Principia Ethica quotes

But, if we understand the question in this sense, my answer to it may seem a very disappointing one.

If I am asked “What is good?” my answer is that good is good, and that is the end of the matter.

Or if I am asked “How is good to be defined?” my answer is that it cannot be defined, and that is all I have to say about it. But disappointing as these answers may appear, they are of the very last importance.

7. Let us, then, consider this position.

My point is that “good” is a simple notion, just as “yellow” is a simple notion; that, just as you cannot, by any manner of means, explain to anyone who does not already know it, what yellow is, so you cannot explain what good is.

Definitions of the kind that I was asking for, definitions which describe the real nature of the object or notion denoted by a word, and which do not merely tell us what the word is used to mean, are only possible when the object or …

… was asking for, definitions which describe the real nature of the object or notion denoted by a word, and which do not merely tell us what the word is used to mean, are only possible when the object or notion in question is something complex.

You can give a definition of a horse, because a horse has many different properties and qualities, all of which you can enumerate.

But when you have enumerated them all, when you have reduced a horse to his simplest terms, then you can no longer define those terms.

But how perfectly absurd is the reason they would give for it! “You are to do this, because most people use a certain word to denote conduct such as this.”

“You are to say the thing which is not, because most people call it lying.” That is an argument just as good!

—My dear sirs, what we want to know from you as ethical teachers, is not how people use a word; it is not even, what kind of actions they approve, which the use of this word “good” may certainly imply:

“You are to do this, because most people use a certain word to denote conduct such as this.” “You are to say the thing which is not, because most people call it lying.” That is an argument just as good!—

My dear sirs, what we want to know from you as ethical teachers, is not how people use a word; it is not even, what kind of actions they approve, which the use of this word “good” may certainly imply: what we want to know is simply what is good.

We may indeed agree that what most people do think good, is actually so; we shall at all events be glad to know their opinions: but when we say their opinions about what is good, we do mean what we say;

All that I have said about it would remain quite equally true: only the name which I have called it would not be so appropriate as I think it is.

And I do not care about the name: what I do care about is the fallacy.

It does not matter what we call it, provided we recognise it when we meet with it. It is to be met with in almost every book on Ethics; and yet it is not recognised:

We should find we had to hold that an orange was exactly the same thing as a stool, a piece of paper, a lemon, anything you like.

We could prove any number of absurdities; but should we be the nearer to the truth?

Why, then, should it be different with “good”? Why, if good is good and indefinable, should I be held to deny that pleasure is good? Is there any difficulty in holding both to be true at once?

It is absolutely useless, so far as Ethics is concerned, to prove, as Mr. Spencer tries to do, that increase of pleasure coincides with increase of life, unless good means something different from either life or pleasure.

He might just as well try to prove that an orange is yellow by showing that it always is wrapped up in paper.

13. In fact, if it is not the case that “good” denotes something simple and indefinable, only two alternatives are possible: either it is a complex, a given whole, about the correct analysis of which there may be disagreement;

but it is, at least, possible, and this possibility must be taken into account in our ethical investigations. However we may decide particular questions, the principle is clear.

The value of a whole must not be assumed to be the same as the sum of the values of its parts.

A single instance will suffice to illustrate the kind of relation in question. It seems to be true that to be conscious of a beautiful object is a thing of great intrinsic value;

and that when we are told to pursue health as a natural end, what is implied is that the normal must be good. But is it so obvious that the normal must be good? Is it really obvious that health, for instance, is good?

Was the excellence of Socrates or of Shakespeare normal? Was it not rather abnormal, extraordinary?

It is, I think, obvious in the first place, that not all that is good is normal; that, on the contrary, the abnormal is often better than the normal: peculiar excellence, as well as peculiar viciousness, must obviously be not normal but abnormal.

That health, when the word is used to denote something good, is good, goes no way at all to show that health, when the word is used to denote something normal, is also good.

We might as well say that, because “bull” denotes an Irish joke and also a certain animal, the joke and the animal must be the same thing.

We must not, therefore, be frightened by the assertion that a thing is natural into the admission that it is good; good does not, by definition, mean anything that is natural;

We might as well say that, because “bull” denotes an Irish joke and also a certain animal, the joke and the animal must be the same thing.

We must not, therefore, be frightened by the assertion that a thing is natural into the admission that it is good; good does not, by definition, mean anything that is natural; and it is therefore always an open question whether anything that is natural is good.

28. But there is another slightly different sense in which the word “natural” is used with an implication that it denotes something good. This is when we speak of natural affections, or unnatural crimes and vices.

It is in this connection that we are advised to imitate savages and beasts. Curious advice certainly; but, of course, there may be something in it.

I am not here concerned to enquire under what circumstances some of us might with advantage take a lesson from the cow.

I have really no doubt that such exist. What I am concerned with is a certain kind of reason, which I think is sometimes used to support this doctrine—a naturalistic reason.

Is it anything surprising that brutes, who have had the misfortune to be unable to obtain by forethought any of the goods, with which reasoning provides us, should have missed love too?

Lions do not love; but neither do they philosophise; bears do not love; but the reason is they do not know the sweets of friendship.

It is only men, who, by their wisdom and their knowledge, after many trials, have chosen what is best.”

Moreover it is easy to see how this unique position should have been assigned to pleasure without any clear consciousness of the assumption involved.

Hedonism is, for a sufficiently obvious reason, the first conclusion at which anyone who begins to reflect upon Ethics naturally arrives.

It is very easy to notice the fact that we are pleased with things. The things we enjoy and the things we do not, form two unmistakable classes, to which our attention is constantly directed.

and I do emphatically deny that the correctness of their conclusions is any ground for inferring the correctness of their principles.

A correct conclusion may always be obtained by fallacious reasoning; and the good life or virtuous maxims of a Hedonist afford absolutely no presumption that his ethical philosophy is also good.

It is his ethical philosophy alone with which I am concerned: what I dispute is the excellence of his reasoning, not the excellence of his character as a man or even as moral teacher.

What I am concerned with is knowledge only—that we should think correctly and so far arrive at some truth, however unimportant: I do not say that such knowledge will make us more useful members of society.

If anyone does not care for knowledge for its own sake, then I have nothing to say to him; only it should not be thought that a lack of interest in what I have to say is any ground for holding it untrue.

38. Hedonists, then, hold that all other things but pleasure, whether conduct or virtue or knowledge, whether life or nature or beauty, are only good as means to pleasure or for the sake of pleasure, never for their own sakes or as ends in themselves.

“Desirable” does indeed mean “what it is good to desire”; but when this is understood, it is no longer plausible to say that our only test of that, is what is actually desired.

Is it merely a tautology when the Prayer Book talks of good desires? Are not bad desires also possible?

Nay, we find Mill himself talking of a “better and nobler object of desire” (p. 10), as if, after all, what is desired were not ipso facto good, and good in proportion to the amount it is desired.

There, that is enough. That is my first point.

Mill has made as naive and artless a use of the naturalistic fallacy as anybody could desire.

“Good,” he tells us, means “desirable,” and you can only find out what is desirable by seeking to find out what is actually desired. This is, of course, only one step towards the proof of Hedonism;

that this book of Mill’s which I hold in my hand, because it was his pleasure to produce it, is now and at this moment a part of the happiness which he felt many years ago and which has so long ceased to be.

Pray consider a moment what this contemptible nonsense really means.

“Money,” says Mill, “is only desirable as a means to happiness.” Perhaps so; but what then? “Why,” says Mill, “money is undoubtedly desired for its own sake.” “Yes, go on,” say we.

“Yes, go on,” say we. “Well,” says Mill, “if money is desired for its own sake, it must be desirable as an end-in-itself: I have said so myself.” “Oh,” say we, “but you also said just now that it was only desirable as a means.”

“I own I did,” says Mill, “but I will try to patch up matters, by saying that what is only a means to an end, is the same thing as a part of that end. I daresay the public won’t notice.” And the public haven’t noticed.

Yet this is certainly what Mill has done. He has broken down the distinction between means and ends, upon the precise observance of which his Hedonism rests.

Will he maintain that those coins themselves are in my mind, and actually a part of my pleasant feelings?

If this is to be said, all words are useless: nothing can possibly be distinguished from anything else; if these two things are not distinct, what on earth is?

We shall hear next that this table is really and truly the same thing as this room; that a cab-horse is in fact indistinguishable from St. Paul’s Cathedral;

we shall be satisfied to have settled the matter in dispute by means of it, merely because we are agreed on it. In short, our dissatisfaction in these cases is almost always of the type felt by the poor lunatic in the story.

“I said the world was mad,” says he, “and the world said that I was mad; and, confound it, they outvoted me.”

It is, I say, almost always such a disagreement, and not the impossibility of proof, which makes us call the state of things unsatisfactory. For, indeed, who can prove that proof itself is a warrant of truth?

and, confound it, they outvoted me.” It is, I say, almost always such a disagreement, and not the impossibility of proof, which makes us call the state of things unsatisfactory.

For, indeed, who can prove that proof itself is a warrant of truth?

We are all agreed that the laws of logic are true and therefore we accept a result which is proved by their means;

yet I do not suppose that anyone is much dissatisfied for that reason. We all agree that it is a chair, and that is enough to content us, although it is quite possible we may be wrong.

A madman, of course, might come in and say that it is not a chair but an elephant.

We could not prove that he was wrong, and the fact that he did not agree with us might then begin to make us uneasy. Much more, then, shall we be uneasy, if someone, whom we do not think to be mad, disagrees with us.

And yet I am not very sanguine about our prospects of such satisfaction. Ethics, and philosophy in general, have always been in a peculiarly unsatisfactory state. There has been no agreement about them, as there is about the existence of chairs and lights and benches.

I should therefore be a fool if I hoped to settle one great point of controversy, now and once for all.

It is extremely improbable I shall convince. It would be highly presumptuous even to hope that in the end, say two or three centuries hence, it will be agreed that pleasure is not the sole good.

I should therefore be a fool if I hoped to settle one great point of controversy, now and once for all. It is extremely improbable I shall convince.

It would be highly presumptuous even to hope that in the end, say two or three centuries hence, it will be agreed that pleasure is not the sole good.

Philosophical questions are so difficult, the problems they raise are so complex, that no one can fairly expect, now, any more than in the past, to win more than a very limited assent.

And again, not having true opinion, you cannot think that you are pleased when you are; and, being bereft of your reasoning faculties, you cannot even have the power to reckon that you will be pleased in future.

You must live the life of an oyster, or of some other of those living creatures, whose home is the seas and whose souls are concealed in shelly bodies.

Is all this so, or can we think otherwise than this?

Protarchus.

Socrates, your reasoning has left me utterly dumb.

Socrates, we see, persuades Protarchus that Hedonism is absurd. If we are really going to maintain that pleasure alone is good as an end, we must maintain that it is good, whether we are conscious of it or not.

or rather that my possession of it is good absolutely.

The good of it can in no possible sense be “private” or belong to me; any more than a thing can exist privately or for one person only.

The only reason I can have for aiming at “my own good,” is that it is good absolutely that what I so call should belong to me—good absolutely that I should have something, which, if I have it, others cannot have.

“It cannot be proved that the difference between his own happiness and another’s happiness is not for him all-important” (IV, II, § 1). What does Prof. Sidgwick mean by these phrases “the ultimate rational end for himself,” and “for him all-important”?

He does not attempt to define them; and it is largely the use of such undefined phrases which causes absurdities to be committed in philosophy.

Is there any sense in which a thing can be an ultimate rational end for one person and not for another? By “ultimate” must be meant at least that the end is good-in-itself—good in our undefinable sense;

it would be equally contradictory, however certain we were that that assumption was justified.

Prof. Sidgwick strains at a gnat and swallows a camel.

He thinks the Divine Omnipotence must be called into play to secure that what gives other people pleasure should also give it to him—that only so can Ethics be made rational;

This fact, if Happiness were the sole good, would indeed be of some importance; and, on any view, similar facts are of importance.

But they are nothing but instances of the one important fact that in this world the quantity of good which is attainable is ridiculously small compared to that which is imaginable.

That I cannot get the most possible pleasure for myself, if I produce the most possible pleasure on the whole, is no more the profoundest problem of Ethics, than that in any case I cannot get as much pleasure altogether as would be desirable.

It is not goodness, but only the things or qualities which are good, which can exist in time—can have duration, and begin and cease to exist—can be objects of perception. But the most prominent members of this class are perhaps numbers.

It is quite certain that two natural objects may exist; but it is equally certain that two itself does not exist and never can.

Two and two are four. But that does not mean that either two or four exists. Yet it certainly means something. Two is somehow, although it does not exist.

It is quite certain that two natural objects may exist; but it is equally certain that two itself does not exist and never can. Two and two are four. But that does not mean that either two or four exists. Yet it certainly means something.

Two is somehow, although it does not exist.

And it is not only simple terms of propositions—the objects about which we know truths—that belong to this class. The truths which we know about them form, perhaps, a still more important subdivision. No truth does, in fact, exist;

To suppose that it has, implies the naturalistic fallacy. All that remains for us to do is, therefore, to expose the main errors which seem to have lent plausibility to this fallacy in its metaphysical form.

If we ask: What bearing can Metaphysics have upon the question, What is good? the only possible answer is: Obviously and absolutely none.

We can only hope to enforce conviction that this answer is the only true one by answering the question: Why has it been supposed to have such a bearing? We shall find that metaphysical writers seem to have failed to distinguish this primary ethical question:

and that the eternal reality cannot possibly be the sole good—these two propositions seem sensibly to diminish the probability that Ethics must be based on Metaphysics.

It is not very plausible to maintain that because one thing is real, therefore something like it, which is not real, would be good.

It seems, therefore, that some of the plausibility of Metaphysical Ethics may be reasonably attributed to the failure to observe that verbal ambiguity, whereby “This is good” may mean either “This real thing is good” or “The existence of this thing (whether it exists or …

But it is beyond even their powers to believe that what you do mean is merely what you say. They still think you must mean, somehow or other, that something does exist, since that is what you generally mean when you say anything.

They are as unable as the empiricists to imagine that you can ever mean that 2 + 2 = 4.

The empiricists say this means that so many couples of couples of things have in each case been four things; and hence that 2 and 2 would not make 4, unless precisely those things had existed. The metaphysicians feel that this is wrong;

Whether you have a certain thought or not is one question; and whether what you think is true is quite a different one, upon which the answer to the first has not the least bearing.

The fact that you prefer a thing does not tend to show that the thing is good; even if it does show that you think it so.

It seems to be owing to this confusion, that the question “What is good?” is thought to be identical with the question “What is preferred?”

it is indeed the only valid reason for so doing. But that is just because there is no logical reason for it; because there is no proper evidence or reason of its falsehood except itself alone.

It is untrue, because it is untrue, and there is no other reason: but I declare it untrue, because its untruth is evident to me, and I hold that that is a sufficient reason for my assertion.

We must not therefore look on Intuition, as if it were an alternative to reasoning. Nothing whatever can take the place of reasons for the truth of any proposition: intuition can only furnish a reason for holding any proposition to be true:

It is untrue, because it is untrue, and there is no other reason: but I declare it untrue, because its untruth is evident to me, and I hold that that is a sufficient reason for my assertion.

We must not therefore look on Intuition, as if it were an alternative to reasoning.

Nothing whatever can take the place of reasons for the truth of any proposition: intuition can only furnish a reason for holding any proposition to be true:

They have confused it with another question: small wonder, therefore, if their answer is different from ours. We must be quite sure that the same question has been put, before we trouble ourselves at the different answers that are given to it.

For all we know, the whole world would agree with us, if they could once clearly understand the question upon which we want their votes.

Certain it is, that in all those cases where we found a difference of opinion, we found also that the question had not been clearly understood.

by means of which causes are discovered in the other sciences. To ask what kind of actions we ought to perform, or what kind of conduct is right, is to ask what kind of effects such action and conduct will produce.

Not a single question in practical Ethics can be answered except by a causal generalisation.

All such questions do, indeed, also involve an ethical judgment proper—the judgment that certain effects are better, in themselves, than others. But they do assert that these better things are effects—are causally connected with the actions in question.

All such questions do, indeed, also involve an ethical judgment proper—the judgment that certain effects are better, in themselves, than others. But they do assert that these better things are effects—are causally connected with the actions in question.

Every judgment in practical Ethics may be reduced to the form: This is a cause of that good thing.

89. That this is the case, that the questions, What is right? what is my duty? what ought I to do? belong exclusively to this third branch of ethical enquiry, is the first point to which I wish to call attention.

and this again is obviously equivalent to the statement that it ought not to have been done—that it was not what duty required.

“Fiat iustitia, ruat caelum” can only be justified on the ground that by the doing of justice the Universe gains more than it loses by the falling of the heavens.

It is, of course, possible that this is the case: but, at all events, to assert that justice is a duty, in spite of such consequences, is to assert that it is the case.

It is, of course, possible that this is the case: but, at all events, to assert that justice is a duty, in spite of such consequences, is to assert that it is the case.

Our “duty,” therefore, can only be defined as that action, which will cause more good to exist in the Universe than any possible alternative.

And what is “right” or “morally permissible” only differs from this, as what will not cause less good than any possible alternative.

But even here it is plain that we recognise a distinction between what he might have done and what he might have thought of doing: we regard it as a pity that he did not do otherwise.

And “duty” is certainly used in such a sense, that it would be a contradiction in terms to say it was a pity that a man did his duty.

We must, therefore, distinguish a possible action from an action of which it is possible to think. By the former we mean an action which no known cause would prevent, provided the idea of it occurred to us:

And this it is obviously impossible to know with more than probability.

An ethical law has the nature not of a scientific law but of a scientific prediction: and the latter is always merely probable, although the probability may be very great.

An engineer is entitled to assert that, if a bridge be built in a certain way, it will probably bear certain loads for a certain time;

… that in every particular case it will be useful, but on the ground that in any particular case the probability of its being so is greater than that of our being likely to decide rightly that we have before us an instance of its disutility.

In short, though we may be sure that there are cases where the rule should be broken, we can never know which those cases are, and ought, therefore, never to break it.

It is this fact which seems to justify the stringency with which moral rules are usually enforced and sanctioned, and to give a sense in which we may accept as true the maxims that “The end never justifies the means” and “That we should never …

… (as it usually is, where we talk of expediency) or some other event (as is usual, where we talk of duty), this distinction has no more relevance to my answer than the distinction between two different effects on me or two different effects on others.

The true distinction between duties and expedient actions is not that the former are actions which it is in any sense more useful or obligatory or better to perform, but that they are actions which it is more useful to praise and to enforce by sanctions, since they are actions which there is a temptation to omit.

102. With regard to “interested” actions, the case is somewhat different. When we ask the question, “Is this really to my interest?” we appear to be asking exclusively whether its effects upon me are the best possible;

… this fact renders it difficult, or, humanly speaking, impossible, to decide what is The Ideal, what is the absolutely best state of things imaginable, it is sufficient to condemn those Ideals, which are formed by omission, without any visible gain in consequence of such omission.

Philosophers seem usually to have sought only for the best of single things; neglecting the fact that a whole composed of two great goods, even though one of these be obviously inferior to the other, may yet be often seen to be decidedly superior to either by itself.

(2) On the other hand, Utopias—attempted descriptions of a Heaven upon Earth—commonly suffer not only from this, but also from the opposite defect.

This simple truth may, indeed, be said to be universally recognised.

What has not been recognised is that it is the ultimate and fundamental truth of Moral Philosophy.

That it is only for the sake of these things—in order that as much of them as possible may at some time exist—that anyone can be justified in performing any public or private duty; that they are the raison d’être of virtue;

Indeed, once the meaning of the question is clearly understood, the answer to it, in its main outlines, appears to be so obvious, that it runs the risk of seeming to be a platitude.

By far the most valuable things, which we know or can imagine, are certain states of consciousness, which may be roughly described as the pleasures of human intercourse and the enjoyment of beautiful objects.

No one, probably, who has asked himself the question, has ever doubted that personal affection and the appreciation of what is beautiful in Art or Nature, are good in themselves;

The conclusions of this chapter suggest a definition of beauty, which may partially explain and entirely remove the difficulties which have led to this error.

It appears probable that the beautiful should be defined as that of which the admiring contemplation is good in itself.

That is to say: To assert that a thing is beautiful is to assert that the cognition of it is an essential element in one of the intrinsically valuable wholes we have been discussing;

that, though something utterly unknown might be better than any world containing either them or any other good we know, yet we have no reason to suppose that anything whatever would be better than a state of things in which they were included.

To deny and exclude matter, is to deny and exclude the best we know.

That a thing may retain its value, while losing some of its qualities, is utterly untrue. All that is true is that the changed thing may have more value than, or as much value as, that of which the qualities have been lost.

To deny and exclude matter, is to deny and exclude the best we know.

That a thing may retain its value, while losing some of its qualities, is utterly untrue.

All that is true is that the changed thing may have more value than, or as much value as, that of which the qualities have been lost.

This is the truth which is most liable to be overlooked with regard to them; and it is because this is true, that the common theory, that pleasure is the only good and pain the only evil, has its grossest consequences in misjudgments of value.

Not only is the pleasantness of a state not in proportion to its intrinsic worth; it may even add positively to its vileness.

We do not think the successful hatred of a villain the less vile and odious, because he takes the keenest delight in it; nor is there the least need, in logic, why we should think so, apart from an unintelligent prejudice in favour of pleasure.

Not only is the pleasantness of a state not in proportion to its intrinsic worth; it may even add positively to its vileness.

We do not think the successful hatred of a villain the less vile and odious, because he takes the keenest delight in it; nor is there the least need, in logic, why we should think so, apart from an unintelligent prejudice in favour of pleasure.

In fact it seems to be the case that wherever pleasure is added to an evil state of either of our first two classes, the whole thus formed is always worse than if no pleasure had been there. And similarly with regard to pain.