The idea of a free market providing democratic, consumer-driven solutions to problems our society faces sounds rosy in principle, but the view rests on at least one major, very contentious assumption, which is that consumers are rational agents that can be expected to act in their best interests. And that they won't get tired of shopping. No, really.
But even if a majority of us act a majority of the time rationally, I would think a minimal requirement for libertarianism, there is evidence that a plethora of choices - a remarkable attribute of a free market indeed - does not necessarily translate into the best choice chosen. President *'s plan to inject some of this free market choice into retirement pensions assumes, of course, that we all have the time and interest to devote to managing stocks. Of course, we would let a pro handle the details, but nevertheless a private pension still requires a degree of involvement far beyond the current system, which is pretty much nothing.
Personally I like the fact under the current system that I don't have to worry about were my money is, whether it is growing, or by how much, or whether I am "on target" to retire with my nest egg as planned. But that's just me. Personal finance is important to me, but it is not up there with other things, like making sure my wife is happy, or keeping fit, or staying educated.
The idea that people will take responsibility for their future and community if they are presented with choices in a free market makes sense, but only if we have ample time (and interest, or simply wherewithall) to study each choice so that we can make our so-called rational decision. The fact is, we - or I - rarely do that.
For my wedding my wife and I visited all of two catering companies. The reason we did not consult with more is that doing so would have been painfully tedious. Would we have found an even better caterer? Perhaps, but do I care? Not really. So how "rational" I am being here? Where libertarians are wrong is that they don't acknowledge that people more often than not make decisions that are "just good enough" rather than "the very best" for them at that time, and "just good enough," by definition is relative. In some cases it might actually be pretty bad, but how would I know without having explored every other possibility ad infinitum?
I for one have grown weary of the choices I am confronted by these days. Even buying a cup of coffee, at one time a banal activity, has become a major process involving a barrage of questions and options. The complexity of contemporary life is quite directly the result of having so many choices. With more choices you always have the possibility of having something better than you have, or than your neighbor has. With more choices comes the stress of never quite knowing if you made the right decision. With more choices, our lives become more and more consumed by a lifestyle of shopping.
11 April 2005
10 April 2005
Assertion and personal relations
Suppose we think, as some philosophers do, that assertion implies a commitment to the defensibility of the proposition asserted. If I assert that it is raining, then I am committed, upon challenge, to the defensibility of my claim. I become responsible for what I assert, and others can hold me to it.
Conflating asserting and saying gives rise to a very prevalent problem. My interest is its manifestation in personal relationships. Sometimes when we say or utter something, we don’t mean to be (or don’t want to be) asserting it. (Everything we assert, we say; however, not everything we say is an assertion.) In such cases, the commitment to defensibility is not in effect. Suppose I say, “N is a horrible person.” Some people (e.g., N’s friends) will demand an explanation, a defense; they will hold me responsible for what I say. I seem to be committed to offering a defense and engaging their incredulity. Suppose however that when I uttered ‘N is a horrible person’ I wasn’t asserting my belief about his vicious character, but rather just expressing my frustration at something he had done earlier in the day. ‘N is a horrible person’ functions, in that context, only to signal and emphasize the degree of my frustration. The aim of my utterance, then, is not really to talk about N’s character, but rather to engage someone in a discussion about my terrible day, part of which has to do with N.
The problem arises because my utterance is believed to be an assertion. I am wrongly held to a norm I don’t accept (as applying to this case). The tension can escalate if I try to explain myself. The friends can accuse me of being imprecise and illogical: “N is a terrible person,” they might say, does not mean “I’m having a terrible day; N is connected to it.” But what could be more pedantic and unhelpful than to accuse the extremely frustrated with being imprecise? And what could more easily lead to friction than to taunt an already agitated person? When the aim is to vent frustration or express one’s emotions or work through one’s thoughts out loud or to bullshit (to borrow from Harry Frankfurt), precision is neither an aim nor a priority nor, perhaps, even possible. Suppose the friends further accuse me of being irrational and of not being able to adequately express myself. I take personal affront to that. The tension escalates. And so on.
The root of the problem can manifest in almost all conversation, since we often do more (or less) with language than to transmit beliefs, i.e., make assertions. Some believe this is a gendered issue pertaining to the ‘linguistic relationship’ men and women have with one another. Men accuse women of not saying what they mean, and women accuse men of not being sensitive to the nuances of what they say. If there is a normative distinction between saying and asserting, then both can be correct. If the demand to defend what one says applies only to assertions, then one can say something, mean it (in some sense), yet not feel it necessary to defend. In those cases, any demand is out of place and inappropriate. On the other hand, one can confuse a legitimate demand for clarity with an attack on one’s person. Interpreting the demand as a retributive sentiment obfuscates one’s responsibilities, and some would say is an attempt to avoid them.
In any specific situation, it is a matter for subtle judgment to decide whether someone is asserting a claim or not. The upshot, then, is that dialogue shouldn’t be always construed as a battle over the truth of something said. Not all conversation is debate. When it’s unclear whether a person is prepared to defend something she says, the interlocutor should keep his mouth shut until the conversational intent is made sufficiently clear. Doing so would help abate friction and hurt feelings.
Conflating asserting and saying gives rise to a very prevalent problem. My interest is its manifestation in personal relationships. Sometimes when we say or utter something, we don’t mean to be (or don’t want to be) asserting it. (Everything we assert, we say; however, not everything we say is an assertion.) In such cases, the commitment to defensibility is not in effect. Suppose I say, “N is a horrible person.” Some people (e.g., N’s friends) will demand an explanation, a defense; they will hold me responsible for what I say. I seem to be committed to offering a defense and engaging their incredulity. Suppose however that when I uttered ‘N is a horrible person’ I wasn’t asserting my belief about his vicious character, but rather just expressing my frustration at something he had done earlier in the day. ‘N is a horrible person’ functions, in that context, only to signal and emphasize the degree of my frustration. The aim of my utterance, then, is not really to talk about N’s character, but rather to engage someone in a discussion about my terrible day, part of which has to do with N.
The problem arises because my utterance is believed to be an assertion. I am wrongly held to a norm I don’t accept (as applying to this case). The tension can escalate if I try to explain myself. The friends can accuse me of being imprecise and illogical: “N is a terrible person,” they might say, does not mean “I’m having a terrible day; N is connected to it.” But what could be more pedantic and unhelpful than to accuse the extremely frustrated with being imprecise? And what could more easily lead to friction than to taunt an already agitated person? When the aim is to vent frustration or express one’s emotions or work through one’s thoughts out loud or to bullshit (to borrow from Harry Frankfurt), precision is neither an aim nor a priority nor, perhaps, even possible. Suppose the friends further accuse me of being irrational and of not being able to adequately express myself. I take personal affront to that. The tension escalates. And so on.
The root of the problem can manifest in almost all conversation, since we often do more (or less) with language than to transmit beliefs, i.e., make assertions. Some believe this is a gendered issue pertaining to the ‘linguistic relationship’ men and women have with one another. Men accuse women of not saying what they mean, and women accuse men of not being sensitive to the nuances of what they say. If there is a normative distinction between saying and asserting, then both can be correct. If the demand to defend what one says applies only to assertions, then one can say something, mean it (in some sense), yet not feel it necessary to defend. In those cases, any demand is out of place and inappropriate. On the other hand, one can confuse a legitimate demand for clarity with an attack on one’s person. Interpreting the demand as a retributive sentiment obfuscates one’s responsibilities, and some would say is an attempt to avoid them.
In any specific situation, it is a matter for subtle judgment to decide whether someone is asserting a claim or not. The upshot, then, is that dialogue shouldn’t be always construed as a battle over the truth of something said. Not all conversation is debate. When it’s unclear whether a person is prepared to defend something she says, the interlocutor should keep his mouth shut until the conversational intent is made sufficiently clear. Doing so would help abate friction and hurt feelings.
06 April 2005
Contempt or engagement?
If I refuse, for moral reasons, to engage with someone, I can be thought to contemn him. The contempt is grounded in a reason, namely, that I don’t want to honor or lend my credibility or my authority by associating with him. And contempt can also be self-protective: I don’t want to become tainted by what I judge to be that person’s moral stench.
The practice of lending one’s credibility through association is obscure, yet nevertheless common. We take time out (of our busy schedules) to meet with someone, and that is often taken to be a form of respect. Photo opportunities are opportunities to bolster one’s credibility by piggy-backing on another’s authority. Importantly, to engage with an argument is, under normal circumstances, to implicitly assert the worthiness of the argument being engaged.
In the past few years, a certain controversy has arisen over a professor’s refusal to debate, in public or otherwise, a historian whom she, and many others, considers a holocaust denier. This takes us right into the distinction just drawn between contempt and engagement, and highlights the political dimension of that distinction.
The historian holds no academic position, holds no doctorate degree, and yet has written scores of texts on serious historical subjects, some of which have been recognized by academicians. In particular, he boasts something of a reputation as a historian steeped in extensive historical knowledge grounded in thorough archival research. Recently (but perhaps going further back), he seems to be defending a holocaust denier’s position, and he claims to have done the archival research which proves that Hitler could not have masterminded anything like what we commonly consider the Holocaust. This position is his stand, the thesis on which he stakes his reputation. He is eager to defend his position against the legion who disagree with him.
On the other hand, we have a professor who specializes in Holocaust denial in America. In particular, she is a specialist on the rhetoric and political impact of Holocaust denial in America. She refuses, on principle she claims, to debate with her opponent because she thinks to engage with him would be to give a forum for his incredible views. So, she refuses to grant interviews to news shows who are eager to hear her and her opponent battle it out. She seems to be asserting that a historical thesis which denies the Holocaust is a thesis not worthy of consideration. She is unwilling to lend credibility to such a thesis by seriously engaging with it. She finds the thesis, to use our terms, contemptible.
An interesting conflict arises. A basic tenet of a liberal society is the value of the discussion of ideas and engagement of conflicting views. J.S. Mill even thought that an open society should endorse and encourage the consideration of views believed to be false. For such consideration could somehow lead to the discovery of an important truth. Even if we are skeptical about the scope of this claim, it does appear to be true of the society of academics. It could almost be considered a part of an academic’s job description to engage with views she believes to be false (i.e., those which conflict with her own). On the face of it then, there is no place for contempt in academia: a thesis thought false must be engaged with and shown to be false; while dismissive treatment does occur, it is not something that is accepted as a practice. On the other hand, aren’t there views so absurd and patently unsustainable that merely to ponder them is to feel soiled? How does one, say, ask a mother to ponder the value of murdering her only son? She won’t do it, perhaps cannot do it—and this would seem to be a good making feature of her character. This seems especially pertinent if the advancement of the putatively absurd views is motivated, not by the search for truth, but by ideological considerations. If so, then something like a moral consideration obstructs dialogue and engagement.
How do we handle this conflict? Shall we accept that certain viewpoints are taboo and do not warrant serious discussion? That is a dangerous position to take; and if it should become politicized, a seemingly disastrous one. On the other hand, how are we supposed to engage if our own moral principles demand otherwise? Perhaps this is what Nietzsche pondered when he envisioned a future populated by the ‘daredevils of the spirit’, that is, those who would dare to engage with the morally ‘impossible’. Even if there should be such a specimen of human being, should we find them admirable?
The practice of lending one’s credibility through association is obscure, yet nevertheless common. We take time out (of our busy schedules) to meet with someone, and that is often taken to be a form of respect. Photo opportunities are opportunities to bolster one’s credibility by piggy-backing on another’s authority. Importantly, to engage with an argument is, under normal circumstances, to implicitly assert the worthiness of the argument being engaged.
In the past few years, a certain controversy has arisen over a professor’s refusal to debate, in public or otherwise, a historian whom she, and many others, considers a holocaust denier. This takes us right into the distinction just drawn between contempt and engagement, and highlights the political dimension of that distinction.
The historian holds no academic position, holds no doctorate degree, and yet has written scores of texts on serious historical subjects, some of which have been recognized by academicians. In particular, he boasts something of a reputation as a historian steeped in extensive historical knowledge grounded in thorough archival research. Recently (but perhaps going further back), he seems to be defending a holocaust denier’s position, and he claims to have done the archival research which proves that Hitler could not have masterminded anything like what we commonly consider the Holocaust. This position is his stand, the thesis on which he stakes his reputation. He is eager to defend his position against the legion who disagree with him.
On the other hand, we have a professor who specializes in Holocaust denial in America. In particular, she is a specialist on the rhetoric and political impact of Holocaust denial in America. She refuses, on principle she claims, to debate with her opponent because she thinks to engage with him would be to give a forum for his incredible views. So, she refuses to grant interviews to news shows who are eager to hear her and her opponent battle it out. She seems to be asserting that a historical thesis which denies the Holocaust is a thesis not worthy of consideration. She is unwilling to lend credibility to such a thesis by seriously engaging with it. She finds the thesis, to use our terms, contemptible.
An interesting conflict arises. A basic tenet of a liberal society is the value of the discussion of ideas and engagement of conflicting views. J.S. Mill even thought that an open society should endorse and encourage the consideration of views believed to be false. For such consideration could somehow lead to the discovery of an important truth. Even if we are skeptical about the scope of this claim, it does appear to be true of the society of academics. It could almost be considered a part of an academic’s job description to engage with views she believes to be false (i.e., those which conflict with her own). On the face of it then, there is no place for contempt in academia: a thesis thought false must be engaged with and shown to be false; while dismissive treatment does occur, it is not something that is accepted as a practice. On the other hand, aren’t there views so absurd and patently unsustainable that merely to ponder them is to feel soiled? How does one, say, ask a mother to ponder the value of murdering her only son? She won’t do it, perhaps cannot do it—and this would seem to be a good making feature of her character. This seems especially pertinent if the advancement of the putatively absurd views is motivated, not by the search for truth, but by ideological considerations. If so, then something like a moral consideration obstructs dialogue and engagement.
How do we handle this conflict? Shall we accept that certain viewpoints are taboo and do not warrant serious discussion? That is a dangerous position to take; and if it should become politicized, a seemingly disastrous one. On the other hand, how are we supposed to engage if our own moral principles demand otherwise? Perhaps this is what Nietzsche pondered when he envisioned a future populated by the ‘daredevils of the spirit’, that is, those who would dare to engage with the morally ‘impossible’. Even if there should be such a specimen of human being, should we find them admirable?
03 April 2005
Tipping Conventions
Tipping conventions
In the United States, the following takes place millions of times a day: a customer enters a restaurant, orders his meal from the waitstaff, the order is taken, the food and other food related requirements are presented to the customer, and the customer pays out what is called a gratuity for the services he specifically provided. In this brief social exchange, there seems to exist a host of conventions which govern how the exchange should take place. The most controversial part of the exchange is the consideration of how much should be given as the gratuity. The basic question concerns whether there are specific norms which govern this behavior and, if so, what is their nature.
Consider the following, rather common, scenario. A group of 6 friends enjoy a meal at a rather upscale place. Over the course of 3 hours, they order several bottles of wine, appetizers, entrees, dessert and coffee. The wait staff is competent, unobtrusive, and friendly. At the end of the meal, the check is split among them, and tension arises over how much should be left for the wait staff. Some consider the 15% adequate, others note the stellar service and want the gratuity to be at least 20%, still others note that the gratuity should not include the price of the wine, and finally there is one who as a matter of principle does not want to leave a gratuity at all. The 15-percenters cite 15% as the norm; it is, they assert, what most people give, and this determines how much should be given. The 20-percenters cite the good service, and insist that 15% is the minimum gratuity; and so, if the service is beyond the ordinary, the tip should exceed the minimum. The solitary holdout claims that a gratuity is just that--a gratuity--meaning that no one must give it if she does not want to—and he doesn’t want to. Moreover, he argues, it is ridiculous to tip at all on the wine, not to mention 20% because, he asks, How hard can it be to open a bottle of wine? The 15-percenters charge the 20-percenters with being spendthrifts; the 20-percenters counter with the charge that the 15-percenters are insensitive to hard work. And, almost everyone believes the holdout is an ass. Can any facet of this dispute be settled?
Even a superficial glance at the very concept of a gratuity poses immediate problems. Gratuity has several seemingly incompatible meanings. On the one hand, a gratuity can depend only upon the customer’s inclinations, perhaps informed by some evaluation, but ultimately grounded in nothing more than a personal decision. On the other, gratuity means reciprocity, and hence the level of the gratuity is fixed by something extending beyond personal choice—choice is informed and determined by the nature of the reciprocal relationship.
Even if the basis of a gratuity is solely grounded on the inclinations or desires of the diner, there would still be multiple options. If we think of such inclinations as whimsical or unprincipled as in “I just felt like leaving a $10 tip”, then there could be no general formula to fix the amount of the gratuity. The 15% that we Americans are accustomed to giving would be ungrounded, on this picture, in any norm. We give 15% because we feel like it; sometimes we give less, sometimes more. If there is no norm, then there can be no objective evaluation of whether someone tipped poorly or appropriately. And hence no grounds for dispute. Essentially, the holdout from the above story would be correct. Alternatively, if we think of the desire as expressing some sort of evaluation of, typically, the quality of the service provided, then there might exist a formula to fix the amount of a gratuity: the better the service the greater the inclination to give a higher gratuity; the worse, the lower. Gratuities, on this view, can run the gamut, from none to over 100%. The key is subjective assessment of the quality of service.
Distinguish the first conception, on either reading, with the idea that gratuities can be demanded irrespective of anyone’s personal inclinations. If the principle of reciprocity is at work, one would surmise that with a waiter’s increasing attention, devotion and care, the gratuity would appropriately increase. Even if true, however, there appears to be limits beyond which most diners are unwilling to venture—and this applies at both ends. Irrespective of how high the quality of service, few would ponder the possibility of leaving a 50% gratuity; and, similarly, no matter how negligent, few would ponder denying some gratuity altogether. So, the principle of reciprocity, even if in effect, seems to be supplemented by an upper and lower limit.
So, there are considerations which favor the conclusion that nothing could rightfully compel a customer to tip other than her own personal evaluation; and, there are considerations favoring the thought that a norm of reciprocity, suitably qualified, determines how much customers should tip. This ambiguity in the concept of gratuity, I suspect, grounds the frequent disagreement, sometimes very heated, over our tipping conventions.
In the United States, the following takes place millions of times a day: a customer enters a restaurant, orders his meal from the waitstaff, the order is taken, the food and other food related requirements are presented to the customer, and the customer pays out what is called a gratuity for the services he specifically provided. In this brief social exchange, there seems to exist a host of conventions which govern how the exchange should take place. The most controversial part of the exchange is the consideration of how much should be given as the gratuity. The basic question concerns whether there are specific norms which govern this behavior and, if so, what is their nature.
Consider the following, rather common, scenario. A group of 6 friends enjoy a meal at a rather upscale place. Over the course of 3 hours, they order several bottles of wine, appetizers, entrees, dessert and coffee. The wait staff is competent, unobtrusive, and friendly. At the end of the meal, the check is split among them, and tension arises over how much should be left for the wait staff. Some consider the 15% adequate, others note the stellar service and want the gratuity to be at least 20%, still others note that the gratuity should not include the price of the wine, and finally there is one who as a matter of principle does not want to leave a gratuity at all. The 15-percenters cite 15% as the norm; it is, they assert, what most people give, and this determines how much should be given. The 20-percenters cite the good service, and insist that 15% is the minimum gratuity; and so, if the service is beyond the ordinary, the tip should exceed the minimum. The solitary holdout claims that a gratuity is just that--a gratuity--meaning that no one must give it if she does not want to—and he doesn’t want to. Moreover, he argues, it is ridiculous to tip at all on the wine, not to mention 20% because, he asks, How hard can it be to open a bottle of wine? The 15-percenters charge the 20-percenters with being spendthrifts; the 20-percenters counter with the charge that the 15-percenters are insensitive to hard work. And, almost everyone believes the holdout is an ass. Can any facet of this dispute be settled?
Even a superficial glance at the very concept of a gratuity poses immediate problems. Gratuity has several seemingly incompatible meanings. On the one hand, a gratuity can depend only upon the customer’s inclinations, perhaps informed by some evaluation, but ultimately grounded in nothing more than a personal decision. On the other, gratuity means reciprocity, and hence the level of the gratuity is fixed by something extending beyond personal choice—choice is informed and determined by the nature of the reciprocal relationship.
Even if the basis of a gratuity is solely grounded on the inclinations or desires of the diner, there would still be multiple options. If we think of such inclinations as whimsical or unprincipled as in “I just felt like leaving a $10 tip”, then there could be no general formula to fix the amount of the gratuity. The 15% that we Americans are accustomed to giving would be ungrounded, on this picture, in any norm. We give 15% because we feel like it; sometimes we give less, sometimes more. If there is no norm, then there can be no objective evaluation of whether someone tipped poorly or appropriately. And hence no grounds for dispute. Essentially, the holdout from the above story would be correct. Alternatively, if we think of the desire as expressing some sort of evaluation of, typically, the quality of the service provided, then there might exist a formula to fix the amount of a gratuity: the better the service the greater the inclination to give a higher gratuity; the worse, the lower. Gratuities, on this view, can run the gamut, from none to over 100%. The key is subjective assessment of the quality of service.
Distinguish the first conception, on either reading, with the idea that gratuities can be demanded irrespective of anyone’s personal inclinations. If the principle of reciprocity is at work, one would surmise that with a waiter’s increasing attention, devotion and care, the gratuity would appropriately increase. Even if true, however, there appears to be limits beyond which most diners are unwilling to venture—and this applies at both ends. Irrespective of how high the quality of service, few would ponder the possibility of leaving a 50% gratuity; and, similarly, no matter how negligent, few would ponder denying some gratuity altogether. So, the principle of reciprocity, even if in effect, seems to be supplemented by an upper and lower limit.
So, there are considerations which favor the conclusion that nothing could rightfully compel a customer to tip other than her own personal evaluation; and, there are considerations favoring the thought that a norm of reciprocity, suitably qualified, determines how much customers should tip. This ambiguity in the concept of gratuity, I suspect, grounds the frequent disagreement, sometimes very heated, over our tipping conventions.
God decideth death
I despise zealous conservative Christians, those loathsome rats, arrogant in morals and ignorant of spirituality. As a lot, they are a crystalline picture of evil. But let me think like a good Christian for a second - one who is conscientious.
It is God, not humans, who decides life and death. So what business do we have in intervening in this divine plan? Terri Shiavo's heart attack - fatal if not for the heroic and timely measures of her doctors - was a sure sign from the Almighty that her time on Earth had come. God intended Terri to die fifteen years ago, and we, in an amazing act of hubris, refused. Letting her die was not murder, no, it was an act of respect for God.
So when do Christians have a moral responsibility to protect the life of the meek, and when does doing so contradict divine fate? We have a moral obligation to protect the meek because God has a purpose for every human life. Yet technology, and especially medical technology, is rapidly increasing our ability to shape fate to our own liking, which may not be to His.
It is God, not humans, who decides life and death. So what business do we have in intervening in this divine plan? Terri Shiavo's heart attack - fatal if not for the heroic and timely measures of her doctors - was a sure sign from the Almighty that her time on Earth had come. God intended Terri to die fifteen years ago, and we, in an amazing act of hubris, refused. Letting her die was not murder, no, it was an act of respect for God.
So when do Christians have a moral responsibility to protect the life of the meek, and when does doing so contradict divine fate? We have a moral obligation to protect the meek because God has a purpose for every human life. Yet technology, and especially medical technology, is rapidly increasing our ability to shape fate to our own liking, which may not be to His.
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