is the experience of the “helper’s high”, a mix of dopamine and oxytocin.

At it’s most basic level, this virtue tell us to do unto others as you would have them do unto you . At the deepest level, it says “We are all one”.

Examples: Offering a word of encouragement or advice. Listening without judgment. Helping someone in need, directly or indirectly. Teaching. Assuming the best in others. Volunteering. Doing something for someone who can never repay you.

Without kindness , we cannot build any true human connection, and we fail to experience a happiness that is larger than ourself.

Recommended books: The Power of Kindness (Pierro Ferrucci), Awakening Loving-Kindness (Pema Chodron)

Here is the full list of virtues. The ones that are very similar are grouped together.

• Acceptance. Letting go.
• Contentment. Joyfulness.
• Confidence. Boldness. Courage. Assertiveness.
• Forgiveness. Magnanimity. Clemency.
• Honesty. Authenticity. Truthfulness. Sincerity. Integrity.
• Kindness. Generosity. Compassion. Empathy. Friendliness.
• Loyalty. Trustworthiness. Reliability.
• Perseverance. Determination. Purposefulness. Tenacity.
• Willpower. Self-control. Fortitude. Self-discipline.
• Loyalty. Commitment. Responsibility.
• Caringness. Consideration. Support. Service.
• Cooperation. Unity.
• Humility. Simplicity.
• Creativity. Imagination.
• Detachment.
• Wisdom. Thoughtfulness. Insight.
• Dignity. Honor. Respect.
• Energy. Motivation. Zest. Enthusiasm. Passion.
• Resilience. Grit. Tolerance. Patience.
• Excellence.
• Orderliness. Purity. Clarity.
• Prudence. Awareness. Tactfulness. Preparedness.
• Temperance. Balance. Moderation.
• Justice. Fairness.
• Trust. Faith. Hope. Optimism.
• Calmnes. Serenity. Centeredness. Peace.
• Grace. Elegance. Gentleness.
• Flexibility. Adaptability.

Developing these virtues is a life-long process. We’ll probably never be perfect at them. But the more we cultivate them, the better our life becomes. And, chances are, simply reading about these virtues has already enlivened them in you.

One simple way of cultivating these virtues is to focus on a single virtue each week (or month), and look daily for opportunities to put that chosen quality into practice. Keep asking yourself throughout the day, “What does it mean to be [virtue]?”

However, if you want to develop them more systematically, with practical exercises and support, consider joining my Intermediate Meditation Course . In this online program, besides learning 10 different types of meditation, you will find lessons focused on developing 10 different character strengths/virtues.

Another option is to work in person with me as your coach .

Every step taken on developing these virtues is valuable. By developing them we grow as a person, expand our awareness, and have better tools to live a happy and meaningful life.

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True modesty is not to be timid or meek but a way of being in the world that means you don’t get in the way of your life

Nicolas Bommarito

Virtue: Can It Be Taught?

Aug 9, 2017

by Russell Kirk

A re there men and women in America today of virtue sufficient to withstand and repel the forces of disorder? Or have we, as a people, grown too fond of creature-comforts and a fancied security to venture our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor in any cause at all? “The superior man thinks always of virtue,” Confucius told his disciples; “the common man thinks of comfort.” Such considerations in recent years have raised up again that old word “virtue,” which in the first half of this century had sunk almost out of sight.

ln this essay I shall venture first to offer you a renewed apprehension of what “virtue” means; and then to suggest how far it may be possible to restore an active virtue in our public and our private life. If we lack virtue, we will not long continue to enjoy comfort—not in an age when Giant ldeology and Giant Envy swagger balefully about the world.

The concept of virtue, like most other concepts that have endured and remain worthy of praise, has come down to us from the Greeks and the Hebrews. ln its classical signification, “virtue” means the power of anything to accomplish its specific function; a property capable of producing certain effects; strength, force, potency. Thus one refersto the “deadly virtue” of the hemlock. Thus also the word “virtue” implies a mysterious energetic power, as in the Gospel According to Saint Mark: “Jesus, immediately knowing that virtue had gone out of him, turned him about in the press, and said, Who touched my clothes?” Was it, we may ask, that virtue of Jesus which scorched the Shroud of Turin?

Virtue, then, meant in the beginning some extraordinary power. The word was applied to the sort of person we might now call “the charismatic leader.” By extension, “virtue” came to imply the qualities of full humanity: strength, courage, capacity, worth, manliness, moral excellence. And presently “virtue” came to signify, as well, moral goodness: the practice of moral duties and the conformity of life to the moral law; uprightness; rectitude.

ln recent decades, many folk seemingly grew embarrassed by this word virtue; perhaps for them it had too stern a Roman ring. They made the word “integrity” do duty for the discarded “virtue.” Now “integrity” signifies wholeness or completeness; freedom from corruption; soundness of principle and character. You will gather that “integrity” is chiefly a passive quality, somewhat deficient in the vigor of “virtue.” People of integrity may be the salt of the earth; yet a rough age requires some people possessed of an energetic virtue.

When we say that a man or a woman is virtuous, what do we mean? Plato declared that there are four chief virtues of the soul: justice, prudence, temperance, and fortitude. (Of these, the virtue most required in a statesman is prudence, Plato remarked.) To these classical virtues, Saint Paul added the theological virtues: faith, hope, and charity. These constitute the Seven Virtues of the Schoolmen. Against them are set the Seven Deadly Sins: pride, avarice, lust, anger, gluttony, envy, and sloth. Incidentally, there was a more specific medieval list of “the sins that cry out to heaven for vengeance”: oppression of the poor, willful murder, sodomy, and defrauding a laborer of his wages.

Such formulas of the cardinal and the theological virtues have been fixed in the minds of many of us, either through church teachings or through humane letters. Yet virtue is something more than the sum of its seven parts. From the sixth century before Christ down to the twentieth century, this word “virtue” carried with it the strong suggestion ofpublic leadership. The truly virtuous man would assume public duties, the ancients believed. Take these words from Cicero’s Republic : “What can be more noble than the government of the state by virtue? For then the man who rules others is not himself a slave to any passion, but has already acquired for himself all those qualities to which he is training and summoning his fellows. Such a man imposes no laws upon the people that he does not obey himself, but puts his own life before his fellow-citizens as their law.”

By the “virtuous man,” that is, the classical writers meant a leader in statecraft and in war, one who towered above his fellow-citizens, a person in whom courage, wisdom, self-restraint, and just dealing were conspicuous. They meant a being of energy and force, moved almost by a power out of himself.

How was this virtue, this conspicuous merit and talent to lead, acquired by men and women? That question provoked the famous debate between Socrates and Aristophanes. Socrates argued that virtue and wisdom at bottom are one. When first I read Socrates’ argument, I being then a college freshman, this seemed to me an insupportable thesis; for we all have known human beings of much intelligence and cleverness whose light is as darkness. After considerable experience of the world and the passage of more than four decades, to me Socrates’ argument seems yet more feeble.

And so it seemed to Aristophanes. The sophists—that is, the teachers of rhetoric and prudence, Socrates among them—professed that they could teach virtue to the rising generation. Through development of the private rationality, those teachers declared, they could form talented leaders within the state: men of virtue, or charismatic power, endowed with the talents required for private and public success.

To the great comic poet, this notion seemed a dangerous absurdity. Greatness of soul and good character are not formed by hired tutors, Aristophanes maintained: virtue is “natural,” not an artificial development. Who possesses virtue? Why, not some presumptuous elite of young men trailing effeminately after some sophist or other. The true possessors of virtue are the men of the old families, reared to righteousness and courage, brought up in good moral habits, from their earliest years accustomed to discipline and duty. Their prudence and their daring defend the state. Just how far the hero-poet Aristophanes believed virtue to be inherited, and how far he took it to be nurtured by family example and tradition, we do not know at this remove. But it is clear that Aristophanes laughed to scorn the thesis that virtue may be imparted by schoolmasters.

The Greek teachers of philosophy, nevertheless, Plato and Aristotle eminent among them, refused to abandon their attempt to impart virtue through appeal to reason. A kind of compromise was reached in Aristotle’s Ethics . There Aristotle argues that virtue is of two kinds: moral, and intellectual. Moral virtue grows out of habit (ethos); it is not natural, but neither is moral virtue opposed to nature. Intellectual virtue, on the other hand, may be developed and improved through systematic instruction—which requires time. ln other words, moral virtue appears to be the product of habits formed early in family, class, neighborhood; while intellectual virtue may be taught through instruction in philosophy, literature, history, and related disciplines.

The experience of the Romans during their republican centuries may serve to delineate the two different kinds of virtue. So late as the period of Polybius, the Roman citizens retained their “high old Roman virtue,” the product of tradition and deference to example, of habits acquired within the family. They maintained the virtues of reverence, seriousness, equitableness, firmness of purpose, tenacity, hard work, steadiness, frugality, unselfishness, self-restraint—and other virtues besides. All these were habits that grew into virtues.

Then came to Rome the Greek philosophers, with much abstract talk of virtue. But the more the sophists praised an abstract virtue, the more did the mores maiorum , the ancient manners or habits of Rome, sink into neglect. Ancestral ways diminished in power; ethical speculation spread. Although the high old Roman virtue was not altogether extinguished until the final collapse of Romanitas before the barbarian wanderers, by the time of Nero and Seneca there had come to exist, side by side, a fashionable array of ethical teachings, derived from Greek sources—and a general decay of public and private morals, from the highest social classes to the lowest.

This Roman experience seems to justify the argument of Aristophanes that virtue cannot be taught in schools. Rather, the sprig of virtue is nurtured in the soil of sound prejudice; healthful and valorous habits are formed; and, in the phrase of Burke, “a man’s habit becomes his virtue.” A resolute and daring character, dutiful and just, may be formed accordingly.

During the Korean war, only one American soldier taken prisoner and confined in North Korea succeeded in escaping and making his way back to his own lines—a sergeant named Pate, set down in his captors’ records as a “reactionary.” Sergeant Pate, an unlettered man, was possessed of the Roman virtues of disciplina, firmitas, constantia , and frugalitas . His father, Pate remarked, had taught him only two principles: first, if a man calls you a liar, knock him down; if he calls you a son of a bitch, kill him. Ethical instruction in casuistry might have made Sergeant Pate less resistant to Communist indoctrination and less resolute in his daring escape: that is, less virtuous. For virtue, we should remember, is energy of soul employed for the general good.

Intellectual virtue divorced from moral virtue may wither into a loathsome thing. Robespierre was called by his admirers “the voice of virtue”; certainly Robespierre (who justified the slaughter of his opponents by coining the aphorism that one can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs) was forever prating of virtue. “Virtue was always in a minority on the earth,” said that murderous prig, the “Sea-Green Incorruptible.” That sort of intellectual virtue, an aspect of what I have called defecated rationality, still rises up perennially in Paris, and is exported to Ethiopia, to Cambodia, to any national soil that seems ready-furrowed for this poisonous seed. Intellectual virtue, genus Robespierre, is a kind of delusory ethical snobbery, ferocious and malicious, annihilating ordinary human beings because they are not angels.

The abstract intellectual virtue of the Parisian coffee-house intellectual, I am suggesting, is a world away from the habitual high old Roman virtue. The virtues of the statesmen and soldiers of the early American Republic were not at all allied to the bloody fanatical “virtue” that was to arise during the French Revolution. So if we aspire to renew American virtue near the close of the twentieth century, surely we will do well to look with skepticism upon proposals for some sort of abstract “civil religion.” An arid virtue that is intellectual only must be unreliable at best, and dangerous often. From time to time in recent years, various educational instrumentalists and progressivists have advocated the public teaching of a “religion of democracy”—that is, a public ethic founded upon ideological premises. Such an artificial intellectual contraption, with no better footing, would be mischievous in its consequences.

A false, carping, malicious “virtue” is worse than no virtue at all. The urgent need of the United States of America, near the end of the twentieth century, is for a virtue arising from habit and affection, rather than from ideological preaching. Without such a renewed true virtue, our commonwealth may not endure. I think of the words of Simone Weil concerning our era, in her “Reflections on Quantum Theory”:

“It is as though we had returned to the age of Protagoras and the Sophists, the age when the art of persuasion—whose modern equivalent is advertising slogans, publicity, propaganda meetings, the press, the cinema, and radio—took the place of thought and controlled the fate of cities and accomplished coups d’état. So the ninth book of Plato’s Republic reads like a description of contemporary events. Only today it is not the fate of Greece but of the entire world that is at stake. And we have no Socrates or Plato or Eudoxus, no Pythagorean tradition, and no teaching of the Mysteries. We have the Christian tradition, but it can do nothing for us unless it comes alive in us again.”

Just so. It is not propaganda nor productivity nor intellectuality that has power to invigorate America at the crisis of the nation’s fate. By virtue are nations defended. But virtue in this land of ours seemingly never lay at a lower ebb. The instruments of false persuasion listed by Simone Weil—the tools of the philodoxers, the purveyors of delusory opinion—have been increased in cleverness since she wrote, by the triumph of television. ln no previous age have family influence, sound early prejudice, and good early habits been so broken in upon by outside force as in our own time. Moral virtue among the rising generation is mocked by the inanity of television, by pornographic films, by the twentieth-century cult of the “peer group.” By example and precept, until quite recently, grandparents and parents conveyed to young people—or a considerable part ofthem—some notion of virtue, even if the word itself was not well understood. The decay of family, worked by modern affluence and modern mobility, has mightily diminished all that. As for the influence of the churches—why, more is left of it in the United States than in most countries; but in the typical “mainline” church an amorphous humanitarianism has supplanted the emphasis upon virtue that runs through the Christian tradition.

And so we return, finding ourselves in circumstances very like those of the Greeks of the fifth century, to the ancient question, “Can virtue be taught?”

L et me confess at once my inability to provide any simple formula, promptly applicable, for the widespread renewal of the pursuit of virtue. Some people fancy that if only schools would turn their attention systematically and earnestly to this problem, relief soon would follow. But it will not do to become so sanguine.

For Aristophanes was right, I believe, in proclaiming (in The Clouds and elsewhere) that moral virtue is not learnt in schools. lf good moral habits are acquired at all, they are got ordinarily within the family, within the neighborhood, within the circle of close associates in youth; often good moral habits, or bad ones, are fixed by the age of seven, little more than a year after school has begun for the typical child. The early life of the household and the early life of the streets count for immensely much; and I need not try your patience by expatiating mightily on the sort of character (or lack thereof) formed by the childhood associations and impressions of a large part of our urban population—or, for that matter, our suburban population. I do not refer to the ADC slums merely. ln the affluent household too, when parents’ opinions and tastes are shaped by incessant watching of television, we need not wonder that children learn the price of everything and the value of nothing.

Boys and girls will model themselves, if they can, upon exemplars. But what sort of exemplars? Rock stars, and the fancied personalities of the heroes and heroines of the soap operas, have become the exemplars for a multitude of American young people in their most formative years. Rarely are such persons, or pseudo-persons, admirable mentors.

Enjoying the good fortune to grow up before television did, I found, when a boy, another sort of exemplar, who taught me of virtue by example, and to a lesser extent by precept: my grandfather, who died at my own present age. He was a generous and popular bank manager and local public man, who had a short way (several times) with bank robbers. Also he possessed important books, and read them and good periodicals, and helped to develop my own relish for reading. My grandfather was endowed with the cardinal and the theological virtues (if the latter in a form somewhat skeptical and heterodox). By conversing with him and watching him (he all unaware, probably, of the power of his influence upon me), I learned what it is to be a man.

At no time could every family provide such an exemplar; yet time was when emulation within the family amounted to more than it does nowadays. My relationship with my grandfather made it easy for me to understand Aristophanes’ implicit argument that virtue arises easily, if mysteriously, among families. My grandfather had many virtues and no vices. I assumed then, somewhat naively, that the Republic had sufficient such leaders and molders of opinion as my grandfather, and would have enough such always.

But perhaps I digress. My point is this: the recovery of virtue in America depends in great part upon the reinvigoration of family. That is another subject, sufficiently vast in itself; perhaps I may be permitted to discuss it some day in another lecture. It would be vain for us to pretend that schools and colleges somehow could make amends for all the neglect of character resulting from the inadequacies of the American family of the Eighties. With some few exceptions, men and women have acquired their virtues or their vices quite outside the classroom. (There comes into my mind’s eye a glimpse of Catholic young men, in a Jesuit university, diligently cheating at an examination concerning Aquinas’s “On Truth.”) If the family continues to decay in its functions, so will virtue continue to decline in our society. I offer you no placebo, in either the liturgical or the medicinal signification of that word. Placebo Domino in regione vivorum? Nay, but the man or woman brought up without moral virtue shall not be acceptable to the Lord in the land of the living.

Having turned liturgical for the moment, I venture a few words about the churches. Rather as some people expect too much from the schools concerning virtue, so other people count overly much upon churches and clergymen as molders of virtuous character. For Jeremy Bentham notwithstanding, the Church is not a moral police force. What the Church always has been meant to do, really, is to offer a pattern for ordering the soul of the believer; and to open a window upon the transcendent realm of being. It is true that mastery of the theological virtues ought to follow upon sincere belief, and that sometimes it does so follow. Certainly there would be little virtue in our civilization, and quite possibly there would exist no modern civilization at all, were it not for Christian preaching of the theological virtues. From the discipline of the theological virtues issue saints from time to time, as from the discipline of the cardinal virtues issue heroes. Yet it will not do to expect priest or minister to fill the vacuum left by the disappearance of family exemplar or mentor.

Now the churches of America, nevertheless, ought to do far more good work toward the renewal of virtue among persons than they actually are performing nowadays. I do not mean that the Church should become censorious as it was in Scotland in Knox’s day, or as it was in New England in my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather’s years at Plymouth. I do mean that the Church ought to address itself less to prudential considerations of the hour’s politics—at which business the Church usually demonstrates its incompetence—and much more to showing the pertinence of the theological virtues to our present discontents, private and public.

Certain developments within theological colleges, here and there, encourage me to think that such an alteration of approach has commenced. And it is altogether possible that a general widespread renewal of faith in the supernatural and transcendent character of Christian belief may come to pass within the next few years—a phenomenon more tremendous than the Great Awakening ushered in by Wesley and others two centuries ago. But to pursue that possibility here would lead me to the mysteries of the Shroud of Turin; I must stick to my last.

However that may be, the present influence of the Christian churches is not calculated to bring about much revival of the concept or the practice of the virtues, theological or cardinal. Most graduates of seminaries seem incapable today of discussing virtue, or particular virtues, with much historical or philosophical insight. For the moment, we must not look to institutional Christianity for rousing moral virtue; as Simone Weil suggests in the passage I quoted earlier, the Christian moral tradition lies dormant (at best) in modern hearts; if it is to come alive again, probably it must be revivified by some outer power.

The moral virtue which grows out of habit being difficult of attainment in our era, people tum their attention to intellectual virtue. It was so in the fifth and fourth centuries before Christ. The whole great philosophical achievement of Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, indeed, was an endeavor to impart intellectual virtue to the rising generation, moral virtue having shriveled in an age when “the rude son may strike the father dead.” Far from having much immediate practical effect upon theyoung people of their time, the effort of Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle was a failure. (The fact that Aristotle schooled in philosophy a future great king did not produce any general alteration of minds and hearts.) Finding the old Greek religion and morality enfeebled, and moral habits much impaired, Socrates endeavored to substitute for habitual moral virtue the identification of virtue with wisdom: intellectual virtue. The immediate benefits of this venture were not obvious: Alcibiades and Critias were among Socrates’ more successful disciples. Virtue of a sort was theirs; but not the virtue of moral worth.

Yet there have been times when intellectual virtue has been imparted successfully. Such, in British North America, was the second half of the eighteenth century, when there was developed a class of able persons (enduring as a class so late as the 1830s) who knew the meaning of virtue. Theirs was the schooling of English gentlemen of the age, deliberately intended to bring home the idea and the reality of virtue to those members of the rising generation presumably destined to be leading men of their society—whether (in Burke’s phrases) “men of actual virtue” or “men of presumptive virtue.” (This distinction is one between “enterprising talents” and inherited rank and wealth.)

And how were such young persons schooled in virtue? They were required to read carefully, in the classical languages (chiefly in Latin), certain enduring books that dealt much with virtue. ln particular, they studied Cicero, Vergil, and Plutarch, among the ancients. They memorized Cicero’s praise of virtuous Romans; they came to understand Vergil’s labor, pietas, fatum; they immersed themselves in the lives of Plutarch’s Greeks and Romans “of excellent virtue”—men in whom the energy of virtue had flamed up fiercely.

It does not follow that we, in our time, could produce such a generation of leaders as signed the Declaration and wrote the Constitution, were we suddenly to sweep all rubbish and boondoggle and driver training out of the typical American school curriculum, and install instead the required reading of 1775, say. For that study and reflection necessary for the attainment of intellectual virtue cannot unaided put flesh upon virtue’s dry bones. For intellectual virtue to become active virtue—whether after the fashion of Washington or the fashion of Robespierre—favorable circumstances must occur. In the Thirteen Colonies, the altered relationships between Britain’s Crown-in-Parliament and the dominant classes in America provided opportunity for the Americans schooled in virtue—particularly, though by no means exclusively, the men of actual virtue—to take power into their hands. And by 1832, the last survivors from America’s intellectual-virtue school of earlier decades (John Quincy Adams, in particular) were being thrust aside by men of another pattern.

It is possible for schools of intellectual virtue to endure a great while, and to exert a very strong practical influence. ln essence, the famous public schools (together with many good “private” boarding schools) of England have been for centuries centers for imparting intellectual virtue to boys who presumably have obtained (most of them, anyway) a good deal of moral virtue within their own families. Such, at least, has been the aspiration of the British public schools, represented at their best by the ideas and methods of Dr. Thomas Arnold. Probably the days of the public schools and the boarding schools generally are numbered in Britain now. But the long history of those schools suggests that intellectual virtue was better imparted in England than in Greece. At the English schools, until recent decades, the core of the discipline of intellectual virtue was the study of Cicero, Vergil, Plutarch, and classical literature generally.

ln these United States, scarcely a school remains, I suppose, where the notion of intellectual virtue still is entertained. A fair amount of the content of such studies, nevertheless, used to be conveyed by literary and historical courses in American intermediate and secondary schooling. That remnant has been trickling away—and not in America only. C. S. Lewis, four decades ago, assailed the corruption of school courses in humane letters in England; he found the new textbooks sneering at virtue of any sort. Great literature used to train the emotions, Lewis wrote:

“Without the aid of trained emotions the intellect is powerless against the animal organism. I had sooner play cards against a man who was quite skeptical about ethics, but bred to believe that ‘a gentleman does not cheat,’ than against an irreproachable moral philosopher who had been brought up among sharpers. ln battle it is not syllogisms that will keep the reluctant nerves and muscles to their post in the third hour of the bombardment.… And all this time—such is the tragicomedy of our situation—we continue to clamour for those very qualities we are rendering impossible. You can hardly open a periodical without coming across the statement that what our civilization needs is more ‘drive,’ or dynamics, or self-sacrifice, or ‘creativity.’ ln a sort of ghastly simplicity we remove the organ and demand the function. We make men without chests and expect of them virtue and enterprise. We laugh at honour and are shocked to find traitors in our midst. We castrate and bid the geldings be fruitful.”

We are worse off still, in the Eighties. So far, what attempts we have made in America to impart virtue once more have been confined principally to “research projects” (usually with plenty of public funds behind them) in that hideous sham called “values clarification.” But I am descending into bathos.

Can virtue be taught? Why, it can be learnt, though more through a kind of illative process than as a formal program of study. Surely it cannot be taught by those incompetent and chameleon-like intellectuals whom Solzhenitsyn calls “the Smatterers.” Few seem competent to teach virtue in our Republic nowadays; and relatively few hungry sheep look up to be fed.

Yet adversity, which we Americans seem liable to experience sharply and suddenly in this present decade, frequently opens the way for the impulse toward virtue. The terrible adversity endured by decent folk in Soviet Russia forged the virtue of Solzhenitsyn, a hero for our age.Only rags and tatters of the old moral virtue survived in Russia after the triumphs of Lenin and of Stalin; Solzhenitsyn and some other Russians of moral vision found it necessary to raise up intellectual virtue from the ashes of revolution. They have succeeded, in the sense that Socrates and Plato succeeded; whether their reconstruction of virtue will take on flesh more swiftly than did the Greek reconstitution, we do not yet know.

“Feed men, and then ask them of virtue,” is the slogan upon the banners of the Anti-Christ, in Solovyov’s romance. We have done just that in this Republic, since the Second World War. We Americans have grown very well fed, very much starved for virtue. Nowhere is this more amply illustrated than in Washington. Whether or not virtue can be taught, we have not troubled our heads with it, or our hearts. When the Rough Beast slouches upon us, what Theseus or Perseus, incandescent with the energy of virtue, will draw his sword?

Modern Age , Summer/Fall 1982

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Humility, Prudence, and Other Lost Virtues

Democracy requires compromise, and compromise requires the two virtues lacking most in American society–prudence and humility. What hope is there, then, now that technology and social media have only deepened the virtue deficit?

Eight years later, under orders from President Vladimir Putin, Russia invaded Ukraine. It turns out twenty years is really not all that long of a time. Who is laughing now? Not the Ukrainians and not the people who are hosting refugees from that war-battered country. Nor, I would hazard a guess, are those Russian soldiers who seem not to have known initially that they were invading Ukraine. And certainly not Europeans, whose governments are contemplating a predictable slate of unwise economic policies as they find themselves in an energy war with winter approaching. As now-Senator Romney lamented right after the unprovoked invasion, with all the legitimate aplomb of a child’s “I told you so,” “The ‘80s called, and we didn’t answer.”

Yet there is another problem, easily lost amid the war and human suffering: how the decline of the virtues most needed by statesmen, humility and prudence, contributed to these unfolding horrors.

Employing a well-practiced “gotcha” line was not new in 2012 but we need not go all the way back to Pericles or Cicero for examples. George Washington’s first secretary of state, Thomas Jefferson, said of Secretary of War Henry Knox that he was “as fat as he is stupid.” That is a nasty tweet, with characters to spare. Never mind that Knox had gone from bookstore owner to chief of artillery to secretary of war (both for the Confederation and for the Union under the Constitution) due to his brilliance. Washington’s vice president, John Adams, called Secretary of Treasury Alexander Hamilton the “bastard son of a Scotch peddler.” Hamilton’s pedigree means one need not take his ideas seriously, Adams seemed to be saying. To Obama’s credit, in his cheeky bid to avoid a real argument at least he tried to be funny, even if he had to ignore hundreds of years of Russian and Ukrainian history and the living memory of the Cold War and Soviet Union’s demise to do it.

Reducing complex issues, global power politics, and any public policy into one sentence is not conducive to the civility, magnanimity, and intellectual processes needed for a free society to flourish. Doing so performs a double disservice, in that even while it redirects one from issues to personalities it also kills the search for truth by ignoring the need for real arguments, even ones made with magnanimity. The human mind was created to seek and know the truth, and to find pleasure in it when it is found. Democracy requires compromise, and compromise requires the two virtues lacking most in American society–prudence and humility.

Prudence, explained Russell Kirk in his landmark 1953 book, The Conservative Mind, “is pre-eminently an attainment of classical philosophy,” while humility is “a triumph of Christian discipline. Without them, man must be miserable; and man destitute of piety hardly can perceive either of these rare and blessed qualities.” Aristotle defined prudence as the use of reason to grasp the truth in order to act for the good. The blessings of prudence are knowable by reason alone. They were first explicated by the ancient Greeks and the laboratory that proves their value is human history. The Romans believed prudence to be their great gift. Prudence involves considering both short-term and long-term effects of our actions, as well as weighing possible unintended consequences, in light of reason, history, and what we know about human behavior.

Humility, on the other hand, is a Christian virtue one of the so-called “theological virtues.” Knowing what we know about human nature, we assume grace is necessary in order to be humble. Being humble, apparently, is too difficult to achieve by non-supernatural means. The Romans may have been prudent but in their drive to rule the world they certainly were not humble. Humility involves a docility to truth, both about the world and about oneself. Put differently, humility demands magnanimity toward others because it recognizes we lack perfect knowledge of the world and of the reasons people behave the way they do. Humility has in common with prudence a recognition of humanity’s limits. There are limits on what we can know as well as what we can do. A truly humble person will not give in to the idyllic imagination and become a utopian ideologue.

The Austrian economist Friedrich Hayek referred to this as “the knowledge problem” when trying to counter the hubris inherent to managerial economies that aimed to replace the millions of people making uncountable daily decisions with a room of central planning experts determined to program choice and direct human exchange. Nobody, said Hayek, possesses such knowledge “in concentrated or integrated form.” Indeed, each of us knows only “the dispersed bits of incomplete and frequently contradictory knowledge which all the separate individuals possess.”

If what Hayek says is true, then one ought to be humble, and not just when it comes to economics. This humility will lead to prudence when it comes to governance, including geopolitics. Prudence cannot have space to work, however, where soundbites and gotcha tweets rule. These crowd out serious deliberation and argument. Right reason gives way to an intellectually lazy dismissal, and along with it, prudence.

What hope is there, then, now that technology and social media have only deepened the virtue deficit? To paraphrase the great orator, Cicero, who lived at the time of the Roman Republic’s decline into instability, impiety, and autocracy, “silent prudence” is always better than “loquacious folly.” We may live in an age of succinct folly but the first part of Cicero’s dictum still applies. Silence involves listening, for one cannot argue without first listening to one’s opponent. As the writer of Ecclesiastes reminds us, “The words of the wise are heard in silence, more than the cry of a prince among fools.” Thankfully, Solomon has not yet called and asked for his wisdom back.

This essay was first published here in September 2022.

The Imaginative Conservative  applies the principle of appreciation to the discussion of culture and politics—we approach dialogue with magnanimity rather than with mere civility. Will you help us remain a refreshing oasis in the increasingly contentious arena of modern discourse? Please consider  donating now .

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Prudence, Justice, Temperance and Fortitude can serve as habitual guides for political, community, business and family leadership. Thanks John for so solidly framing prudence and humility.

A wonderfully provocative essay, Mr. Pinheiro.

Jordan Peterson recently published an examination that sheds light onto the destructive psychology and societal ills that social media, and in particular twitter, causes and the inevitable outcomes that we are experiencing. I am so thankful I exorcised those demons from my life over five years ago. My perspective on issues and events is so different than most of those I encounter.

T.I.C. serves as an anchor for framing how I approach this crazy world. Thank you to the staff and leadership for being firm in finding and supporting essays like this one!

Thank you, sir.

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Home — Essay Samples — Life — Respect — 250-Word on Respect

250-word on Respect

• Categories: Respect Values

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Published: Jun 24, 2024

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Thou Shalt Not Post the Ten Commandments in the Classroom

By David French

Opinion Columnist

There is a certain irony in the bravado about the Ten Commandments from Gov. Jeff Landry of Louisiana. On Saturday he told attendees at a Republican fund-raiser, “I can’t wait to be sued.” Clearly, he knows that the Supreme Court previously ruled against mandatory displays of the Ten Commandments in the classroom. In a 1980 case, Stone v. Graham , the Supreme Court struck down a Kentucky law that required the posting of the Ten Commandments, purchased through private donations, in every public school classroom in the state.

A Louisiana law requiring the display of the Ten Commandments in every public classroom in the state defies this precedent, so, yes, the state will be sued .

But Landry’s comments didn’t stop with bravado. He also said something else. “If you want to respect the rule of law,” he told the guests, “you’ve got to start from the original lawgiver, which was Moses.” To teach respect for the rule of law, he’s defying the Supreme Court? That’s an interesting message to send to students.

It’s consistent with an emerging Republican approach to constitutional law. Just as many Republicans view their constituency as composed of the “real” Americans, they tend to believe their interpretation of the Constitution represents the “real” Constitution. So we’re seeing a flurry of culture-war-motivated state laws , many of them aimed at the First Amendment, that confront precedent.

The Dobbs decision gave some Republicans hope for radical change, but reversing Roe has not signaled open season on the court’s rulings. Republicans’ challenges to the Voting Rights Act failed , the independent state legislature theory foundered , and efforts to expand the standing doctrine to limit access to the abortion pill faltered. Even so, it’s premature to declare that the Supreme Court is frustrating the MAGA right.

Altering constitutional law is not the only motivation here; a version of Christian mysticism is also in play. There is a real belief that the Ten Commandments have a form of spiritual power over the hearts and minds of students and that posting the displays can change their lives.

I’m an evangelical Christian who believes in God and the divine inspiration of Scripture, but I do not believe that documents radiate powers of personal virtue. I happened to grow up in Kentucky and went to classes before the Ten Commandments were ordered removed, and I can testify that the displays had no impact on our lives. My classmates and I were not better people because of the faded posters on the walls.

David French is an Opinion columnist, writing about law, culture, religion and armed conflict. He is a veteran of Operation Iraqi Freedom and a former constitutional litigator. His most recent book is “Divided We Fall: America’s Secession Threat and How to Restore Our Nation .” You can follow him on Threads ( @davidfrenchjag ).