Virtue Ethics

Ben Lazare Mijuskovic

Philosophy and Literature, Volume 31, Number 1, April 2007, pp. 133-141
(Article)

Published by Johns Hopkins University Press

DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/phl.2007.0013

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https://muse.jhu.edu/article/213850

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VIRTUE ETHICS

by Ben Lazare Mijuskovic

I t has been suggested that the roots of virtue or character ethics

ultimately reach back to Plato and especially to Aristotle’s discussion
of moral character as proposed by G. E. M. Anscombe’s essay, “Modern
Moral Philosophy,” originally published in 1958.1 Thus it was maintained
that virtue or character ethics emphasized traditionally neglected topics,
such as motives, education, training, temperance (phronesis), happiness,
(eudaimonia), magnanimity, and especially the cardinal virtue of friend-
ship as all deriving from certain dispositional qualities in the person,
from a relatively constant state of character, from a stable personality.2
In terms of Plato, it is the early, aporetic, Socratic dialogues that
are indicated as especially concerned with character. And that may
be but clearly in these conversations Socrates concludes, as a negative
revelation, that a condition for virtue (Virtue as Knowledge of the
Good) requires the realization that one does not know what virtue is,
that conceited ignorance (amathia) first must be recognized before
proceeding positively toward the unchanging Form of Goodness. And
just as certainly, although, in the Republic, Socrates does emphasize the
relation of happiness to justice, nevertheless it is fairly obvious that for
Plato the truly happy and just man is so only in so far as he is able to
intellectually and intuitively grasp the eternal Form of the Good as his
criterion. However, this is hardly an emphasis on character. Similarly,
we can say that as far as Aristotle is concerned, despite the fact that
he does focus on the dispositional attributes of a virtuous or happy

Philosophy and Literature, © 2007, 31: 133–141

134 Philosophy and Literature

c­ haracter (or life), nevertheless the Philosopher is very specific in stating

that there is an absolutely right thing to do in each circumstance and
it is grounded in the mean between two vices. The mean, for instance,
between cowardice and rashness is courage. Thus, there is an absolute
(albeit contextual) criterion for a boy, a girl, a man, a woman, an old
man, an old woman, etc., an objective measure for each in various situ-
ations requiring courage. This standard, which is based in the immedi-
ate perception of pleasure or pain, which directly follows an act, may
be developed by training; but certainly Aristotle has more to say about
the mean and how to achieve it than he does about training, except
for the brief statements that we become virtuous by doing virtuous acts
and good by the practically wise choices we make. Thus, for Aristotle,
it is possible to evaluate specific, particular acts by invoking the mea-
sure of the mean. Essentially for both Plato and Aristotle, the criteria
“subsist” independently of the act, person or polis. Hence, both Plato
and Aristotle remain predominantly rule-oriented.
By contrast, in Homerian ethics—as opposed to Platonic or Peripatetic
guidelines—it is the whole person who is admirable, not the act; it is
the “being” of Achilles, it is his “substance” that is praiseworthy and not
whether or not he weeps for his departed companion. It is the entire
man that expresses the standard of value. And just as obviously there are
times and instances when an agent or an action misses the Aristotelian
mark or the “mean” and yet we do not criticize the individual as either
morally or psychologically deficient precisely because we consider instead
the overall person, we take other factors into consideration, features
deeply embedded in his or her personality, including how he or she
handled the situation and not whether or not the individual measured
up to some abstract, independent, theoretical standard. The noble or
laudable hero or heroine does not concern himself or herself with dis-
secting and separating himself or heself from their actions, from their
motives or emotions, as if the latter could stand apart from themselves.
And thus it appears to be a mistake to think that the Homeric character
would obsess about either the consistency, conformity, or applicability
of a rule in regard to their actions and responses.
And here we might interject an interesting comparison and contrast.
For Plato and Aristotle, as stated above, it is the rule—either the Form
or the mean—which controls the judgment of value; for the Homeric
evaluator, it is the person which determines virtue (or vice); whereas,
at a later time, for Hegel, the true ethical substance is the polis or the
 Ben Lazare Mijuskovic 135

nation. In a real sense, then, for Plato, the Forms of Justice, Temperance,
Widsom and Courage are the ethical substances, while for Homerian
thought, it is the individiual man or woman, whereas for Hegel it is the
nation which functions as the moral reality.
The difficulty with deontological and teleological ethical principles
or criteria is that they suggest that a universal standard can be applied
to single acts, individual agents, or particular societies whereas, in fact,
character is an organic, dynamic entity (actually a substance) that resists
that sort of vivisecting analysis. The great Greek tragic figures may have
had their “character flaws” but they were admirable in their strength.
The crierion of praise was seldom—dare I say if ever—to be measured
by the consequences of happiness or “well being” (eudaimonia). Achil-
les and Ajax weren’t great because they were happy but because they
excelled at a certain type of life. Sissyphus was admirable because he was
clever enough to cheat death and value his human existence to such
an extent that he was more than determined to lie to the God of the
Underworld in order to be able to return to the land of the living. And,
by contrast, we can say that many people are quite happy whom we do
not admire at all. Newton is admirable even though he seems to have
been relatively petty in his argument with Leibniz over the discovery
of the infinitesimal calculus; and he certainly expressed some strange
religious views that strike most of us as childlike and unsophisticated.
We overlook these flaws just as we dismiss the minor blemishes of a
spectacular piece of music or work of art. But more than that, if Van
Gogh had only painted a single work of art, he would not be admired.
It is because of his consistency over a whole career of painting that he
is judged and that his greatness overpowers us; it is because the sum of
his paintings, as a “corpus,” testify to his character, to his genius.
Similarly, it is because the characters of Satan, in Milton’s Paradise
Lost, and Captain Ahab, in Melville’s Moby Dick, both display admirable
traits of character, through their uncompromising rebelliousness, that
we admire them even as we shudder at their blasphemy. And although
Hegel states that no man is a hero to his valet, nevertheless his philo-
sophical evaluation is quite evident in his description and praise for
the super historical individuals—the Alexanders, the Caesars, and the
Napoleons—despite their exploitation by the “cunning of Reason”; his
respect for those who were great enough to anticipate the dialectical
moment of the next stage of history in the development of the Spirit is
clearly evident. And despite Abraham’s moral weakness in relation to his
136 Philosophy and Literature

daughters, Kierkegaard yet extols the character of Father Abraham as

the epitome of the religious hero, as the “true knight of the faith.” We
can all sympathize and understand the patriotic motives of Agamemnon
as a tragic hero because his decision to sacrifice Iphegenia is still in
the realm of the ethical; it was a choice universally understood in the
context of the Greek expedition against Troy. But Abraham is beyond
concepts, beyond discursive mediation, beyond understanding.3 Just
so, we do not pronounce an intelligent man a fool merely because he
has made a mistake; we recognize his overall intellectual character, a
weaving of traits that support his “whole self.” By contrast, in Christian
ethics, a single sin stands forever against the person; a lone lie is an
eternal violation of the categorical imperative; a sole bullying act forever
demonstrates negatively against the greatest happiness of the whole
society; and a cowardly choice violates the absolute burden of radical
responsibility.
Accordingly, I would contend that there is a genuine and distinct
concept of virtue or character ethics and just as assuredly it appears to
originate with the Greeks, but not with Plato and Aristotle but rather
with Homer, with the Iliad and the Odyssey and the Greek myths. As Edith
Hamilton has written, the Homeric Greeks were the first to fashion the
Gods in their own human image. That had never entered into the minds
of men before them. This made it possible not only to worship the Gods
but also, at the same time, to admire them as well for their human traits
and characteristics.4 Despite the indiscretions and infidelities of Zeus,
he was still regarded as the most majestic and powerful of the gods; he
is the lawgiver god, the god of the skies and thunderbolt; and yet even
he eventually had to bow to Fate, for when destiny decreed that one of
his favorite sons, Sarpedon, had to die in the Trojan War, Zeus wisely
accepted his son’s fate with his sublime strength of character. Athena
was venerated as the Goddess of battle and wisdom and she symbolized
feminine sagacity and power but not by invoking the measure of the
mean. But even Athena, although admired for her beauty and wisdom
nevertheless was vain enough to covet the prize of the golden apple
for the fairest.
Other gods similarly symbolized human virtues. Hermes represented
resourcefulness, a trait also much admired in Odysseus. And thus it
was that the Greeks learned to respect the same characteristics in their
human heroes as they valued in their Gods. Indeed, Achilles is described
as “godlike,” for not only does he possess a fine intelligence—as opposed
to the resourcefulness of Odysseus—but he is also the noblest and
 Ben Lazare Mijuskovic 137

the bravest of the Greek warriors, as well as a loyal and selfless friend.
Because of his strength of character, he creates a “subjective” albeit
absolute standard of value; what he does is to be admired because he
is great. What we perceive as weaknesses in a lesser man, we recognize
as strength in a more powerful context. When Agamemnon disgraced
Achilles by removing his concubine, Breisis, from him, Achilles was noble
in his withdrawal from the fighting and not even Agamemnon’s apology
nor his delegation of emissaries could persuade him to relent; when his
friend, Patroclus, asked to borrow Achilles’ armor so he could aid his
fellow Greeks, Achilles gave it to him willingly and without reservation
because it was his companion who had asked for it; when Patroclus was
slain by Hector, Achilles from greatness of heart wept bitterly over his
lost friend; when Achilles’ anger overcame his grief, he was terrifying
to behold; and even when he slew and dragged Hector’s body behind
his chariot for three days and nights around the walled city of Troy, he
was to be admired because he exemplified greatness of character and
righteous anger. Similarly, both Odysseus and Syssiphus were admired
for exemplary resourcefulness. At other times, a mortal man could even
be valued above a god, as in the case of Hercules over Mars. But clearly
happiness was not the criterion of nobility. Even Oedipus was recognized
by Aristotle as someone who was nobler than our selves despite his
tragedy, while Hegel himself praised the Antigone and defined tragedy
as the conflict between two rights, the rights of the family and those of
the State. When Machiavelli, in The Prince, counsels Lorenzo de Medici
in his affairs, he does so apart from his desire that Italy be unified. He
perceives in Duke Lorenzo the strength of character to accomplish any
goal. It is the man who makes the value and not the reverse. The great
man infuses value through his actions. Just so, Nietzsche’s overman tran-
scends the values of the herd just as Van Gogh’s character expresses and
creates through his paintings the values of intensity and passion in his
art. It may also be remembered that Nietzsche praised the Norse hero
who fought on relentlessly despite the fact that he knew he was doomed.
In addition, Nietzsche, above all, valued the Greek ideal of strength over
happiness. Accordingly, it is Nietzsche who declares, in Beyond Good and
Evil, that “It is obvious that everywhere the designations of moral value
were first applied to men, and were only derivatively and at a later date
applied to actions; it is a gross mistake, therefore, when historians of
morals start with questions like, ‘Why have sympathetic actions been
praised?’ The noble type of man regards himself as the determiner of
values; he does not require to be approved of; he passes the judgment;
138 Philosophy and Literature

. . . he knows that it is he himself only who confers honour on things;

he is a creator of values.”5
This notion is echoed by Frederick Copleston: “Although the Greeks
certainly had their ideal of moderation, they were constantly being lured
away from it by the will to power . . . . The Greek admired efficiency, he
admired the ideal of the strong man who knows what he wants and has
the power to get it; his conception of arete (virtue) was largely that of
ability to achieve success.”6 And nowhere in Greek mythology is there
a God or Goddess who symbolizes happiness. And yet we ourselves
universally acknowledge their strength of character, their majesty, over
and above their happiness and despite their unhappiness—or perhaps
it should be said that there is a higher value than happiness in the cases
of both Gods and men, which, of course, is not to say that only if one
is unhappy can one truly be admired. Happiness has as little to do with
what human beings value and admire as mere good looks do.
Elsewhere I have argued that existentialism as well as teleological and
deontological principles and systems are all three absolutistic.7 The dif-
ference is that the former (existentialism) creates values while the latter
two discover them; the former values are individualistic whereas the latter
are universal; and the former can be transient/changeable while the
latter remain constant/unchanging. Accordingly, Sartre acknowledges
that his investiture and his commitment to a freely chosen value are
“subjective,” as indeed they are, and that they can vary from time to
time.8 But they are not subjective in the sense that ethical relativism is
subjective. For the ethical relativist/subjectivist holds that each person
is conditioned by external factors in their values and that each of us,
singly, distorts whatever it is he or she feels or thinks. For the relativist,
values reduce merely to a matter of taste and no one is willing to live
or die simply based on a whim or personal preference. By contrast, the
existentialist assumes absolute responsibility for his or her decisions.
Just so, virtue or character ethics is also subjectivist or personalist but it
is grounded in the overall character of the individual; it is “externally”
criterionless in that regard. Again, although Kierkegaard promotes a
“leap of faith” (despite his claim of criterionless “ways of life” decisions);
while Nietzsche heralds a “will to power”; and Sartre advocates for “radical
freedom,” still all three promote a specific type of viewpoint. And yet,
on the other hand, perhaps it is Nietzsche who most successfully breaks
rank with the tradition and who best represents the “ethical hero” in
the sense in which I am ascribing it to the Homeric hero. Accordingly,
 Ben Lazare Mijuskovic 139

the higher type man creates his own values out of the abundance of his
own life and strength while the meek and powerless, however, fear the
strong and powerful as they attempt to curb and tame them by asserting
as absolute the values of the herd.9
We admire people because they are great, noble, powerful, resource-
ful, courageous, idealistic, committed, elegant, successful, or wise—and
not because they are happy. Thus for instance, perhaps they consistently
exemplify wise decisions: “Some people are wise without being at all
clever or well informed; they make good decisions and they know ‘what’s
what.’ . . . In short, wisdom . . . presupposes good ends; the man who is
wise does not merely know how to do good things such as looking after
his children well, or strengthening someone in trouble, but must also
want to do them. And then wisdom, in so far as it consists of knowledge
which any one can gain in the course of an ordinary life, is available to
anyone who really wants it.”10 Clearly the bulk of humanity is basically
happy—or at least relatively content. That in itself, however, is hardly a
reason for admiring men or women. Would Van Gogh have preferred
anonymity and mediocrity and happiness over his great accomplish-
ments in art, even though his life ended in suicide? And when we do
applaud men and women for their character we put aside many or all of
their moral weaknesses and minor personality quirks, just as we neglect
taking notice of the weather or the temperature when we survey the
majesty of the sea.
How else are we to understand our contemporary and overwhelming
admiration for great athletes? We neglect their indiscretions precisely
because their “virtues,” their “excellences,” their accomplishments,
their characters eclipse their flaws. They exhibit “style”; they carry
themselves with appropriate pride (whereas inappropriate “pride” is
called conceit); they are our living heroes: “And they were like Gods.”
Just so, “Godlike Achilleus.” That is what the ancient Greeks regarded
as great character.
As a child, I admired Rocky Marciano, even though I had no idea of
what he was like as a moral person. As an adult, I still admire Ted Wil-
liams, despite the fact that I have since learned that he was very difficult
to get along with. Nevertheless would that I could number him among
those whom I have called my friend. And in agreement with Aristotle,
as against Plato’s contention that justice, courage, wisdom, and temper-
ance are all unified by the single comprehensive Form of the Good,
I would concur that there are multiple admirable characters, that is
140 Philosophy and Literature

“virtues,” possible. There is greatness in business, in the art of war, in

intelligence, in wit, in adventuresomeness, in eloquence, in creativity,
and, yes, even in moral idealism.
The main and critical issue, however, is the problematic relation
between character and a (moral) criterion. It is my contention that the
hero or heroine makes or, better yet, creates the “standard” by their
“substantial” existence and the expression of that existence. That is
what we all recognize as character. Alexander the Great probably never
worried about whether or not he was following his teacher’s “doctrine
of the mean.” In this regard, the admirable individual strives to express
himself or herself by imitating the Gods and Goddesses, the heroes and
heroines of the past. They know “what they are about,” just as Professor
Foot’s wise man knew “what’s what.” But in the absence of a universal
formulary or criterion, I propose to offer a substitute: Imitation. Thus,
when I was at the University of Chicago, in the mid-fifties and sixties,
Richard Peter McKeon was the dominant force in the Humanities.
Professor McKeon was fond of classifying principles, methods, and
interpretations under illuminating headings. For example, he proposed
that the principle of art for both Plato and Aristotle was grounded in
imitation; whereas for Kant it originated in the imagination’s play with
the faculties of the understanding (thus resulting in beauty) or with
supersensible reason (thus resulting in sublimity); and for Croce it
derived from an intuitive expression. And I would submit that most of
us, as we travel through the portals of time and life, continually select
and then imitate certain individuals that we admire. We do not, I sug-
gest, care nor concern ourselves with whether or not they measure up
to some abstract universal principle. Our admiration for them derives
from a decision determined by our “passional natures” (William James),
for “Our heart has its reasons which the head does not know” (Pascal).
It is an admiration essentially grounded in various imitations that are
the great guides to how we ourselves desire to live, how we “ought” to
live. And consequently, it is the nature of human beings to passively
admire the “virtues” of excellent individuals as well as to actively emu-
late them.

California State University, Dominguez Hills

 Ben Lazare Mijuskovic 141

1.  G. E. M. Anscombe, “Modern Moral Philosophy,” in Human Life, Action, and ­Ethics:
Essays by G. E. M. Anscombe, Mary Geach and Luke Norman, eds. (Exeter: Imprint Aca-
demic, 2005).
2.  See Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, in The Basic Works of Aristotle, ed. Richard McKeon
(New York: Random House, 1941); on the topic of friendship, see especially, Books VIII
and IX; see also Epicurus, “Epicurus to Menoeceus,” in Ethics: Selections from Classical and
Contemporary Writers, Oliver Johnson and Andrews Reath, eds. (Belmont, Calif.: Wadsworth,
2004), pp. 96–114; hereafter abbreviated as ECC.
3.  Soren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling (Princeton: Princeton University Press),
pp. 27ff.
4.  Edith Hamilton, Mythology (New York: Meridian, 1989), p. 16.
5.  Friedrich Nietzsche, in ECC, Section 267; but see also Sections 257–60. Frederick
Copleston, A History of Western Philosophy (New York: Doubleday, 1965), vol. VII, pt. II,
p. 171.
7.  See Ben Mijuskovic, “Ethical Principles, Criteria, and the Meaning of Life,” Journal
of Thought 40 (2005): 67–88.
8.  Jean-Paul Sartre, “Existentialism Is a Humanism,” in ECC, pp. 311–19.
9.  Friedrich Nietzsche, Gesammelte Werke, ed. K. Schlechta (Munich: 1954–1956), vol.
II, p. 782.
10.  Phillipa Foot, “Virtues and Vices,” in ECC, pp. 443–44.