We ought not to forget, even for a moment--even in our preoccupation with the most abstract intellectual matters but most certainly not in a consideration of the bases of ethical insight--the actual character of the world that surrounds us and of our responsibility towards it. Not that this awareness ought to affect the style of our philosophical deliberations; they have their own exigent standards, which a failure to observe cannot be excused on the grounds of intensity of moral passion. But it may affect our judgment of the relevance of these deliberations, and of the priorities among them, by keeping alive a sense of scandal and urgency along with the habitual tolerance and reflective calm of the professional philosopher.

In the late 1960s, when this paper was first written, the scandal and urgency attached first of all to the involvement of the United States in the war in Vietnam. Since that time both scandal and urgency seem to have retreated. But this means that keeping them alive is more important, rather than less. For the actual character of the world, and the actual condition of many people in it--especially the poor and the inhabitants of the Third World, and the victims of religious and political fundamentalism (whether Christian or Muslim, communist or capitalist)--remain much as they were. They require philosophical attention--no less when insidious than when notorious, though they are more likely to get it in the latter case.

Philosophy too often suffers from the all-or-nothing syndrome, which may also be called the get-it-right-or-let-it-alone syndrome. Modestly disclaiming final truth in matters of politics and morality, it declines to say anything at all about them except by way of distant or guarded commentary. I exaggerate, of course. However, the few philosophers who have come forward with strong statements have declined to do so in their professional capacity, while the debate on what ought to be regarded as a philosophical topic proceeds apace at the acceptable popular level. There the rhetoric of the news commentaries, panel discussions, round tables and the like is full of allusions to guilt, morality, value and purpose, and in particular it seems to be a widespread article of belief that the tide of immorality can only be stemmed by a rediscovery of value. What can be the true values of this society, we are asked, when it is so marked by violence? But the question remains on the rhetorical level apart from some vague references to materialism, which in both its forms--plain and dialectical--is a convenient focus for criticism. This is so in the former case because of our passionate addiction, and in the latter because of our passionate aversion. Nobody really seems to have an answer.

It is against this background that I want to discuss the relationship between morality and values, and in particular to suggest some rather drastic limitations on the direct relevance of values to morality. For collective values (except in a special sense to be explained below), seem to me the most difficult and elusive of philosophical quandaries, and if morality depended on them, we would be in a sad way, while individual values do not obviously have any moral weight whatever. It is true that we have grown accustomed to a system of moral education which internalizes in the individual certain values supposed to be collective, but it is just the breakdown of this system that now confronts us. It turns out to be surprisingly easy to overthrow it since, by the simple act of declining to perform or submit to this process of internalizing, the rebel (heretic, etc.) demonstrates that the value is precisely not collective and weakens to that degree its authority.

I suggest that morality is not subjective at all, but rigorously and demonstrably objective. The same commitment, however, is not implied for values, which again for purposes of the present discussion, may be subjective or objective just so long as they are 'substantive'. I am not quite sure what is intended by that term, but I am more than satisfied with its general tenor. For one of the myths I would be most happy to see done away with is the myth that values have a different, more ethereal kind of existence, than other things in the world. I would claim for them, in fact, the same sort of embodiment as is usually reserved for facts, i.e. an embodiment in objects or actions. I do not wish to abandon the distinction between fact and value, but it comes out as a temporal distinction rather than a substantial one.

How are values and morality respectively dependent on and independent from one another? For purposes of argument, I would like to begin from an extreme position and work back to something that may command better agreement. The working hypothesis I shall adopt is the following: There are no moral imperatives at all, everybody can do exactly as he or she pleases. If under this hypothesis we can still find a use for the concept of value, the exercise of separating value and morality (in order to bring them together again more rationally) will have begun auspiciously. If the hypothesis were true, what would we in fact do? Well, that would depend on what we wanted. The first desideratum then is some analysis of wanting, so that we can see at least the causal machinery of action in this amoral state. The archaic meaning of the term as indicating a lack serves us well here. To want something implies not having it, and attributes to not having it an inferior status, on some scale or other, to having it. It is important to see that these relations of superiority and inferiority (and for the moment I specify them no more exactly) are relativized to a particular scale (a scale of values, perhaps) since in one respect I may want x more than y, in another y more than x. (This suggests that to ask, as people frequently do, where something or other fits on one's scale of values, is a simpleminded question.) It is not of course necessary to restrict wanting to the negative case of things I don't have; it may be that I have things I want to keep. Here, however, there is a suggestion that my having them has been threatened, or at least that a question has been raised about it.

Wanting to have something, or wanting to keep it, have then an automatic reference to the future to the time at which I might have what I now lack, or at which time what I now have might have survived the threat of being taken away. What kinds of thing, I next ask, might we want? Here the range is almost limitless: from wanting ice-cream cones and fast automobiles, through wanting affection or relief from pain, to wanting a better character or a better world. It is an instructive exercise to make a brief inventory of salient wants, both in the positive and negative cases. What would you (in fact) least like to lose? What would you most like to have? It is also instructive (to pursue my working hypothesis for a moment) to ask how the inventory would be altered if in fact there were no moral constraints on your choice--what you are morally obliged to keep, that in the absence of such restraints you would discard; what in the absence of such restraints you would pursue that you are now morally obliged to leave alone. I say `altered' because I assume you did not, as a matter of prior practice, operate under my amoral hypothesis, and I assume that for most of us moral principles are not perfectly internalized. If the inventories are identical either you are very lucky, or you have arrived at a state in which your true desires reflect faithfully the prevailing moral law--in which case you are also very lucky.

I make no apology for putting things at this ad hominem level; on the contrary, I think that is where a lot of ethical discourse belongs. Just as the confirmation of scientific theory comes down, in the end, to a question of my own perceptions (either directly or as analogues of the perceptions of more active scientific researchers), so the confirmation of ethical theory comes down, in the end, to a question of my own conations (either directly or as analogues of the conations of more active moral researchers, by which I mean persons practically more saintly, or more sinful, than myself). If you do not know what it's like to want something very badly, or to have some desire or other altered or suppressed by moral considerations, then your moral philosophy is likely to be either wrong or irrelevant. `Likely to be', not `bound to be', since it is always possible for intellect, together with second-hand experience, to compensate for first-hand experience although that hardly ever really works, as the rather Donnish moral theories of the cloistered Oxbridgeans in the early part of this century dismally testify.

To revert to the main argument: All the things we practically want, from lunch to beatitude, can be represented as states of our world (my world being defined as the system comprised of the world and myself, in active relation to one another, which can therefore be more local or more global according to my interests and the nature of the interaction.) According to what principles do we choose these states? This is where values enter the picture, but it turns out to be quite difficult to pin them down unless we are prepared to admit that the states themselves, in the first instance, are the values, and that the principles (if any) are to be abstracted by induction from the states, rather than the states being determined by the principles. We do of course judge independently probable states by reference to value-principles, to see whether we ought to take action to avoid them, for example, but an equally good account of this process could be given in terms of comparison with paradigmatic value-states.

The problem of getting one's desires into line with one's principles of course, arises here, but the point is that it's no good pretending to want what the principles require unless we really do want it. What many people who have trouble with moral principles (for example St. Paul in the Epistle to the Romans) quite honestly do, therefore, is to want a state of their world (including their character, and so on) in which they genuinely would want what the principles required, although at the same time they also (and quite consistently) now in fact want things that violate those principles. But it is quite clear that, in this case, the principles cannot by themselves determine the wanted state, since that state precisely incorporates them as a desideratum. (If it is a paradigm state, then the way is open for bringing them to bear on other states, but the paradigm state is still prior to them.)

The principles I have been speaking of need not of course be moral principles; indeed under my hypothesis they cannot be, even though I have been envisaging cases in which they might be. They are value principles, and the point I have been trying to drive home is that they are derivative from value states. Value states are by definition future (new states, or old states under preservation), and they are as far as I want to go in the search for values as such. What value objectively means is a desired future state. To have a consistent scheme of values is to have a set of compatible desired states. There will, of course, be more than one value held by any individual at a given time, in fact there will be very many, corresponding to various questions he might be asked: What do you want for lunch? What kind of government would you like to see after November? What would you do if I gave you a million dollars? These are more or less ad hoc questions, of course, but there are two fundamental questions which can be used to elicit really basic values in two different but essential categories, namely, first, How would you wish your world ideally to be, in all its details? Second, If your world were as you wished it ideally to be, what would you do then?

Taking these questions seriously is a much more difficult exercise than the inventory of wants I above encouraged you to make. It does seem to me that anyone who wishes to claim rationality in matters of behavior should at least have confronted them squarely, but having ready answers to them is another matter. The values yielded by these questions operate on different levels or in different contexts, although (given that Utopia never in fact arrives) they are regularly held concomitantly. The former reflects the unsatisfactory nature of the present organization of the world, the latter reflects our tendency, occasionally, to abandon programs for general reform in favor of more immediate gratification. If Utopia did arrive, we would have only the gratification to worry about, but the fact that some people now worry only about gratification does not mean that they ought not to be worrying about general reform.

A moral note is now creeping into the discussion, and I do not intend to keep it out much longer. However, let me conclude the point about the objective (although not necessarily ultimate) meaning of value. Although there might very well be philosophical (or anthropological or psychological or sociological or political or possibly even religious) grounds for going further, for saying, e.g., that we desire the states we do because we are the kinds of beings we are, the great drawback to them is that by the open nature of the disciplines involved, they cannot hope to command universal agreement. And at least the possibility of universal agreement is to be clung to if we are to have any hope of making use of what relation there is between value theory and ethics. For this purpose value is to be considered as active, as making a difference to behavior. My claim is that whatever more remote reasons might be proposed, at least a component of the reason for any genuine action is provided by the state of the world the action seeks to achieve. Every action, even the most insignificant, changes the whole world, and rational action (of which moral action is a special case) changes the world in an intended direction.

If we want to know the operative weight of values in a given action, we need ask no more than what desired state (or what kind of desired state) the action is intended to achieve. Interpreting the answer may not be simple, and supplementary questions may be necessary, since the state immediately intended may be only a way-station in a series of actions directed to a later state. Or the action may be a pis aller, the really wanted state being unattainable on external grounds (also internal ones when we allow moral principles); or the rationale for the action may not be clear to the agent. If for example the present situation is wholly intolerable, then any action is better than none. It is unlikely however, in such cases, that any clearer result would be obtained by using a different theory of value, even though people might be heard to say things like "Clumsy and confused as I am, at least I always try to be honest", representing honesty as a value. I have no objection to honesty as a value, so long as it is admitted to be derivative from the value-states of the world consequent on its use as a policy. This is a radically teleological position to which I fully subscribe, but subscription to it is not required. For the purpose at hand all that is needed is agreement that the functional weight of honesty and other values like it is to be looked for in these states. (I may add parenthetically that it takes a really hardened deontologist to avoid the converse of the teleological claim, namely, that if it were shown in some case or other that hideously unacceptable consequences followed from being honest, that would cast some doubt on the wisdom of the policy.)

Let us now take an imaginary census of the inhabitants of our amoral world, and ask them the two key questions I gave above, in search of an agreement--a value held in common--on the basis of which we might be able to make a rational appeal to them to behave in certain ways and in order to lay the groundwork for the construction of a common morality. (If there is to be a common morality, after all, people are going to have to want it; we will be on much stronger ground, then, if we can show them that they want it already, than if we confront them with it and invite them to want it.) Of the two questions I consider, the second--What would you do if everything were as you wished it to be?--the more fundamental as well as, in a way, the more puzzling. It is more fundamental because it could always be posed, whereas the first would become irrelevant in the (admittedly unlikely) event that Utopia did arrive; more puzzling because surely, if everything were as we wished it to be, there would be nothing left to desire. This last point makes it clear that values of the kind elicited by the second question must be allowed to change with time, otherwise we would all be obliged to greet the arrival of Utopia by committing suicide, or somehow to ensure that it would not arrive. We do not, as things stand at present, really have to worry ourselves about that, but it would be a pity to concede without a struggle the principle that value is merely a function of the imperfection of the world, which would follow if in a perfect world we were at a loss for anything further to do.

One result of our census can safely be predicted, namely that, on the second question, there will be an almost total diversity of opinion. This, of course, is a very satisfactory result, for imagine the chaos if we all wanted the same thing. Fortunately the distribution of genes, upbringings, phobias and the like in the population ensures that tastes and inclinations differ widely, so that at least universal competition is avoided. In a genuine Utopia, of course, even that might be taken care of, since the conditions for doing most things could in principle be replicated enough times to accommodate everybody. But if, as seems wise at least for the time being, we impose on possible Utopias the constraints characteristic of the surface of the earth, then only a few people could be, for example, rulers of entire continents, which would set up a potentially, competitive situation among those with fantasies of imperial grandeur; and, let us say, only one person could be alone at the North Pole. Unfortunately being alone at the North Pole is only too good a paradigm for what a lot of people want, precisely because only one person can do it. The satisfaction that human beings derive from the uniqueness of their accomplishments or possessions makes some competition inevitable, short of an intolerable system of deceptions.

I want now to suggest that morality can best be understood as the system of rules under which this competition is carried on. At first blush this sounds regrettably Hobbesian, but if the rules are properly constructed, they may turn out to have some redeeming features. After suitable reflection on the implications of their joint answer to the second question, rational agents (and I will deal with the irrational in a minute) will be found to incorporate such rules, in one form or an other, in their answers to the first. Doing so, in fact, turns out to be a condition for maintaining idiosyncrasy in their answers to the second. For individuals find themselves in a game-theoretical quandary, in which they must either give up some degree of autonomy by agreeing to rules, or run an unacceptable risk of being completely frustrated in their objectives by the non-rule governed behavior of others; and agreeing to the rules turns out in every case to involve the least probable sacrifice. I assert this categorically without overlooking the obvious fact that some people, because of the nature of probability, will be able to get away with violating some of the rules, even flouting them; the point is that they can never know in advance that they are going to get away with it, and that according to the principles of game theory, even trying such a gamble is irrational. This possibility cannot be held specifically against my argument, since no system of morality has ever been devised which was capable of coercing the resolutely immoral (or the incurably irrational) among us.

Some form of moral rule, therefore, becomes a value in common for individuals compelled to live in a world in common. It is to be noted that the rules are not wanted for their own sake, but for the sake of further values (corresponding to my second question) which are not held in common. And the nature of these further values is left completely open, save for the condition we must now impose upon them that they be compatible with the moral rules. The hypothesis of amorality with which I began turns out to be reduced ad absurdum--if morality did not exist, we would have to invent it. It may be remarked that a similar argument could be constructed for legal rules also, that indeed they are, to some extent, the same argument, and that seems to me natural enough: people have dreamed of a society in which morality did the work of law, and had nightmares of a society in which law did the work of morality, thus arguing a kind of continuity between them. The former is at least a consistent idea--anarchy among moral paragons--but the latter reassuringly collapses. It does so practically on the grounds of enforcement, since everyone would require constant surveillance by the police, with nothing being left to personal moral impulses; and also logically because of the problem: quis custodiet ipsos custodes. (These theoretical difficulties have not, it is true, prevented certain governments from carrying out some rather unpleasant experiments in this direction.)

On the basis of a definition of `value' as `desired state of the world' we have performed the necessary invention of morality, a system subscribed to in common and built on foundations which are in principle idiosyncratic. But what morality?--the rules have not yet been specified. I will content myself with some quite sketchy final remarks on this point. The rules were invoked, it will be remembered, in response to a consideration of what might happen without them to the private aspirations of a lot of free individuals inhabiting the same planet. The general import of the rules can then be derived from a consideration of the various ways in which such aspirations might be frustrated. There seem to be three principal ways in which this might happen: we might be deprived, we might be deceived, or we might be interfered with. The last two are of course the most familiar, and most people can be brought to see that at least the more overt forms of deception and interference are immoral, so that rules prohibiting them (not lying, not stealing, not killing, etc.) are readily accepted. But the first requires special attention in the light of current concerns.

In this connection it is instructive to compare moral rules with the rules of certain well-known games, like Monopoly, in which action requires resources, as in practice does most human action. I do not wish to press the analogy very far, since I am not sure that the finances of the real estate business are the best possible model for my purpose; but one thing is worth attention, namely, that in addition to rules about what may and may not be done, there is a rule specifying an equitable initial distribution of the available resources. But there is no familiar moral rule embodying such an idea, even though it is quite clearly just as important for me to have the resources of material and energy needed for my action as it is to have the information and the freedom from interference. I think there are good historical reasons why this aspect of morality should appear rather late, why in fact it is only now coming to the fore as on an equal footing with the other two. The main reason is that until the industrial revolution, while there were, to be sure, inequalities of property and power, a natural initial distribution of resources--which consisted in each person's having a body, capable by itself or in collaboration with a small number of others of doing most things that anybody or any group could do--ensured a kind of equality of opportunity and kept the range of conditions of existence fairly narrow. The beggar was worse off than the king, but neither of them enjoyed particularly good plumbing. The advent of technology has changed all that, so that the differential between the rich and the poor, between the rich nations and the poor nations, between the educated and the uneducated, has become enormous and glaringly evident.

Given these circumstances, the rule against deprivation has all the objective force of the rules against deception and interference; it arises, as they do, out of the objective conditions. What the situation of the poor and the oppressed (to return to my starting-point) ought to be saying to us is that we have to take good account of this, to enlarge our conception of morality to suit the circumstances. We have not been playing according to the rules, and the others are protesting. This unsportsmanlike conduct was not intentional on our part; it was just that we had not realized it was a rule, because of our own comparatively privileged circumstances prevented us from seeing its force. Now that it has been brought to our attention, however, we cannot escape the responsibility of obeying it in the future.

Why a moral rule, you may ask? In fact why call all this morality at all? It doesn't have the authority and sanction that so many of us like to associate with morality, having been generated out of the most banal considerations of what ordinary people practically want. What is the warrant for these rules? These three challenges require three answers, and with them I will close. First, the rule against deprivation has to be apprehended as moral before it can become effectively legal, as public opinion about welfare legislation makes plain. It is admittedly much harder in one's own person to make a positive contribution to another person's resources than just to keep out of the way or refrain from telling lies, but genuine moral concern can also express itself politically and there are plenty of opportunities for that. Second, I call all these rules moral because they play just the role that moral rules have always played, namely to guide the action of the individual agent with respect to other individuals and society, and at the same time to protect the agent, to the extent that they are obeyed by others (not that the failure of others to obey them is any excuse for not obeying them oneself). Third, the warrant of the rules is that they work, and can be shown to work. Of course, if they are to work everybody has to obey them, and my claim is to have given a more plausible ground for persuading people to do so, by restricting myself to the minimal conception of value, than can be given for rules resting on altruism, love, human dignity, human nature and so on, even though these might, if universally acted upon, yield a better world still. The trouble with them is that they mean different things to different people, so that as starting-points for argument they are less than satisfactory. All that is needed by the above position to start with is what an individual wants, and that need may mean anything to the individual in question. On that explicitly diverse basis we have a better chance of arguing to agreement.

George Washington University,

Washington, D.C.