by Jamie Whyte
Yet, it is still too strong. We have no duty to let others keep their opinions. On the contrary, we often have a duty to try to change them. Take an obvious example. You are about to cross the street with a friend. A car is coming yet your friend still takes a stride into the road. Knowing that she is not suicidal, you infer that she is of the opinion that no cars are coming. Are you obliged to let her keep this opinion?
I say no. You ought to take every reasonable measure to change her opinion, perhaps by drawing her attention to the oncoming car, saying something like, “Look out, a car is coming.” By so doing, you have not violated her rights. Indeed, she will probably thank you. On matters like whether or not a car is about to crush them, everybody is interested in believing the truth; they will take the correction of their errors as a favor. The same goes for any other topic. If someone is interested in believing the truth, then she will not take the presentation of contrary evidence and argument as some kind of injury.
It’s just that, on some topics, many people are not really interested in believing the truth. They might prefer it if their opinion turns out to be true—that would be the icing on the cake—but truth is not too important. Most of my friends, though subscribing to no familiar religion, claim to believe in a “superior intelp. 10ligence” or “something higher than us.” Yet they will also cheerfully admit the absence of even a shred of evidence. Never mind. There is no cost in error, because the claim is so vague that it has no implications for action (unlike the case of the oncoming car). They just like believing it, perhaps because it would be nice if it were true, or because it helps them get along with their religious parents, or for some other reason.
But truth really is not the point, and it is most annoying to be pressed on the matter. And to register this, to make it clear that truth is neither here nor there, they declare, “I am entitled to my opinion.” Once you hear these words, you should realize that it is simple rudeness to persist with the matter. You may be interested in whether or not their opinion is true, but take the hint, they aren’t.
2 – Motives
p. 11 When my sister was fifteen, she thought she had fat thighs. Occasionally, she would demand to know, “My thighs are fat, aren’t they?”
“No darling,” my parents would reply, “you have nice thighs; you’re a beautiful girl.”
Well, that confirmed it. “You’re just saying that!” was the constant refrain as my sister took our parents’ protestations to the contrary to confirm all her worst fears.
My sister was committing the Motive Fallacy. She thought that by exposing our parents’ motives for expressing an opinion—to make her feel better and shut her up—she had shown the opinion to be false.
But she hadn’t. It is perfectly possible to have some interest in holding or expressing an opinion and for that opinion to be true. A man may stand to gain a great deal of peace and quiet from telling his wife that he loves her. But he may really love her nevp. 12ertheless. It suits most to believe they are of better than average looks, and at least 44 percent of the 90 percent who believe this actually are. My sister’s legs were not fat. In other words, you don’t show someone’s opinion false just by showing that he has a motive for holding it.
This should be obvious as soon as it is said, but in case it isn’t, consider our adversarial legal system. Both lawyers in a civil case, plaintiff and defense, are hired guns. They act on behalf of whoever pays them. So it’s even worse than “just saying it”; they’ve actually been paid to say it. Yet one says the accused did it, while the other says he didn’t. So one must be speaking the truth, despite her selfish motives. To know which is speaking the truth, and hence whether or not the defendant is guilty, the jury must attend to the evidence presented by the lawyers, and not simply their motives for presenting that evidence. (If we followed the method of the Motive Fallacy in civil trials, they would be rather simple. Decide against the side of the lawyer who was paid more. She has the greater corrupting motive.)
Motives are relevant in deciding whether or not to believe someone only when we are dealing with testimony. Only, that is, when we are asked simply to take someone’s word for something. Suppose your sister has let you down by marrying one of those who think it hilarious to agitate people with dramatic falsehoods. One day, he phones you and tells you your sister has won five million dollars playing Lotto. Should you believe him? No, because the probability that he is lying exceeds the probability that your sister has won Lotto, which is about one in fifteen million. If your sister had instead let you down by marrying a rigidly honest puritan, from whom the chance of deceit is much less p. 13 than one in fifteen million, then you should begin to celebrate (the Lotto win, at least).
But assessing testimony is rarely the issue when motives are brought up. Normally, discussion is under way, evidence is being presented, cases are being made, and no one is being asked to take anything on someone’s say so. And then, suddenly, one party starts speculating on the motives of the other.
Committing the Motive Fallacy ends a debate, not by properly refuting one of the positions, but simply by changing the subject. First, you are discussing some issue, such as whether my sister has fat thighs, and then, after the fallacy is committed, you find yourself talking about the motives of those involved in the discussion. Perhaps this is why the fallacy is so popular. It turns all discussions—be they about economic policy, religion, or thighs—into discussions about our alleged motives and inner drives. Anyone who has watched daytime television will know the delicious temptation of speculating on your own and others’ psyches.
Jack informs Jerry Springer that his wife left him because she couldn’t handle the fact that every woman wants him. As one of the many women who don’t want Jack, Jill skips this obvious refutation and moves directly to a hypothesis as to why Jack is inclined to make such inflated boasts, declaring from the studio audience that Jack has an unusually diminutive external reproductive organ.
This is the kind of banter that entertains millions daily. It is greatly improved by focusing on the motives behind the participants’ utterances rather than their truth or falsity, because the latter is usually too obvious to be interesting. But the Motive Fallacy creates an infuriating diversion when the original topic is p. 14 important and the correct opinion is a matter of dispute between well-informed people—as with politics.
Political Motives
The Motive Fallacy is so common in politics that serious policy debate is almost nonexistent. The announcement of a new policy is greeted, not with a discussion of its alleged merits, but with a flurry of speculation from journalists and political opponents regarding the politician’s motives for announcing it. He wants to appease the right wing of his party, or is trying to win favor in marginal rural states, or is bowing to the racist clamoring of the gutter press, or what-have-you. If you follow politics you will be familiar with the various motives standardly attributed to politicians.
And you will be familiar with the effect. Nothing need be said about whether the policy is likely to achieve its objective, or whether that objective is sensible, or anything else about the quality of the policy itself.
Policies are treated merely as tactical moves in the game of politics. They can get you into the lead or make you vulnerable to your opponents. But their likely effects outside the game—for example, on employment, educational standards, and so on—seem to be of not the least interest to anyone playing or commentating. Occasionally, a politician declares his desperation to free himself from this horrible game and “address the issues of real concern to the people of this country.” But the matter normally ends with this earnest plea. The promised issue-addressing never quite happens. And why should it? The declaration of p. 15 intent will do quite nicely on its own. We want our politicians to be serious about the issues, of course. But for pity’s sake, don’t drag us into all the boring details!
Journalists and politicians now devote their attention to investigating the possible causes rather than
the likely effects of their opponents’ policies. If they can find a party donor or family friend who stands to benefit from the policy then they will have won the day. The policy is clearly rubbish.
It is, for example, a rare opponent of the 2003 American invasion of Iraq who does not enjoy speculating on President George W. Bush’s motivation. He wanted to finish his father’s work, steal Iraqi oil, or do the bidding of Jews who seek the removal of an enemy of Israel. It is assumed that once we are convinced of Bush’s low intent, we will be convinced that the invasion was wrong.
But Bush’s motives are irrelevant. He might have had the worst intentions that ever moved a leader to war. Perhaps he invaded because he was once insulted by a waiter in an Iraqi restaurant. Yet the invasion might be justified for all that. It might still liberate oppressed people and make the world safer. Good actions can be performed for bad reasons. Equally, bad actions can be well intended. Perhaps Bush really does want to liberate the Iraqi people and make the world safer. That intention does not alone make the invasion a good idea. Saddam’s tyranny may now be replaced by Shiite theocratic tyranny and the world might become a more dangerous place.
It isn’t only Bush’s opponents who commit the Motive Fallacy. In April 2004, Senator Kerry published a “misery index” that alleged to show that life for most Americans had got worse durp. 16ing Bush’s presidency. The index weighed factors such as net incomes, the cost of education and health care, and home ownership rates. The allegation was, however, easily answered:
Bush campaign spokesman Steve Schmidt dismissed the index as a political stunt. “John Kerry has made a calculation that if he talks down the economy, it will benefit him politically,” he said. (CBSNews.com, April 11, 2004)
Steve Schmidt was probably right that John Kerry aimed to make a statement that would help him politically. He was, after all, running for the presidency. But how can this fact possibly show that life had not really got worse for Americans during the Bush presidency?
Schmidt’s response, though the kind of thing you hear all the time, is absurd. Of course those involved in a debate want to win it. That does not suffice to show that their opinions are false. If it did, entering into a debate would be self-defeating, because attempting to win would immediately show your position to be wrong. Along with John Kerry, George Bush and all other politicians would have to remain silent in defense of their opinions. Only that way could they avoid Mr. Schmidt’s guaranteed refutation.
Spotting the Motive Fallacy
The difficulty with the Motive Fallacy is not so much seeing that it is a fallacy, but spotting its instances in everyday life. It is so common that we have become desensitized, and it can be comp. 17mitted in subtle ways. Consider, for example, the way the news media report the publication of a “white paper” by a think tank.
The rules for doing so must be specified in some journalism manual, for they all seem to do it the same way. First, the conclusion is baldly stated: “Joining the Euro will cost three million jobs in the U.K.” Then the name of the think tank: “That’s according to the Foggian Society.” Then the slant: “A right-leaning think tank.” You wonder why think tanks always only lean to the left or right. (Do they have their feet nailed to the center?) Why do journalists mention this right versus left business at all? A think tank’s political allegiances would be relevant only if they invited us to accept their views simply on their say so. But they don’t. Their white papers are full of evidence and argument supporting their contention. To refute their view, you need to show what is wrong with the case they make.
But that would require reading the white paper, and perhaps other works cited in support of the case, and even doing a little thinking on the topic. And who has the time or energy for all that? Not journalists, who have to be experts on twenty new topics every day. Better just to point out the direction in which the think tank leans. Those who lean the same way can then agree with its finding, those who lean in some other direction can reject it.
The limits on journalists’ time and their need to present information in bite-sized quantities mean that, when dealing with matters of dispute, the temptation to commit the Motive Fallacy is overwhelmingly powerful. It is done in more or less subtle ways, but attune yourself to it and you will see that the Motive Fallacy is almost universal.
p. 18 Here’s a tip for spotting it: watch out for the word just, as in “You’re just saying that” or “His new education policy is just an attempt to win the student vote.” Why has the “just” been included in such sentences? Everyone knows that when I say something I am saying it. What does it add to say that I am just saying it? Well, it is supposed to show that what I am saying is not also true, or that the education policy, besides appealing to students, is not also a good policy. The mere addition of the word just can, of course, achieve no such thing—it has no magical power of refutation. Nevertheless, people try it on all the time. Beware!
3 – Authority
p. 19 “Because I say so” is something most of us were told by our parents at some time or other. Usually it was simply a threat. As an answer to “Why should I eat my peas?” for example, it is much more civilized than “Because I will beat you if you don’t,” and thus to be applauded. But, you may also have heard it in answer to a question about some matter of fact, such as “Why should I believe in the virgin birth?” If so, your parents erred badly, committing the Authority Fallacy.
The fallacy lies in confusing two quite different kinds of authority. There is the kind of authority your parents, football referees, and parking attendants have: the power to decide certain matters. For example, your parents have the power to decide when you will go to bed. Hence, in answer to the question “Why is 8:00 P.M. my bedtime?” the answer “Because I say so” is quite right; your parents are, quite literally, the authors of your bedp. 20time. But it is not up to them whether or not Jesus was conceived without the help of sexual intercourse. Mary’s being a virgin at the time of Jesus’s birth is beyond the will of your parents, or indeed anybody else’s (with the possible exception of Jesus’s parents). So your father’s answer “Because I say so” is quite wrong when the question is “Why should I believe in the virgin birth?” The matter exceeds the scope of his parental authority.
Yet, there is another metaphorical sense of “authority” on which the answer “Because I say so” is sometimes reasonable, even when literal authority is absent, namely, the expert kind of authority. If someone is an expert on some subject (or an authority on the topic, as it is often put) then his opinion is likely to be true—or, at least, more likely to be true than the opinion of a non-expert. So, appealing to the opinion of such an authority—i.e., an expert—in support of your view is perfectly OK. It is indirect evidence for your opinion.
We can’t all be experts on everything. When laypeople sit around debating evolutionary biology, quantum physics, developmental economics, and the like, as the government’s reckless education policies mean they increasingly do, one of the best pieces of evidence likely to be put forward is simply “Because Nobel laureate Joe Bloggs says so.” And if Professor Bloggs himself is unfortunate enough to stumble into the wrong pub, then his saying “Because I say so” will do just as well, suffering only from an unpleasant air of arrogance.
The Authority Fallacy should now be clear. It occurs when the first literal type of authority, whereby someone has the power to make certain decisions, is confounded with the second metaphorical type, whereby someone is an expert and so likely to be right about some matter of fact.
p. 21 Your father may decide when you will go to bed, what you will eat for dinner, and where you will go to school. But that literal authority does not make him an expert on human (or divine) reproduction. So, you would do well to demur when he tells you that you should believe in the virgin birth because he says so. It goes against everything you have learned in your school science classes and your father is a sales rep for Xerox, not a biologist or forensic archaeologist. Of course, he ma
y just be threatening you, as when you asked why you should eat your peas. But, such a threat is neither here nor there. It may motivate you to believe in the virgin birth—or to say you do[3.1]—but it provides no evidence regarding the fact of the matter. For those interested in believing the truth the unsupported opinions of the ill-informed are of no help and are not improved upon by being offered up at gunpoint.
The People
In a fabled past beyond memory, more than ten years ago, there was great public respect for society’s authority figures. And if old introductory logic textbooks are any indication, this created a terrible problem with the Authority Fallacy. The views of parents, popes, police officers, priests, and politicians were endlessly put forward as if they carried the weight of expert opinion, despite their notorious fallibility. (The Pope’s fallibility is especially notorious, on account of his tendency to deny it.)
p. 22 Times have changed, however, and the standing of these figures is in sharp decline. Parents are well-known by their children to be utter fools, and you will rarely hear a dispute settled with the words “Because the president says so.”
So we might expect considerably less of the Authority Fallacy. Yet it thrives. New authority figures have risen to replace the old and, thankfully for books of this sort, they are just as unreliable.
The best example is The People: that is, the majority of people or, sometimes, the largest minority. The People is not merely an unreliable source that is often invoked as if it were expert. Better, it is invoked precisely because of the confusion between our two types of authority.
In a democracy, The People is the ultimate political authority. It has the power to choose the government. This may or may not be a good thing; the merits of democracy as a system for choosing the government are not our current concern. We need only note that whatever democracy’s merits, it had better not be founded on the assumption that the majority of people are experts on economics, jurisprudence, international relations, and so on, because most of us are woefully ignorant on these topics. Literal authority is sometimes based on expertise—for example, most rugby referees are experts on the laws of the sport—but it isn’t always. And the most obvious example of their separation is democracy. Yet the opinion of The People is endlessly invoked by politicians seeking support for their views.