Moral relativism, however, tends to be self-contradictory. Relativists may say that moral truths exist only relative to a specific cultural framework—but this claim about the status of moral truth purports to be true across all possible frameworks. In practice, relativism almost always amounts to the claim that we should be tolerant of moral difference because no moral truth can supersede any other. And yet this commitment to tolerance is not put forward as simply one relative preference among others deemed equally valid. Rather, tolerance is held to be more in line with the (universal) truth about morality than intolerance is. The contradiction here is unsurprising. Given how deeply disposed we are to make universal moral claims, I think one can reasonably doubt whether any consistent moral relativist has ever existed.
Moral relativism is clearly an attempt to pay intellectual reparations for the crimes of Western colonialism, ethnocentrism, and racism. This is, I think, the only charitable thing to be said about it. I hope it is clear that I am not defending the idiosyncrasies of the West as any more enlightened, in principle, than those of any other culture. Rather, I am arguing that the most basic facts about human flourishing must transcend culture, just as most other facts do. And if there are facts that are truly a matter of cultural construction—if, for instance, learning a specific language or tattooing your face fundamentally alters the possibilities of human experience—well, then these facts also arise from (neurophysiological) processes that transcend culture.
In his wonderful book The Blank Slate, Steven Pinker includes a quotation from the anthropologist Donald Symons that captures the problem of multiculturalism especially well:
If only one person in the world held down a terrified, struggling, screaming little girl, cut off her genitals with a septic blade, and sewed her back up, leaving only a tiny hole for urine and menstrual flow, the only question would be how severely that person should be punished, and whether the death penalty would be a sufficiently severe sanction. But when millions of people do this, instead of the enormity being magnified millions-fold, suddenly it becomes "culture," and thereby magically becomes less, rather than more, horrible, and is even defended by some Western "moral thinkers," including feminists. 29
It is precisely such instances of learned confusion (one is tempted to say "learned psychopathy") that lend credence to the claim that a universal morality requires the support of faith-based religion. The categorical distinction between facts and values has opened a sinkhole beneath secular liberalism—leading to moral relativism and masochistic depths of political correctness. Think of the champions of "tolerance" who refiex-ively blamed Salman Rushdie for his farwa, or Ayaan Hirsi Ali for her ongoing security concerns, or the Danish cartoonists for their "controversy," and you will understand what happens when educated liberals think there is no universal foundation for human values. Among conservatives in the West, the same skepticism about the power of reason leads, more often than not, directly to the feet of Jesus Christ, Savior of the Universe. The purpose of this book is to help cut a third path through this wilderness.
Moral Science
Charges of "scientism" cannot be long in coming. No doubt, there are still some people who will reject any description of human nature that was not first communicated in iambic pentameter. Many readers may also fear that the case I am making is vaguely, or even explicitly, Utopian. It isn't, as should become clear in due course.
However, other doubts about the authority of science are even more fundamental. There are academics who have built entire careers on the allegation that the foundations of science are rotten with bias—sexist, racist, imperialist, Northern, etc. Sandra Harding, a feminist philosopher of science, is probably the most famous proponent of this view. On her account, these prejudices have driven science into an epistemologi-cal cul-de-sac called "weak objectivity." To remedy this dire situation, Harding recommends that scientists immediately give "feminist" and "multicultural" epistemologies their due. 30
First, let's be careful not to confuse this quite crazy claim for its sane cousin: There is no question that scientists have occasionally demonstrated sexist and racist biases. The composition of some branches of science is still disproportionately white and male (though some are now disproportionately female), and one can reasonably wonder whether bias is the cause. There are also legitimate questions to be asked about the direction and application of science: in medicine, for instance, it seems clear that women's health issues have been sometimes neglected because the prototypical human being has been considered male. One can also argue that the contributions of women and minority groups to science have occasionally been ignored or undervalued: the case of Rosalind Franklin standing in the shadows of Crick and Watson might be an example of this. But none of these facts, alone or in combination, or however multiplied, remotely suggests that our notions of scientific objectivity are vitiated by racism or sexism.
Is there really such a thing as a feminist or multicultural epistemol-ogy? Harding's case is not helped when she finally divulges that there is not just one feminist epistemology, but many. On this view, why was Hitler's notion of "Jewish physics" (or Stalin's idea of "capitalist biology") anything less than a thrilling insight into the richness of epistemology? Should we now consider the possibility of not only Jewish physics, but of Jewish women's physics? How could such a balkanization of science be a step toward "strong objectivity"? And if political inclu-siveness is our primary concern, where could such efforts to broaden our conception of scientific truth possibly end? Physicists tend to have an unusual aptitude for complex mathematics, and anyone who doesn't cannot expect to make much of a contribution to the field. Why not remedy this situation as well? Why not create an epistemology for physicists who failed calculus? Why not be bolder still and establish a branch of physics for people suffering from debilitating brain injuries? Who could reasonably expect that such efforts at inclusiveness would increase our understanding of a phenomenon like gravity? 31 As Steven Weinberg once said regarding similar doubts about the objectivity of science, "You have to be very learned to be that wrong." 32 Indeed, one does—and many are.
There is no denying, however, that the effort to reduce all human values to biology can produce howlers. For instance, when the entomologist E. O. Wilson (in collaboration with the philosopher Michael Ruse) wrote that "morality, or more strictly our belief in morality, is merely an adaptation put in place to further our reproductive ends," the philosopher Daniel Dennett rightly dismissed it as "nonsense." 33 The fact that our moral intuitions probably conferred some adaptive advantage upon our ancestors does not mean that the present purpose of morality is successful reproduction, or that "our belief in morality" is just a useful delusion. (Is the purpose of astronomy successful reproduction? What about the practice of contraception? Is that all about reproduction, too?) Nor does it mean that our notion of "morality" cannot grow deeper and more refined as our understanding of ourselves develops.
Many universal features of human life need not have been selected for at all; they may simply be, as Dennett says, "good tricks" communicated by culture or "forced moves" that naturally emerge out of the regularities in our world. As Dennett says, it is doubtful that there is a gene for knowing that you should throw a spear "pointy end first." And it is, likewise, doubtful that our ancestors had to spend much time imparting this knowledge to each successive generation. 34
We have good reason to believe that much of what we do in the name of "morality"—decrying sexual infidelity, punishing cheaters, valuing cooperation, etc.—is borne of unconscious processes that were shaped by natural selection. 35 But this does not mean that evolution designed us to lead deeply fulfilling lives. Again, in talking about a science of morality, I am not referring to an evolutionary account of all the cognitive and emotional processes that govern what people do when they say they are being "moral"; I am referring to the totality of scientific facts that govern the range of conscious experiences that are possible for us. To say that there are truths about moral
ity and human values is simply to say that there are facts about well-being that await our discovery— regardless of our evolutionary history. While such facts necessarily relate to the experience of conscious beings, they cannot be the mere invention of any person or culture.
It seems to me, therefore, that there are at least three projects that we should not confuse:
1. We can explain why people tend to follow certain patterns of thought and behavior (many of them demonstrably silly and harmful) in the name of "morality."
2. We can think more clearly about the nature of moral truth and determine which patterns of thought and behavior we should follow in the name of "morality."
3. We can convince people who are committed to silly and harmful patterns of thought and behavior in the name of "morality" to break these commitments and to live better lives.
These are distinct and independently worthy endeavors. Most scientists who study morality in evolutionary, psychological, or neurobiological terms are exclusively devoted to the first project: their goal is to describe and understand how people think and behave in light of morally salient emotions like anger, disgust, empathy, love, guilt, humiliation, etc. This research is fascinating, of course, but it is not my focus. And while our common evolutionary origins and resultant physiological similarity to one another suggest that human well-being will admit of general principles that can be scientifically understood, I consider this first project all but irrelevant to projects 2 and 3. In the past, I have found myself in conflict with some of the leaders in this field because many of them, like the psychologist Jonathan Haidt, believe that this first project represents the only legitimate point of contact between science and morality.
I happen to believe that the third project—changing people's ethical commitments—is the most important task facing humanity in the twenty-first century. Nearly every other important goal—from combating climate change, to fighting terrorism, to curing cancer, to saving the whales—falls within its purview. Of course, moral persuasion is a difficult business, but it strikes me as especially difficult if we haven't figured out in what sense moral truths exist. Hence, my main focus is on project 2.
To see the difference between these three projects, it is best to consider specific examples: we can, for instance, give a plausible evolutionary account of why human societies have tended to treat women as the property of men (1); it is, however, quite another thing to give a scientific account of whether, why, and to what degree human societies change for the better when they outgrow this tendency (2); it is yet another thing altogether to decide how best to change people's attitudes at this moment in history and to empower women on a global scale (3).
It is easy to see why the study of the evolutionary origins of "morality" might lead to the conclusion that morality has nothing at all to do with Truth. If morality is simply an adaptive means of organizing human social behavior and mitigating conflict, there would be no reason to think that our current sense of right and wrong would reflect any deeper understanding about the nature of reality. Hence, a narrow focus explaining why people think and behave as they do can lead a person to find the idea of "moral truth" literally unintelligible.
But notice that the first two projects give quite different accounts of how "morality" fits into the natural world. In 1, "morality" is the collection of impulses and behaviors (along with their cultural expressions and neurobiological underpinnings) that have been hammered into us by evolution. In 2, "morality" refers to the impulses and behaviors we can follow so as to maximize our well-being in the future.
To give a concrete example: Imagine that a handsome stranger tries to seduce another mans wife at the gym. When the woman politely informs her admirer that she is married, the cad persists, as though a happy marriage could be no impediment to his charms. The woman breaks off the conversation soon thereafter, but far less abruptly than might have been compatible with the laws of physics.
I write now, in the rude glare of recent experience. I can say that when my wife reported these events to me yesterday, they immediately struck me as morally salient. In fact, she had not completed her third sentence before the dark fluids of moral indignation began coursing through my brain—jealousy, embarrassment, anger, etc.—albeit only at a trickle. First, I was annoyed by the man's behavior—and had I been present to witness it, I suspect that my annoyance would have been far greater. If this Don Juan had been as dismissive of me in my presence as he was in my absence, I could imagine how such an encounter could result in physical violence.
No evolutionary psychologist would find it difficult to account for my response to this situation—and almost all scientists who study "morality" would confine their attention to this set of facts: my inner ape had swung into view, and any thoughts I might entertain about "moral truth" would be linguistic effluvium masking far more zoological concerns. I am the product of an evolutionary history in which every male of the species has had to guard against squandering his resources on another man's offspring. Had we scanned my brain and correlated my subjective feelings with changes in my neurophysiology, the scientific description of these events would be nearly complete. So ends project 1.
But there are many different ways for an ape to respond to the fact that other apes find his wife desirable. Had this happened in a traditional honor culture, the jealous husband might beat his wife, drag her to the gym, and force her to identify her suitor so that he could put a bullet in his brain. In fact, in an honor society, the employees of the gym might sympathize with this project and help to organize a proper duel. Or perhaps the husband would be satisfied to act more obliquely, killing one of his rival's relatives and initiating a classic blood feud. In either case, assuming he didn't get himself killed in the process, he might then murder his wife for emphasis, leaving his children motherless. There are many communities on earth where men commonly behave this way, and hundreds of millions of boys are beginning to run this ancient software on their brains even now.
However, my own mind shows some precarious traces of civilization: one being that I view the emotion of jealously with suspicion. What is more, I happen to love my wife and genuinely want her to be happy, and this entails a certain empathetic understanding of her point of view. Given a moment to think about it, I can feel glad that her self-esteem received a boost from this man's attention; I can also feel compassion for the fact that, after recently having our first child, her self-esteem needed any boost at all. I also know that she would not want to be rude, and that this probably made her somewhat slow to extricate herself from a conversation that had taken a wrong turn. And I am under no illusions that I am the only man on earth whom she will find attractive, or momentarily distracting, nor do I imagine that her devotion to me should consist in this impossible narrowing of her focus. And how do I feel about the man? Well, I still find his behavior objectionable— because I cannot sympathize with his effort to break up a marriage, and I know that I would not behave as he did—but I sympathize with everything else he must have felt, because I also happen to think that my wife is beautiful, and I know what it's like to be a single ape in the jungle.
Most important, however, I value my own well-being, as well as that of my wife and daughter, and I want to live in a society that maximizes the possibility of human well-being generally. Here begins project 2: Are there right and wrong answers to the question of how to maximize well-being? How would my life have been affected if I had killed my wife in response to this episode? We do not need a completed neurosci-ence to know that my happiness, as well as that of many other people, would have been profoundly diminished. And what about the collective well-being of people in an honor society that might support such behavior? It seems to me that members of these societies are obviously worse off. If I am wrong about this, however, and there are ways to organize an honor culture that allow for precisely the same level of human flourishing enjoyed elsewhere—then so be it. This would represent another peak on the moral landscape. Again, the existence
of multiple peaks would not render the truths of morality merely subjective.
The framework of a moral landscape guarantees that many people will have flawed conceptions of morality, just as many people have flawed conceptions of physics. Some people think "physics" includes (or validates) practices like astrology, voodoo, and homeopathy. These people are, by all appearances, simply wrong about physics. In the United States, a majority of people (57 percent) believe that preventing homosexuals from marrying is a "moral" imperative. 36 However, if this belief rests on a flawed sense of how we can maximize our well-being, such people may simply be wrong about morality. And the fact that millions of people use the term "morality" as a synonym for religious dogmatism, racism, sexism, or other failures of insight and compassion should not oblige us to merely accept their terminology until the end of time.
What will it mean for us to acquire a deep, consistent, and fully scientific understanding of the human mind? While many of the details remain unclear, the challenge is for us to begin speaking sensibly about right and wrong, and good and evil, given what we already know about our world. Such a conversation seems bound to shape our morality and public policy in the years to come. 37
Chapter 2 GOOD AND EVIL
There may be nothing more important than human cooperation. Whenever more pressing concerns seem to arise—like the threat of a deadly pandemic, an asteroid impact, or some other global catastrophe—human cooperation is the only remedy (if a remedy exists). Cooperation is the stuff of which meaningful human lives and viable societies are made. Consequently, few topics will be more relevant to a maturing science of human well-being.
Open a newspaper, today or any day for the rest of your life, and you will witness failures of human cooperation, great and small, announced from every corner of the world. The results of these failures are no less tragic for being utterly commonplace: deception, theft, violence, and their associated miseries arise in a continuous flux of misspent human energy. When one considers the proportion of our limited time and resources that must be squandered merely to guard against theft and violence (to say nothing of addressing their effects), the problem of human cooperation seems almost the only problem worth thinking about. 1 "Ethics" and "morality" (I use these terms interchangeably) are the names we give to our deliberate thinking on these matters. 2 Clearly, few subjects have greater bearing upon the question of human well-being.