On the other hand, Hume saw what we think of as “morality” as a product of our contingent empirical psychology, not as the immutable workings of reason itself. Given the kind of creatures we are, we happen to feel certain things, and some of these things we feel so deeply and reliably that they are well-entrenched sentiments, not just passing fancies. Take these feelings away from us and we would be very different creatures. Indeed, take our capacity and proclivity for sympathy away and morality would be something else entirely.
Unlike Kant, Hume didn’t worry about any necessary universal foundation for morality. He thought we were alike enough that one could make some meaningful observations about morality for humanity in general, but this had to do with the contingent fact that we happened to feel and want many of the same things, not because we absolutely had to feel and want them under pain of irrationality. As Hume said in his Treatise, “’Tis not contrary to reason to prefer the destruction of the whole world to the scratching of my finger.”3 Had he come across a Grinch who preferred to see the Whos destroyed in this fashion, he would have thought the Grinch a terrible, nasty fellow, but the flaw would’ve been a problem with his feelings, not his powers of reasoning.
A great deal hangs on this contrast between Kant and Hume, not just in cases of some dramatic change of heart like we see with the Grinch but in the more mundane shape and everyday orbit of human lives. The key question is whether Kant is right to put reason at the helm with the emotions playing a subsidiary role at best, whether Hume portrays us as we really are, as creatures whose ultimate ends are given not by reason but by feeling in one form or another, or whether there is some other middle way between these two very different views of human character and moral goodness.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Thidwick the Big-Hearted
Bearer of Property Rights
Aeon J. Skoble
Moose have large horns. It’s not unreasonable to wonder whether some of that space could be used for something. If a moose wanted corporate sponsorship, for example, one could place logos on the horns. In Dr. Seuss’s story, Thidwick the Big-Hearted Moose, a different use is proposed, and disastrous consequences ensue. In a charitable gesture, Thidwick allows a Bingle Bug to ride on his horns. But the Bingle Bug then invites dozens of other creatures to establish homes on Thidwick’s horns. They then claim to have formed a community, with an entitlement to property rights on Thidwick’s horns. Their exercise of their alleged rights turns out to place Thidwick’s life in jeopardy. In this essay, I will argue that the “guests” did not in fact have any rights to live on the horns and that Thidwick was mistaken in letting his big-heartedness be used against him by the other creatures. This will allow us to see something about the nature of property rights.
Would You, Could You, Get off My Head?
The plot follows the pattern of the slippery slope: the Bingle Bug, put out by it being a hot day, asks Thidwick for permission to ride on his horns. Thidwick reasons, correctly, that a tiny bug riding on his horns will not be an inconvenience at all, so he grants the bug’s wish. But the bug invites more and more creatures until it really is an inconvenience for Thidwick. Thidwick feels as though he cannot protest the inconvenience on the grounds that “a host above all must be nice to his guests” (Thidwick). But this is where Thidwick’s reasoning becomes flawed: they aren’t his guests. The bug, not Thidwick, invites the other creatures, who themselves go on to take advantage. For example, the bug invites a bird, then the bird takes a wife, and then the bird asks both his wife and her uncle to move on as well. Thidwick is mistaken in regarding them as guests just as they are mistaken in thinking they are entitled to live there. But later, this mistake leads to further problems: when Thidwick decides to go to the other side of Lake Winna-bango, the creatures protest: “You’ve no right to take our home to the far side of the lake!” (Thidwick). This claim is flawed in three distinct ways.
First, even on their own terms, the creatures’ protest is irrational. The reason Thidwick wants to go to the south side of the lake is that there is no more Moose-Moss on the north shore. If Thidwick were to starve to death, then the creatures would lose their home. But the other two flaws in their protest involve conceptual confusion. Calling it “our home” is to think that moving in uninvited establishes property rights or that mere occupancy creates a proprietary relationship. By that reasoning, there is no such thing as auto theft or theft at all. And saying that Thidwick has no right to take his own horns to wherever he chooses is to deny that Thidwick has a property right to his own self.
For a closer look at why these creatures are mistaken, let us consider the argument made in the seventeenth century by John Locke (1632–1704) in his Second Treatise of Government. Locke’s argument is about human beings, of course, not moose, but since Thidwick is an anthropomorphized fictional moose, with rational self-awareness (and a good command of English), we can take him to be a person at least allegorically, and so Locke’s argument works for Thidwick.
Locke’s argument famously claims that the rationale for forming a government is the protection of rights that we have by nature, antecedently to the creation of any form of government. Locke talks about the protection of our lives, liberties, and property, but he clarifies that by “property” he includes our lives and liberties—in other words, a property right in ourselves. A central principle in Locke’s argument is that since all people are moral equals, no one can have a natural claim of ownership over another. We therefore have a natural right of self-ownership. As Locke puts it, “Though the Earth . . . be common to all Men, yet every Man has a Property in his own Person. This no Body has any Right to but himself. The Labour of his Body and the Work of his Hands, we may say, are properly his.”1
Thidwick, then, is the owner of his horns. The Bingle Bug acquires a right to ride on the horns by asking for, and receiving, permission from Thidwick. This is not the same thing as acquiring a property right. The bug’s request was for temporary occupancy—“would you mind if I rode on your horns for a way?” (Thidwick)—not to establish residence. But even if the request had been “Do you mind if I live here?,” it still would not establish a property right in Thidwick’s horns for the bug. The bug is, as Thidwick puts it, a guest. The idea of an “inalienable” right to self-ownership not only implies that it’s wrong for others to enslave you but also that you cannot rightly enslave yourself. So while the bug is entitled to stay as a guest, if Thidwick consents, the bug cannot ever acquire a right to live there. If the bug had a right to live there, it would mean Thidwick had alienated his self-ownership right, which is impossible.
Most of the other creatures aren’t even guests, despite Thidwick’s referring to them as such. They are all invited by the bug without Thidwick’s consent. As a guest, one does not acquire the right to invite other guests, at least not without clearing it with the owner. The so-called guests do not have proper permission, so their occupancy is illegitimate, even if Thidwick doesn’t realize this. They consume resources that they feel entitled to, but are not. The Zinn-a-Zu bird, for example, plucks out 204 of Thidwick’s hairs, which hurts the moose. The bird is not only unconcerned with the pain he is inflicting but also rationalizes the appropriation of the hairs by noting that “you can always grow more!” (Thidwick). The woodpecker destroys property that is not his by drilling four holes in one of the horns.
In a short time, the one invited guest has been joined by a spider, three birds, four squirrels, a bobcat, and a turtle. Each is a drain on Thidwick’s resources—while the Bingle Bug by himself represents a negligible load for Thidwick to bear, the eleven-creature menagerie creates a considerable burden for the moose. Besides the weight he must carry, though, things are much worse: the eleven conspire to rob him of his liberty entirely. They claim that he, Thidwick, has no right to move to the south of the lake because that would entail moving “their” home against their wishes. At this point, Thidwick is functionally a slave: he is not permitted to use his own body for his own p
urposes but is obliged to use it to serve others. Again, it is just as wrong by a Lockean view for Thidwick to enslave himself as for him to be enslaved by others. Even though they are not physically coercing him, they are making a claim to the effect that he has no right to liberty, which he erroneously acquiesces in. Note, however, that his enslavement is the product not only of the other creatures’ sense of entitlement but also to Thidwick’s continuing to base his decisions on the premise that “a host must be nice to his guests” (Thidwick). This is a perfectly good principle as far as it goes; the mistake lies in thinking, one, that the eleven are his guests, and two, that being nice to them entails giving up his very bodily integrity.
One Vote, Two Votes, I Vote, You Vote
It does occur to Thidwick, at this point, to note the unfairness of his not being able to move to the south shore. The Bingle Bug’s response is to put the matter to a vote, which Thidwick loses eleven to one. The Bingle Bug defines fairness in terms of the outcome of voting, but this begs the question. If Thidwick’s fundamental right to self-ownership and liberty is subject to the majoritarian voting of others, then he doesn’t actually have a fundamental right of self-ownership or claim to liberty at all. A voting procedure can represent fairness in certain circumstances; for example, when all parties are on an equal footing and have agreed to subject a particular decision to a vote (think of a group of friends selecting a restaurant or a town council voting on a date for a festival). But if a voting process can override fundamental liberty rights, as it does in Thidwick’s case, then the premise of equality that democratic processes presuppose is undermined. This is incoherent.
To highlight the idea that democratic voting procedures cannot be understood as trumping fundamental liberty rights, Robert Nozick’s thought experiment “The Tale of the Slave” is instructive.2 Nozick describes a series of transitions whereby a slave gradually finds his master allowing democratic voting about how the fruits of the slave’s labor are to be distributed and how the slave’s free time may be spent. Even in the best-case scenario, the slave never actually enjoys real liberty and fails to have Lockean self-ownership. Nozick’s point is that just because you use democratic voting procedures, it doesn’t guarantee that you are protecting fundamental liberties, or indeed the moral equality on which a democracy is predicated. This is presumably the same rationale for the various antidemocratic features of the U.S. Constitution. Take, for example, the protections afforded by the First Amendment: rights to speak and publish freely are protected even if it thwarts the will of a majority. The founders had a clear conception of natural rights to basic liberties as being conceptually prior to and more fundamental than the administrative structures of the government designed to protect those rights and liberties.
After outvoting Thidwick, forcing him to remain on the north shore despite the dwindling supply of Moose-Moss, the eleven take steps to make sure they can continue to dominate Thidwick. They invite more creatures to take up residence on Thidwick’s horns: a fox, a bear, three mice, an indeterminate number of fleas, and 362 bees. With over 379 votes, the menagerie will be sure to dominate Thidwick in perpetuity. As long as democratic voting overrides fundamental liberty rights, Thidwick’s autonomy can never be restored, as he will always be outvoted by the parasitic creatures. This is a central insight of the “public choice” school of economic thought. James Buchanan, for example, notes that “those who expect to experience an increased flow of benefits from the government” will be sure to vote for policies that widen the scope of said benefits.3 Buchanan’s observations about the rich and poor are here analogous to Thidwick (who is “rich” in the relevant sense of owning a resource of potential value to others, via his body) and the “guests” (who, while they all have bodies of their own, perceive themselves to be poor in the sense that they don’t possess Thidwick). The creatures claim to have formed a community, so in one sense it seems appropriate to institute democratic voting procedures. The problem is that they never actually acquired any right to live on the horns in the first place, so their voting about what Thidwick can do with his horns has no justification. They claim that the moose runs a “public hotel,” implying that Thidwick has opened his horns to any and all creatures who wish to live there. But it is not Thidwick who has extended this offer. “There’s plenty of room . . . and it’s free!” (Thidwick) claims the Bingle Bug.
His Guests Are Still on Them
The creatures’ exercise of their alleged rights turns out to place Thidwick’s life in jeopardy; first, because of the scarcity of Moose-Moss on the north shore, but then, more dramatically, when Thidwick becomes the target of hunters. He tries to elude the hunters, but being weighed down by more than 379 other creatures—five hundred pounds worth—is a considerable hindrance. He realizes he could run faster without the extra weight, but he still thinks he must be “nice to his guests.” Their guest status and Thidwick’s “niceness” at this point are overriding even his capacity for self-preservation. Although he escapes from danger at the end, it should be clear that the “guests” didn’t in fact have any right to live on the horns and that Thidwick was mistaken in letting his big-heartedness be used against him by the other creatures. Thidwick’s property right in his horns is a logical consequence of his self-ownership rights, even if neither he nor the menagerie recognizes this.
Thidwick does save himself from the hunters, thanks to the serendipitous timing of his annual horn shedding. Just as he is cornered by the hunters (cornered because the creatures won’t permit him to jump into the lake and swim away), Thidwick realizes it’s time for the horns to come off. This allows Thidwick to regain his liberty and self-ownership: the horns, now discarded, can be kept by the creatures, and Thidwick is free to swim to the south of the lake. It’s a pyrrhic victory for the creatures, of course: since the horns are no longer attached to a set of legs, the hunters may easily take the horns and all the creatures as their prize. The reader will typically agree with Dr. Seuss that the creatures got what they deserved—“stuffed, as they should be” (Thidwick). And we feel relieved that Thidwick’s rediscovery of his fundamental right of self-ownership comes in time for him to escape the hunters and rejoin his friends. We see here an important aspect of Lockean self-ownership: without it, even self-preservation is difficult to secure. Thidwick knows he needs to leave the north shore, or he’ll starve. He knows he could outrun the hunters bent on killing him if he didn’t have five hundred pounds of pests on top of his head. But with his autonomy gone, he cannot act on what he knows to be the life-preserving choices.
Does Thidwick Need a Visa to
Get to the South Side of the Lake?
Given current anxieties, some may be tempted to see Thidwick the Big-Hearted Moose as a parable about illegal immigration, with big-hearted Thidwick as the United States and the over 379 creatures as illegal immigrants. I would resist this interpretation. First of all, that interpretation only makes sense if Thidwick is seen as unaware that the creatures are moving in, which isn’t how the story goes. More importantly, the analogy fails in that immigrants are primarily net gains for the economy, engaged in productive labor, whereas the creatures are not productive at all. This interpretation plays to fears that immigrants come just to go on welfare, which is not accurate. The idea of the story as a parable about the welfare state generally is a little more plausible—Thidwick’s “big heart” having similarities to the epithet “bleeding heart,” and the general laziness and parasitism of the creatures, whose draining of Thidwick’s resources threatens to destroy both him and them, as representative of those that exploit such a system. Proponents of a universal basic income, for instance, argue that everyone is entitled to a minimal income provided by the society, regardless of whether they are employed at all. Critics of this approach argue that this perversely creates incentives to avoid work, which shifts an unfair burden onto those who do work. Thidwick could be seen as the one provider in the society while the “guests” are all getting a “free ride.” While this
isn’t inaccurate, I think it misses the bigger picture: the nature of liberty and the foundation of rights.
It’s worth reiterating that Thidwick’s loss of liberty, his enslavement, is primarily due to his own mistaken conception of his duties toward others. Allowing the Bingle Bug to ride on his horns was not obligatory in the first place. Thidwick was happy to do this as a favor. While this didn’t create any entitlements for the bug, it’s understandable that Thidwick might feel that the bug is now a guest, and a host should be nice to his guest. But he should not have regarded any of the other creatures as guests nor felt any obligation to be nice to them, especially when their claims of entitlement trumped his own liberty and claims to self-ownership. Thidwick gets in a jam because he doesn’t realize (or has forgotten) that he has a fundamental right of self-ownership, and it is his realization (or rediscovery) of the idea of liberty that gets him out of it.
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