Metaphysics as a Guide to Morals

by Iris Murdoch

  ‘is forced to attribute to his deified Intellect an impossible impulse of desire. It is the old religious necessity, realised long before by Pherekydes, who said that when Zeus set about making the world he changed himself into Eros ... An immutable passionless Reason may trace the outlines of a scheme of classification ... but it can do no more. To account for the existence of anything whatever we have to ascribe to it the unworthy and lower faculty of desire, and give this desire an unworthy and lower object — the existence of an imperfect copy of perfection. But that is the language of religion, not of science.’

  This curious ‘demotion’ of Eros represents a misunderstanding not only of the Timaeus but of the Republic and the Symposium. Plato did not encounter or ‘fall over’ the problem of creative power suddenly at the end of his life, he had already earlier constructed and used his mythology of the imperfect lover and the perfect (impersonal) beloved. Love, as Prometheus, gives arts to men in the Philebus. Without the presence and energy of Eros the Forms might indeed seem too awesomely alone; but that human salvation and the being of the human world depends upon the (unilateral) relation of Eros to the Forms, is an image which is liberally ‘cashed’ by Plato in his descriptions of human love and of intellectual and moral struggles and aspirations. Eros may be ‘lower’ (a daemon not a God) but is not necessarily ‘unworthy’, and is certainly essential. The Timaeus differs from the Republic in being a semi-scientific, and at the same time mystical, cosmology, wherein scientific speculations mingle with, or inform, mystical religious imagery. But the trinitarian myth which contains this heterogeneous and often obscure material is certainly not a sort of patched-up pis aller expressive of Plato’s inability to solve his problems. Cornford suggests that Plato, if he could, would have stated it all as logos and not mythos. The Demiurge, perfectly good but not omnipotent, is clearly presented as a mythical figure, and so far from superseding the Forms is subservient to them. This figure certainly does not represent any yearning in Plato for a conversible personal God or any dissatisfaction of that sort with his own metaphysical imagery. Plato would have found the idea of a supernatural or cosmic Thou, or a covenant with such a being, devoid of sense.

  The Demiurge creates the cosmos looking with love towards the Forms. (I invoke my view of the Timaeus again here as answering both Buber and Cornford.) The Demiurge, in creating the heavenly bodies and our earth, makes use of necessity, the innate causality of natural law, but since he also designed the good in all existing things, we find ourselves subject to two kinds of cause, a necessary and a divine. We must seek (understand, use) the necessary for the sake of the divine. (68E, 69A.) The wisdom and goodness, which also brings happiness, derives from an understanding of the contingent necessity in our life, guided herein by a love of learning. Philosophy (love of learning and truth and virtue) is the greatest gift the gods have given us. (90B — c, 47B.) Plato’s handling of divine and necessary causality is wiser than that of Kant. This creation myth represents in the most elegant way the redemption of all particular things which are, although made of contingent stuff, touched and handled by the divine. The contingent can become spiritually significant, even beautiful, as in art, as in Simone Weil’s idea of the beauty of the world as an image of obedience. Plato’s myths are the redemption of art. This is an aspect of the return to the Cave, where illusions are not only rejected but understood. The Anima Mundi is an image of incarnate mind. It is as if the world were created by a being who perceived and loved absolute good, but was only able, because of his given material, to reproduce his model imperfectly. The Anima Mundi, being incarnate in the world, partakes of its deficiencies. This is of course not a Manichaean picture; the pre-existing material is just contingent not evil. This extraordinary myth seems to be (in the sense which I have indicated) less optimistic than that of the Cave, where it is conceived of as possible that the prisoner, ascending, might in the end see the Sun itself. In the Timaeus (written later than the Republic and generally thought to be a very late work) the best we mortals can hope for is the situation of intuiting or glimpsing something beyond through what is here. The mythical Trinity of two persons, Creator and Soul, and impersonal Absolute, is in my view more morally and spiritually eloquent than the mythical Christian Trinity of which it is surely a forerunner. I do not know who baptised the Timaeus.

  What we see is the Demiurge’s model of the eternal reality, made in another material, while he can see the original. This is something which we can imagine, as a picture of our relation to an absolute. The Demiurge sees the Forms, responding to their magnetism, but does not of course converse with them. These magnetic and illuminating objects are separate and unresponsive. They are in and with themselves, simple and eternal (Symposium 2IIB): not the sort of thing with which one holds a dialogue. We do not have dialogues with Goodness. In an important sense Goodness must be an Idea. If an incarnate model is proposed we still must judge the model. Only to say ‘must’ and ‘judge’ sounds rather too harsh and mechanical. In Platonic terms we recognise what we already know. Goodness is an idea, an ideal, yet it is also evidently and actively incarnate all around us, charged with the love which the Demiurge feels for the eternal Forms as he creates the cosmos. So we are also able to evoke mystical Buddhas and mystical Christs who as historical figures were imperfect men, together with innumerable other images and tokens of perfect spiritual ideas. Buber’s memorable distinction between the I — Thou relation and the I — it relation seems too simple and exclusive, and may indeed suggest the old fascinating division of fact from value, which makes nothing of the greater part of our ordinary life of knowings and actings. Much, in some cases most, of our spiritual energy and understanding comes from non-reciprocal relationships with what is beyond and other. Our relation with a foreign language which we are learning is not reciprocal. (That we may enjoy what we learn is another matter.) We are helped if we have active principles of diligence and truthfulness standing by. If what we are learning is to love a person unselfishly, we have the privilege of dialogue, and need also the presence of good ideals and desires. In either case the impersonal ‘presence’ may be felt as external (the voice of duty, the ideal of goodness etc.) or as an instinctive source of relevant power. (Elsewhere in the soul.) Buber wondering (p. 73) how one might give sense to Heidegger’s concept of Being, refers to Christian mystics and scholastics who speak of contemplating the Godhead as it is in itself prior to creation. But he adds that Eckhart follows Plato in holding that God is above Being. Est enim Deus super esse et ens. Only of course Plato says this of Good, not God. The supreme principle or absolute, the certain unfailing pure source and perfect object of love is not and cannot be an existing thing (or person) and is separate from, though magnetically connected with, contingent ‘stuff’ however thought of in some contexts as fundamental. God or gods, or a metaphysical conception of History, or a Life Force or Cosmic Rhythm, or protons or genes or DNA, or archi-ecriture, may be or have been (plausibly or implausibly) said to have some fundamental status which is to be contrasted with ordinary existence. But Good would not be a part of this, it would be above it in the position of its judge. Such imagery suggests and defines the unique spiritual element in life, that which religion indicates and to which morality instinctively returns. We have to decide how, whether, why impressive scientific or historical or psychological theories are to affect our way of living. These theories are not gods, and those of us who are not ‘specialists’ have (for instance in political situations, as citizens) to make judgments, and attempt to make well-informed judgments, about them. The charm of determinism haunts the metaphysical concept of Being. It is a place where attractive quasi-scientific theories of ultimate reality can breed. We are tempted to imagine an alien material which we cannot transcend and where morality and personal responsibility, as it were, stop. Here a general theory reinforces our natural sloth, our weariness and covert despair. Of course, in law courts and in ordinary life, we learn how to forgive people (including ourselves) as victims of f
orces (psychological or social forces for instance) which are ‘beyond control’. But these are properly judgments in individual cases, not instances or evidences of a general human state which must be taken to be beyond challenge. Dramatic pictures of the human situation, as presented by Nietzsche, Freud, Sartre or Heidegger, whose purpose, even when catastrophic or ‘austere’, is actually consoling, are exercises in hubris, or speculative ultimates which we must judge in the light of something which remains free and untainted beyond them.

  Postscript. Nietzsche, The Gay Science, section 125). ‘The Madman. Have you not heard of that madman who lit a lantern in the bright morning hours, ran to the market place and cried incessantly, “I seek God, I seek God.” As many of those who did not believe in God were standing around just then, he provoked much laughter ... “Whither is God?” he cried. “I shall tell you. We have killed him, you and I. All of us are his murderers. But how have we done this? How were we able to drink up the sea? Who gave us this sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What did we do when we unchained this earth from its sun? Whither is it moving now? ... What was holiest and most powerful of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives ... Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we not ourselves become gods simply to be worthy of it? There has never been a greater deed; and whoever will be born after us — for the sake of this deed he will be part of a higher history than all history hitherto.” Here the madman fell silent and looked again at his listeners; and they too were silent and stared at him in astonishment. At last he threw his lantern to the ground and it broke and went out. “I came too early”, he said then: “My time has not yet come. This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering — it has not yet reached the ears of men.”’ The whole of this section is quoted by Heidegger in The Word of Nietzsche. Heidegger goes on to say, ‘The pronouncement “God is dead” means: The supra-sensory world is without effective power. It bestows no life. Metaphysics, i.e. for Nietzsche Western philosophy, understood as Platonism, is at an end.’ This essay (The Word of Nietzsche) is based on Heidegger’s Nietzsche lectures given between 1936 and 1940.

  16

  Morality and Religion

  In the background of many of these arguments lies a question about the relation of morality to religion, the difference between them, and the definition of religion. I have already suggested that my whole argument can be read as moral philosophy. In any case moral philosophy must include this dimension whether we call it religion or not. Someone may say that there is only one way to ‘acquire’ religion and that is through being taught it as a small child. You have to breathe it in. It is an ineffable attitude to the world which cannot really be discussed. People who take up religion as adults are merely playing at it, it remains at a level of illusion. So someone could speak, being either a believer or an unbeliever. The unbeliever might add that religion is imbibed in childhood, when it forms part of the infantile child-parent relationship now well-known to psychology; only religion, being a soothing drug, is less easy to give up in later life.

  The most evident bridge between morality and religion is the idea of virtue. Virtue is still treated in some quarters as something precious to be positively pursued; yet the concept has also faded, even tending to fall apart between ‘idealism’ and ‘priggishness’. It may be seen as a self-indulgent luxury. It has, perhaps has always had, many enemies. Fear of a perverted ideology or of a too fervent ‘enthusiasm’ may prevent a positive conception of virtue. Cynicism and materialism and dolce vita can occlude it, also fear, misery, deprivation and loss of concepts. Even in a religious context ‘personal spirituality’ may be something that has to be argued for. A utilitarian morality may treat a concern with becoming virtuous as a waste of energy which should be transmitted directly to the alleviation of suffering. Of course numerous people are virtuous without thinking about it, and sages may say that, if thought about, it may ipso facto diminish. A saint may perhaps be good by instinct and nature, though saintly figures are also revered as reformed sinners. Perhaps the word itself begins to seem pretentious and old-fashioned.

  An idea (concept) of virtue which need not be formally reflective or clarified bears some resemblance to religion, so that one might say either that it is a shadow of religion, or religion is a shadow of it. The demand that we should be virtuous or try to become good is something that goes beyond explicit calls of duty. One can of course extend the idea of duty into the area of generalised goodness (virtuous living) by making it a duty always to have pure thoughts and good motives. For reasons I have suggested I would rather keep the concept of duty nearer to its ordinary sense as something fairly strict, recognisable, intermittent, so that we can say that there may be time off from the call of duty, but no time off from the demand of good. These are conceptual problems which are important in the building up of a picture; that is, an overall extension of the idea of duty would blur a valuable distinction, and undermine the particular function of the concept. Duty then I take to be formal obligation, relating to occasions where it can be to some extent clarified. (‘Why go?’ ‘I promised.’ ‘Why go?’ ‘He’s an old friend.’ ‘Why go?’ ‘Well, it’s somehow that sort of situation.’) Duty may be easily performed without strain or reflection, but may also prompt the well-known experience of the frustration of desire together with a sense of necessity to act, wherein there is a proper place for the concept of will. Dutifulness could be an account of a morality with no hint of religion. The rational formality of moral maxims made to govern particular situations might make them seem like separated interrupted points of insight rather than like a light which always shines. This could be a picture of human life. Yet Kant also portrays us as belonging at every second to the noumenal world of rationality and freedom, the separated pure source. We are orderly because duty is duty, yet also behind the exercise of it we might (surely, after all) glimpse the inspiring light of pure goodness which Kant calls Reason, and sometimes even God. Beyond all this we may picture a struggle in Kant’s religious soul over the concept of Reason, so essential, yet so awkward. The rationality (Pure Reason) which enables us to deal with objects and causes must be related to that (Practical Reason) which enables us to deal with right and wrong. Well, the concept of truth can relate them. (Compare Plato’s relation of epistemological with spiritual.) Perhaps Kant felt no awkwardness — it is we who feel awkward, when we connect morality with love and desire. Certainly it does seem possible to set up a contrast between the dutiful man and the virtuous man which is different from the contrast between the dutiful man and the religious man. Here we may think of Christ saying render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s. Duty as order, relating morals to politics. Good decent men lead orderly lives. It might also be said in this context that given the abysmal sinfulness of humans, only a strict list of rules can keep them from mutual destruction! The moral (or spiritual) life is both one and not one. There is the idea of a sovereign good, but there are also compartments, obligations, rules, aims, whose identity may have to be respected. These separate aspects or modes of behaviour occasion some of the most difficult kinds of moral problems, as if we have to move between styles, or to change gear. We have to live a single moral existence, and also to retain the separate force of various kinds of moral vision. Jeanie Deans in Scott’s novel loves her sister, but cannot lie to save her life. Isabella in Measure for Measure will not save her brother by yielding her chastity to Angelo. Duty is one thing, love is another. These are dramatic examples; one can invent many more homely ones of the conflict of moral requirements of entirely different kinds, wherein one seems to have to choose between being two different kinds of person. This may be a choice between two paths in life, or it may be some everyday matter demanding an instant response. We tend to feel that these dissimilar demands and states of mind must somehow connect, there must be a deep connection, it must all somehow make a unified sense; this is a religious craving, God sees it all. What I earlier called axioms are moral entities whos
e force must not be overcome by, or dissolved into, other moral streams: a requirement in liberal politics. Axioms may not ‘win’ but must remain in consideration, a Benthamite utilitarian conception of happiness must not, as a frequently relevant feature, be eroded by high-minded considerations about quality of happiness or by theories which make happiness invisible, or of course by political objectives. (The Cultural Revolution, the liquidation of the kulaks.) Equally of course, degraded or evil pleasure cannot count as simple or silly happiness. Such complexities, involving conflicts of moral discernment and moral style, are with us always. So, ‘keeping everything in mind’ is not an easy matter in morals. This may be an argument for clear rigid rules. Modern clerics who do not feel able to tell newly married couples to be virtuous, tell them to have a sense of humour. This shift is a telling case of a change of style.

  Religious belief may be a stronger motive to good conduct than non-religious idealism. Corrupt immoral persons (for instance hardened criminals) who cheerfully break all the ‘moral rules’, may retain the religious images of their childhood which can, at some juncture, affect their conduct. This idea has been (not unsentimentally) dealt with in various novels and films. Indeed, this retention of images, and sensibility to images, might suggest the importance of a religious childhood. (Is it easier to get out of religion, or to get in?) Parents who have had such a childhood themselves, but have ‘given up religion’, may often think along these lines. A kind of sensible well-meaning tolerance is involved here. But, a sterner breed may say, what about truth? Religion just isn’t true. A religious man, even a goodish one, is spoilt and flawed by irrational superstitious convictions; and it is held to be ridiculous for lapsed parents to let their innocent children be tainted with beliefs which the parents know to be false. It is no use talking of a ‘good atmosphere’, what is fundamentally at stake is truth. Such arguments come near to familiar problems of today. Is the non-religious good man so like the religious good man that it is merely some point of terminology or superficial style which is at issue? Orthodoxly religious people often tolerantly compliment the unbeliever by saying, ‘He is really a true Christian’; which may well annoy the unbeliever. More positively attempting a distinction to form part of a definition, it might be suggested that religion is a form of heightened consciousness (Matthew Arnold said it was ‘morality touched by emotion’), it is intense and highly toned, it is about what is deep, what is holy, what is absolute, the emotional imaginative image-making faculties are engaged, the whole man is engaged. Every moment matters, there is no time off. High morality without religion is too abstract, high morality craves for religion. Religion symbolises high moral ideas which then travel with us and are more intimately and accessibly effective than the unadorned promptings of reason. Religion suits the image-making human animal. Think what the image of Christ has done for us through centuries. Can such images lie? Do we not indeed adjust our attitudes to them, as time passes, so as to ‘make them true’? This continuous adjustment is an aspect of the history of religion.