TRUST: THE TACIT DEMAND

LIBRARY OF ETHICS AND APPLIED PHILOSOPHY

VOLUME I

Managing Editor:

Govert A. den Hartog. University ofAmsterdam, The Netherlands

TRUST
THE TACIT DEMAND
by

OLL! LAGERSPETZ
The University o/Wales at Swansea, U.K.
and
Abo Academy, Abo, Finland

Springer-Science+Business Media, B.V.

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ISBN 978-90-481-4963-6 ISBN 978-94-015-8986-4 (eBook)

DOl 10.1007/978-94-015-8986-4

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DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF REGINA SAARINEN (1912-1987)
 T ABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS page x

1 A BLIND SPOT OF PHILOSOPHY 1

1.1. Introduction 1
1.2. On Defining 'Trust' 4
1.3. 'Rationality' Again 5
1.4. The Individual 7
1.5. Ethical Bearings 9
1.6. Conclusion 13

2 TRUST AND THE MENTAL LIFE 14

2.1. Introduction 14
2.2. Genuine Duration 16
2.3. Trust as 'Posthumous' 20
2.4. Summoning the Unconscious 22
2.5. Impalpability 26

3 ASYMMETRY 28
3.1. The Role of Reflection 28
3.2. A Paradox of Asymmetry 30
3.3. Deciding to Trust 34
3.4. Trust, Entrusting, and Contract 38
3.5. Trust and Goods 39
3.6. Possibility and Asymmetry 42
3.7. Conclusions 45

4 DOES TRUST PAY? 48

4.1. Trust and Reliance 48
4.2. The Dilemma 49
4.3. Why Then Trust At All? 52
4.4. Critique of the Local Justification 55
4.5. Critique of the Global Justification 58
4.6. Is It Useful to Be a Social Being? 61
viii TRUST: THE TACIT DEMAND

5 INDIVIDUALS AND THEIR RELATIONS 65

5.1. The Role of Beliefs 65
5.2. The Prisoners Revisited 68
5.3. Methodological Individualism 72
5.4. Knowing People 76
5.5. The Role of Induction 78
5.6. Trust as a Moral Relation 80
5.7. Religious Faith 82
5.8. Conclusions 84

6 LEARNING FROM OTHERS 86

6.1. Evidence and Asymmetry 86
6.2. Evidence and Objectivity 90
6.3. Reasoning and Its Background 93
6.4. Is Trust Innate? 96
6.5. Conclusion 102

7 LEGITIMACY 104
7.1. Introduction 104
7.2. Legitimacy and Expediency 105
7.3. Political Consent 108
7.4. Rawls on the Authority of Parents 112
7.5. The Compelling Force of Logic and Parents 114
7.6. Rootedness 116
7.7. Nationality 121
7.8. Rootedness and Shame 127
7.9. Authenticity 128
7.10. Loss of Roots 129

8 THE IDEA OF BASIC TRUST 132

8.1. The Normal Attitude 132
8.2. Is Society Based on Trust? 134
8.3. Romanticised Hobbesianism 138
8.4. Our Idea of Order in Nature 143
8.5. Conclusion 148

9 THE ETHICAL DEMAND 149

9.1. The Demand 149
 CONTENTS ix

9.2. Human Beings and Objects 150

9.3. Blindness 154
9.4. The Reality of the Other 157
9.5. Why the Demand Is Tacit 161

LITERATURE 165

INDEX 175
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This work owes a great debt to two persons; one of them is no longer here to
receive my thanks.
Those familiar with Peter Winch's philosophy will no doubt recognise an
influence from him-both directly and from the broader tradition to which he
was a principal contributor. The general questions I am addressing-having to
do with relations between individuality and the fact that we share a life with
others-have been repeatedly discussed by him. The last chapter, on the other
hand, owes a great deal to Winch's work 011 moral philosophy.
In 1990-91, I studied Political and Moral Philosophy with Professor Winch
at Urbana-Champaign, Illinois. It was also then I started working on the present
book; the impulses he gave me were decisive for its development. Later, Winch
agreed to act as a referee for my Licentiate thesis. He also generously let me use
his lecture notes (Winch 1988).
Those who knew Winch know that, during his last years, he had plans of
sustained work on the notion of political authority. In due course, we will see
what emerges from his Nachlass; at any rate, his published work (especially
Winch 1991) and seminars give us some idea of what that work could have been
like. In particular, Chapter 7 develops influences from those sources. Yet the
views expressed here are just one way of developing these impulses and may not
have been compatible with his.
Lars Hertzberg, my PhD supervisor at Abo Academy, introduced me over the
years to the philosophy of Wittgenstein and the tradition drawing its inspiration
from that work. The present work was, to a great extent, inspired by suggestions
made by Hertzberg in his paper 'On the Attitude of Trust' (Hertzberg 1988; here
and elsewhere, Winch's and Hertzberg's works have numerous points of contact).
The present work emerged in innumerable hours of discussion with Professor
Hertzberg.
Many of the arguments I take up here will be familiar at least to those
conversant with the philosophical approach inspired by Wittgenstein's later
writings. My own contribution is, then, mainly this: I bring together
philosophical points which, to some degree, at least to me seem self-evident, and
try to show their relevance to a particular topic. Yet, of course, this work is not
an attempt to reconstrue what Wittgenstein, or anyone else, 'would have said' if
they had written on the topic. The responsibility for what will be said here
remams mme.
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS xi

1 also wish to thank David Cockburn and Soren Stenlund for careful and
extensive suggestions of revision, as well as encouragement. Adma d'Heurle and
Mikko Lagerspetz are acknowledged for comments on the entire manuscript. 1
am grateful to Carita Lagerspetz, leuan Lloyd, Andre Maury, Goran Torrkulla,
and Elizabeth Wolgast for comments and other kinds of help. Teachers and
students at Abo and Swansea are acknowledged for helping me in various ways.
1 am grateful to the Academy of Finland, the Finnish-American Educational
Exchange Commission, and the Waldemar von Frenckell Foundation for financial
support. 1 am also grateful to the University of Wales, Swansea, for granting me
a research leave in 1994-5 and again in 1996-8.
Thanks are due to Kluwer Academic Publishers for permitting me to run an
earlier version of this book in a limited, private edition for the purpose of
obtaining my PhD degree at Abo. Very substantial changes to the manuscript
have been made since then. The reader for the present series is acknowledged
for helpful suggestions of revision.
Chapters 2 and 3 contain material published elsewhere (Lagerspetz 1997).
Some material included in Chapters 2, 3, and 9 has been previously published
in Swedish (Lagerspetz 1992b, 1994). 1 have discussed elsewhere some ideas
included in Chapter 7 (Lagerspetz 1992a).

Abo, 28 August, 1997,

O.L.
 1

A BLIND SPOT OF PHILOSOPHY

1.1. 1ntroduction

The notion of trust is a point at which several branches of philosophy

meet-philosophical psychology, epistemology, political philosophy, moral
philosophy. Nevertheless it has remained something of a blind spot in the
mainstream of analytical philosophy. That was certainly true a few years ago;
below, it will be indicated that it still is so---even if attempts have been made in
recent years to fill the void. i Despite all the work done, it seems to me that most
of what has been written on the notion of trust fails to give a just account of the
reality of human experience.
If my judgment is correct, it is not just a matter of chance that the topic, or
at least important aspects of it, have been overlooked. What makes trust difficult
to handle is that it seems to run counter to what has traditionally been taken to
be criteria for the rational formation of beliefs. Other difficulties are created by
the fact that trust cannot be described by means of the traditional categories of
the philosophy of mind.
Generally, I believe the existing problems are not due to something inherently
problematic about trust itself; they are a symptom of the irrelevance of received
philosophical views in many crucial areas of human agency. One way to put this
is by saying that they operate with a conception of the human individual which
glosses over important complexities. Conversely, a study of the notion of trust
will open important avenues to a better understanding of what the individual is.
In this work, I will look at the way the notion of trust enters various aspects
of human agency. This requires covering the same ground several times from
different points of view. Thus,2 the very centrality of the topic has made it
impossible for me entirely to avoid iterations. An additional reason for that is
that I have tried to make the individual chapters as self-contained as possible.

i For instance, see Baier 1986, 1989, 1994; Baker 1987; Barber 1983; Gambetta (ed.), 1988;
Giddens 1990, 1991; Govier 1992, 1993a, 1993b, 1993c; Hertzberg 1988; lohnson 1993; Lagerspetz
1992; Luhmann 1979. -Also see the symposium on trust published in Ethics 107, October 1996,4-
61.
2In addition to my stylistic shortcomings.
2 CHAPTER I

To begin with, I will offer a short overview of the individual chapters, and
then go on to discuss general issues raised in them.
Chapters 2 and 3 deal with the relation between trust and individual
psychology. My contention is that we, rather than trying to identify certain states
of mind as trust, should look at the ways in which the notion enters human
interaction. Under what circumstances is the word 'trust' applicable to human
relations?
The word 'trust' does not refer to a psychological state (Chapter 2). There is
no particular state of mind, disposition, or activity to which the word is
applicable in all circumstances.
Rather, speaking of trust gets its sense from a difference between first- and
third-person perspectives on action (Chapter 3). A person who trusts another will
not think that his trust involves taking a risk, and may indeed refuse to describe
his attitude as trustful. Nevertheless an observer may correctly describe his
attitude in that way. Thus the fact that it is meaningful to speak of trusting is one
expression of the fact that we are different people, with different perspectives,
differently placed in the world.
The following three chapters deal with the relation between trust and
rationality.
To trust is, for instance, to believe someone's promise without asking for
guarantees for her goodwill or veracity. If! only trust a person insofar as she has
demonstrably 'earned' my trust I cannot properly be said to trust her. 3 In some
sense, my belief in the goodwill or veracity of someone I trust goes beyond or
against the available evidence. But we have also been taught that we should
never believe anything without sufficient evidence. The conclusion would seem
to be that our tendency to trust others conflicts with elementary requirements of
rationality and intellectual honesty.
But that cannot be right either. It is right to be sceptical of a conclusion that
tells us that a crucial aspect of our lives must be dismissed as irrational. This is
not mainly for sentimental reasons but because the alternative may be
unthinkable. Would anything at all remain the same if we were to dismiss such
a central element of our lives? A major part of the philosophical literature about
trust is, consequently, devoted to rescuing trust for rationality. This literature is
reviewed in Chapter 4.
These attempts, however, generally strike me as unsatisfactory. Trust is
typically construed as risk taking and justified by its contribution to the in-
dividual's long-term interests. I argue that this answer can be challenged on two

3E.g., Pinomaa 1963,60.

 A BLIND SPOT OF PHILOSOPHY 3

counts. First of all, as a purely pragmatic solution it fails to produce the required
sort of justification. Secondly, by looking for a justification of the fact that we
trust others the authors misconstrue the phenomenon. When we trust a person we
do not think she is going to betray us. Hence the role of the purported justifica-
tion is unclear: from our point of view, there is no need of justification in
addition to the fact that there is no risk of betrayal. This calls for a revision of
my initial suggestion that to trust is to entertain beliefs not warranted by
sufficient evidence. The evidence is sufficient for me because I perceive there to
be no risk. Others may find it insufficient. The notion of evidence is discussed
in Chapter 6.
In general, the problem about the literature reviewed in Chapter 4 is that trust
is still basically presented as an anomaly in need of rehabilitation. I find this both
a trivialisation and a mystification of what is at issue. Trivialisation-because the
task is restricted into incorporating a new element to a received picture of
rationality. Mystification-for trust will still in a sense remain alien to rationality
proper. We need an account of rationality that starts by recognising the role of
our dependence on others.
In Chapter 5, it is argued that the construction of trusting as something
analogous to risk taking expresses a misunderstanding of the relation between the
individual and the social situation in which she is immersed. 'The individual',
with fixed preferences, is taken as given; the problem is represented as one of
finding out how relationships of trust are likely to satisfy those preferences. I will
offer an alternative account recognising the fact that the individual, her beliefs
and preferences, are essentially defined by her moral relations with others. This
obviously has a connection to the argument in Chapters 2 and 3: the 'state' that
the individual is in is defined by her relations to others.
Chapter 6 suggests that our epistemic situation cannot, for important purposes,
be adequately described if divorced from our relations to other people. This is
true both of those who trust and those who distrust others. Our ability to make
rational judgments is contingent on, rather than responsible for, the fact that we,
in various ways, take others on trust.
We are constantly involved in relations for which, in certain kinds of context,
from certain kinds of perspective, the word 'trust' is applicable. But the fact that
we are involved in such relations is not a particular state, practice, or activity.
Hence again it makes no sense to look for a justification of a practice or activity
of 'trusting'. Trusting is not something over and above making reasoned
judgments: it is an aspect of rationality, part of judging.
Chapter 7 connects these issues to an ongoing debate within political
philosophy, which is usually referred to as the debate between individualists and
 CHAPTER 1

communitarians. In that chapter, I will argue against the tendency of many liberal
political philosophers to dismiss certain political views, such as nationalism, as
simply irrational.
The last two chapters discuss the question of whether it is meaningful to say
that all social life (and hence, perhaps, all distinctively human life) in some sense
exists against the background of a basic form of trust. The idea is dismissed in
Chapter 8 insofar as it purports to explain how social life is possible. In Chapter
9, however, it is suggested that one may, after all, find a meaningful way of
understanding the idea. It could be a way of expressing an ethical outlook on
life, a reminder of the fact that other human beings have a claim on our respect.

1.2. On Defining 'Trust'

It is probably neither realistic nor helpful to look for a definition of 'trust' in

terms of sufficient and necessary conditions. That is seldom a fruitful approach
when words having to do with everyday life are at issue. Nor does it seem to be
the case that the proper understanding of a word must involve the ability to state
the sufficient and necessary conditions for its application; this is shown
graphically in the fact that the words we are the most comfortable with are the
ones for which we could not give such definitions! In science and law,
definitions have an important normative role. However, philosophers cannot hope
to legislate about the proper use of language in this way. There will always be
a variety of uses for the word 'trust', and new usages may develop in the future.
What is philosophically important is not the word as such but conceptual
relations between the various relationships to which the word 'trust' may be
applicable. Thus the meaning of 'trust' is best elucidated by looking at various
situations in which the word is applied.
While the word 'trust' has a variety of uses, some of them can be classified
as more basic and others as derived, technical or marginal. This is not a value
judgment but one about intelligibility: derived uses are only intelligible against
the background of the phenomena described by the more basic ones. Obviously,
similar analyses could be made of many other words as well. The most important
derived uses of 'trust' taken up here are trust as reliance (see Chapter 4), entrust-
ing (Ch. 3), trust in social institutions (Chs. 7 and 8), and 'basic trust' (Chs. 6,
8, 9). Furthermore, there is some discussion of the related notion of rootedness
in a culture in Chapter 7, and our 'expectation of order in nature' in Chapter 8.
I take it that we see what trust is by seeing how the concept is used. This is
not to say I just want to analyse how the word occurs in sentences; besides, as
 A BLIND SPOT OF PHILOSOPHY 5

just noted, new uses of the word may always emerge. The question is, rather:
What difference does the notion of trust make in our lives? What do we do when
we speak of trust?
By not asking what trust consists in, I wish to avoid a fruitless search for a
'phenomenon' or 'thing' that the word supposedly stands for. For, as I hope the
argument in Chapter 2 will show, we do not primarily use the word 'trust' as the
name of particular psychological states or patterns of behaviour; this will indeed
also hold true for a large number of other words having to do with human
psychology. They are not there just in order for us to be able to label or describe
things, but should rather be seen as tools of human interaction.
To speak of trust is not primarily to describe a phenomenon that exists
independently of the way in which we see and discuss human action. It is to
invoke a perspective on human action. It is to present behaviour in a certain
light; in a light that (as I will try to show) above all calls for moral responses.
To see an action as an expression of trust is to see it as involving a demand-a
tacit demand' -not to betray the expectations of those who trust us. The present
work aims at the exploration of this moral landscape.
On the whole, this work can be said to address two questions that, it seems
to me, have not been addressed satisfactorily by the mainstream of philosophy.
However, I think the two questions are too intimately related to be treated
separately. First: what is the philosophical significance of the fact that we share
our lives with others? Secondly: what is the significance of the difference
between human beings and things?

1.3. 'Rationality' Again

In the last analysis, the confusions I have been hinting at spring from a particular
way of thinking about rationality. The relation between social life and rationality
is tacitly assumed to be, so to speak, accidental: we can understand what it is for
the individual to use her reason without presupposing relations with others. 5 This
idea must imply another conviction as well. It is the presumption of an umbrella
concept of rationality against which a given practice can be measured; a ration-
ality that can be understood in abstraction from any particular type of human life.

~he expression comes from L~gstrup 1957.

51ndividualist approaches to rationality have already been subject to much criticism. See, e.g., the
overview by Lukes (1973), esp. chapters 11, 16, 17. -Also see, e.g., Cudd 1993, 130.
6 CHAPTER I

But this is to suppose that the meaning of the critical vocabulary in terms of
which to discuss rationality is itself independent of context. That supposition,
however, is vulnerable to objections along the fol1owing lines. The demand of
consistency-of avoiding logical contradiction-will clearly be crucial for any
account of rationality. But then we will face the question of how to recognise
contradiction. The recognition of consistency and inconsistency in reasoning and
action necessarily involves the notion of two things being either the same or
diJferent. 6 For specific purposes, however, any two things can either count as the
same or as different. Thus our ability to recognise contradiction will be
contingent on our ability to see what constitutes essential similarities between
different cases.
To put this in another way: to view a course of action or a belief as 'rational'
means, if anything at al1, to see it as reasonable, balanced, worthwhile, plausible,
etc., in the light of the situation at hand. Thus the philosopher's appeal to
standards of rationality will be legitimate only to the extent that she in fact has
pinned down the essential features of the situation.
For instance, Peter Singer argues that there are no essential differences
between human infants and animals since both can feel pleasure and pain, and
lack self-awareness; hence, he argues that treating them differently must be
irrational. 7 David Hume, similarly, argued that if we find it unreasonable to think
that a dead person could return to life in normal circumstances, by pain of
inconsistency we must say the same about Christ. 8 Both these arguments rely on
particular ways of identifying (or misidentifying) what is essential in a situation.
But obviously the philosopher is not free simply to choose the distinctions
that she is to regard as essential. What she says will betray a more or less acute
understanding of the situation.
Someone might see this as a difficulty, as a kind of relativity pertaining to
our concepts. This, however, would be a mistake: such 'relativity' fol1ows natural-
ly from what a concept is. To use concepts is to make distinctions that suit the
various situations facing us. Consistency and inconsistency must, then, be under-
stood as aspects of what we are doing.
The conclusion seems to be that it makes no sense to endorse or dismiss an
entire aspect of human life tout court in terms of rationality. The fact that there

6See Winch 1958/1990.

7Singer 1979.
8 Hume 174811902, Enquiry ... , Ch X.
 A BLIND SPOT OF PHILOSOPHY 7

are various social practices with their particular standards of reasonableness, etc.,
is not, in itself, something that could be deduced from a standard of rationality.9
When questions about rational action are intelligible they are already
embedded in some context where they emerge as problems. For instance,
judgments derived from game theory inform us about the prospects of
cooperation in specific, institutionalised settings; however, they can claim no
more prima facie generality than any other example of rational action we may
care to use (see Chapter 5).
To put it briefly: rationality and the related critical concepts do not exist
before our life with others. The general question, 'Is trusting rational?', is no
more intelligible than asking, out of the blue, 'Is hoping rational?' or, 'Is having
a belief rational?' It is, in a sense, to ask rationality to justify itself.

1.4. The Individual

This obviously raises questions that should be central in political philosophy.

What aspects of human life can be meaningfully imagined as subject to rational
choice? Does not rational choice already involve dependence on others not just
accidentally, but as a precondition? In the last decades, these questions have been
addressed by writers such as Alasdair MacIntyre, Charles Taylor, and-most
importantly for the present work-by Peter Winch. Yet my impression is that
their importance has generally not been appreciated.
It seems that there is a common denominator for what is wrong with most
existing analyses. In brief: the notion of a human individual is taken to be philo-
sophically unproblematic. In epistemology and philosophy of mind, the individual
is a carrier of mental states (which are either endogenous or causally related to
the environment). In moral and political philosophy, he is the carrier of
rationality and preferences. The individual, in short, is seen as essentially
complete before being 'placed' in a social context. 'Natural man' has been granted
everything except for the fact that he is not socialised. It is assumed that there
can be an adequate description of the life of an individual human being in ab-
straction from social relations and practices.
This view probably strikes many of us as natural. In any case, its main
features were stated very explicitly in the work of Thomas Hobbes-even if there
obviously has been some development since his time. Hobbes tried to show that
a social order could result from rational agreement between self-interested in-

9 See Winch \958/1990.

8 CHAPTER I

dividuals. These individuals are imagined as not having previously been members
of that, or any, social order. Hobbes then set out to show that social life will
serve interests of a kind a human being could intelligibly have in a 'state of
nature', i.e., before entering organised social life.
Recent decades have seen some reinterpretation of what Hobbes wanted to do.
It is no doubt significant that he was writing in the wake of the English civil
war. To prevent future unrest was his chief priority. One of his aims was to show
what would happen if political coercion was disposed of in the contemporary
situation. It is because people as we know them now compete for power, etc.,
that coercive arrangements have to be made to prevent the war of all against all.
'Natural man', on this interpretation, might be the imaginable outcome of a
breakdown of society; a product of complex social processes rather than their
starting point. 10 Hobbes is also more conscious than, say, Locke of the fact that
sense can only be made of crucial political concepts, such as that of rights in the
usual sense of the word, in the context of organised social life.
On this reading, Hobbes would only be claiming that, given human beings as
they are now, they would face the risk of anarchy under specified conditions; a
danger to be overcome by setting up a sovereign authority again. On the whole,
that reading would render Hobbes's thesis more plausible but also a lot less
interesting. It may have needed pointing out at the time, but today it is not a
thesis likely to provoke serious disagreement.
Nothing in the argument of the present book turns on whether I am wrong in
assuming the traditional reading of Hobbes. In any case, he at times does speak
in a way that supports it. In De Cive, for instance, he states explicitly that for the
sake of analysis, we should see human beings 'as if but even now sprung out of
the earth, and suddenly, like mushrooms, come to full maturity, without all kind
of engagement to each other'. 11
Leaving Hobbes himself aside, this statement has the merit of bringing out
very clearly what has become the starting point of an influential tradition in
moral and political philosophy. Any relation that the individual has with others,
should in principle be open to assessment and criticism in terms of rationality.
That is: human relations can, at least for theoretical purposes, be imagined as

IOMacpherson 1962, 18, 22. I am grateful to a reader for this series for pointing this out. -In
Leviathan, (Hobbes 165111985, Ch 13,97-98) Hobbes says, after noting that a state of nature has
never generally existed: 'Howsoever, it may be perceived what manner of life there would be, where
there were no common Power to feare; by the manner of life, which men that have formerly lived
under a peacefull government, use to degenerate into, in a civill Warre'.
"Hobbes 1841, Ch. VIII, 109. Also see Hobbes 1983, ch. 8, p. 160, and a commentary in Filmer
1991, 187.
 A BLIND SPOT OF PHILOSOPHY 9

outcomes of individual rational choice. These assumptions in place, it is

generally recognised that human relations involving trust will face a charge of
irrationality. But we should realise that the charge itself only makes sense in this
particular theoretical context.
Winch's discussion of Hobbes is particularly relevant here. 12 The idea of a
transition from non-social to social life via a social contract is untenable. We
could just as well imagine mushrooms getting together, having a cup of tea, and
founding a society. The individual's ability to see her environment in terms of
interests and reasoned preferences is essentially derivative from her dependence
on others.
This is the issue of individualism v. communitarianism. Thus the key·
questions in that debate are not normative but ones about the intelligibility of the
terms in which we describe human agency. I3 What is the background needed in
order for these terms to make sense? How much of a context of social relations
and practices needs to be included?14 Here the two warring parties do not meet
for discussion since 'individualism' in political philosophy tacitly assumes that
there is no question to start with.
In short: what is the individual? This is no longer just an issue of political
philosophy in the narrow sense. Neither can it be unproblematically assigned to
'the philosophy of mind' as currently conceived. Yet it is arguably the most
important philosophical question there can be. I can find no better
characterisation for the range of issues to which it belongs than the neglected
term philosophical anthropology.

1.5. Ethical Bearings

The view of the individual that is today philosophically dominant also owes
much to the work of Descartes. While Cartesian dualism is generally rejected
there is a similarity of approach between Descartes, the mainstream of the social
contract tradition, and important modern contributions to epistemology and
philosophy of mind. The paradigm case is an individual who uses her reason to

12Winch 1972b, 1988, 1991.

I3Hence the fact that most political philosophers today seem to gravitate towards similar
normative views-e.g., endorsing the rule of law, popular participation in government, and certain
basic freedoms for all-does not, in itself, imply agreement on the underlying philosophical issues.
14This question is independent of the issue of free will v. determinism. It should also be kept
separate from the nature/nurture debate in psychology and the social sciences.
10 CHAPTER I

overcome scepticism and solipsism. The Cartesian subject could be called

solitary, except that she is, in a sense, beyond both loneliness and togetherness.
Other humans make themselves manifest to her as external objects, in principle
no different from things. Consequently, she must address the question whether
or not they qualify as beings with whom any form of fellowship can intelligibly
exist.
The argument from analogy-once the standard response to such
scepticism-is now, I suppose, generally recognised as insufficient. No doubt the
use of analogy may be helpful when we try to analyse the motives and feelings
of other people; but there, of course, we proceed on the assumption that these
people are like us. Scepticism about other minds questions precisely our right to
extend the analogy in this way. It is also no use suggesting that the argument
from analogy makes it probable that other people are like us. We would have no
idea of what the probabilities are; and anyway, even this moderate conclusion
would build on the initially challenged assumption that the analogy is justified.
-The response should rather be something to the effect that it is impossible for
us, in an important range of situations, really not to think of other human beings
as our fellows. That is, it is not clear what we are supposed to imagine if we are
to think of human beings as nothing but objects.
This brings up what I identified as the second main question to be addressed:
What is the significance of the distinction between human beings and things?
Does not the possibility of reasoning, in some sense, presuppose that we
recognise the presence of others-not only as elements of our environment but
as beings with a claim, equal to our own, to be taken seriously? As, for instance,
an argument by Lars Hertzberg suggests, important aspects of Wittgenstein's On
Certainty can be understood against the background of this suggestion. 15 Indeed,
one can perhaps view Descartes himself as taking a similar step when he re-
cognises that his meditating subject can establish the veracity of perception only
by presupposing the existence of someone else-God. 16
In our encounters with other human beings certain types of questions tend to
arise; certain types of description appear central to our understanding of these
encounters. In Chapter 9, it will be argued that we cannot make sense of these
questions and descriptions unless we recognise that they involve terms that do
not apply to purely physical descriptions of objects and their movements.
This has to do with the character of the terms in which human life can be
described; and thus, with the intelligible place of human agency in nature.

15Hertzberg 1988.
16Uvinas 1994,48-51, 196-197.
 A BLIND SPOT OF PHILOSOPHY 11

However, in the last analysis the question must also be an ethical one. By this
I do not mean to say that the philosopher's choice to settle for one view rather
than another of how human beings should be described has ethical significance
(though that may be true as well). But a discussion of what it is to describe
human beings will also be a discussion of where good and evil enter human life.
The present work as a whole can in some sense be characterised as moral
philosophy. This may seem odd to those who think that the task of moral
philosophy is to provide us with rationally justified rules of conduct. The aim of
this work is descriptive: to examine the role of certain concepts in our thought
and thus, in our lives. But this is still moral philosophy insofar as it is an
investigation of how those concepts are internally connected to the ways our
relations to others involve demands on us.
I am offering an illustration of an ethical point: that moral relations to
others-such as trust and distrust-are not something imposed on the human
being, alien to him. Thus the fact that we recognise moral requirements and act
on them is nothing particularly unusual or admirable. This is also why it will be
misleading to think that moral philosophy deals with 'ultimate questions of
human existence'-if by that we mean the questions we face when everything
else is settled. I am not saying that 'we are all basically good'. No theory of
human nature is being advanced here except for the negative point that it is
nonsense to speak of human nature in abstraction from how we in fact live. It is
unclear what it would be like to disentangle moral relations from the rest of
human life. It seems to me that the description of a life in terms that do not
imply moral relations just would no longer be a description of a human life.
Either it would not be an adequate description-as in the case of behaviouristic
accounts; or it would be a description of something very different and alien. Not
an impossible life, perhaps-but irrelevant for the purposes of those who want
to understand us.
-'Moral relations are not something alien to us!' -Certainly, this has been
said before and needs to be said again and again. On its own, however, it is no
more than a heading for something still to be said. In Thomas Mann's words,
only what is thoroughly done is truly interesting. I? One can give substance to a
thought only by showing in detail how different paths lead to it. As always in
philosophy, the path itself shows what the thought means; the path is the thought.
So if the present work has any general value it consists of demonstrating how the

17 Mann 1954, 8: 'Ohne Furcht vor dem Odium der Peinlichkeit, neigen wir vielmehr der Ansicht
zu, daB nur das Grtindliche wahrhaft unterhaltend sei'.
12 CHAPTER I

notion of trust shows us one route to understanding the place of morality in

human life.
The analysis here stems from post-Wittgensteinian moral philosophy.
Wittgenstein himself wrote little on ethics but implications of his arguments have
been spelled out by others; the present work is particularly indebted to the
writings of Peter Winch. This approach is opposed to another tradition today
embraced by large numbers of academics and laymen alike. In that tradition,
morality is seen as consisting of restrictions imposed on an already existing
human nature. In that sense, the relation between human life and morality is seen
as superficial: we could imagine a recognisably human life where moral notions
have no application (in whatever colours we might paint the picture). The idea
that morality is something important is quite compatible with a view like that.
Indeed, it presupposes the view I am critical of, since only what in some way is
outside us can be 'important' to us. (My own view would be that our morality
shows itself in the fact that things can be 'important').
The restrictions that morality places on us are usually agreed to be good,
conducive to human well-being. Well-being, of course, in a sense that does not
already include moral relations. Such views go together with the idea that
morality exists in order to make social life easier, less conflict-ridden; perhaps
to act as a lubricant in social transactions. It is as it were a technique for
preference satisfaction; either for one person or for a larger cluster of persons. 18
Finally, the task of moral philosophy would be to reduce uncertainty about the
rules that apply; to give people guidelines as to how to lead their lives.
Here I should object that there is a difference between what our preferences
are and what they ought to be. Even if it were clear that following certain
maxims leads to preference satisfaction, the question of whether those maxims
are justified is just as open as before. While it is true, for example, that it will
be rational for us to seek preference satisfaction in a given situation, our
preferences will themselves be expressions of what we see as important,
acceptable, justified, and so on. These, in turn, are expressions of the ways we
think and, as such, possible subjects for discussion and criticism.
I believe it is wrong in the first place to think that morality exists for the sake
of something or other. But if we assumed that it does, it would certainly be more
realistic to say that the task of morality is to make us unhappy. The greatest
conflicts and the greatest human unhappiness would not even be imaginable

18This position was given a classical formulation by David Hume. Recently, related views have
been developed, among others, by Singer (1979), Rawls (1971, 1993), Gauthier (1986) and Elster
(1989).
 A BLIND SPOT OF PHILOSOPHY 13

without morality. For an illustration, it may be enough to read a well-written bio-

graphy. What I have in mind now is not mainly uncanny cases of corrupt
morality. I mean simply morality. And furthermore-this is completely as it
should be. Morality is not there to make life easy-but to this one may reply:
neither should life be easy.19
Though I should really say: with morality go a number of ways in which our
lives are happy and miserable. Without it we would be, neither better nor worse
off, but different. There is no comparing of the alternatives on a neutral footing.
Today, each academic discipline must show that it pulls its weight. The last
thing 'we' need is people who deliberately make things difficult. Yet it may be
precisely what philosophy must do. A thinker to whom I owe much put it like
this:

The task of scientific ethicists is by no means to make the road even for man by providing him with
moral principles, formulae by which he can live-that is the task of educationalists and experts of
social work. No, if they have any practical task at all, it is rather to make morality difficult for man. 2()

1.6. Conclusion

This has been an attempt to show how the notion of trust connects with general
philosophical themes-how it lies right in the middle of what is important in
philosophy. So let us begin.

19 See Ahlman 1953, 89.

20 Ahlman 1953, /oc.cit., my translation.
 2

TRUST AND THE MENTAL LIFE!

Isn't [the] flame mysterious because it is im-

palpable? All right-but why does that make it
mysterious? Why should something impalpable be
more mysterious than something palpable? Unless
it's because we want to catch hold of it.
_ Wittgenstein. 2

2.1. Introduction

Suppose one day I discover that my wife has been having a lover. She has
betrayed my trust. Now one might ask a philosophical question: what did my
trust in her consist in? What is it that I had-and now have lost?
The philosophy of mind, as traditionally conceived, would focus on the
question of what goes on in my mind when I trust. But here we would be at a
loss. Does trust consist in entertaining a belief? We might say my trust involved
the belief that my wife doesn't have a lover. But as such, this seems insufficient
to distinguish trust from other beliefs I may have. I may believe the same thing
about the lady next door but this does not constitute trusting her. An important
difference here is, obviously, that I entertained the belief about my wife; but this
invites the question why that is important--or, to put it in another way, in what
relevant sense she is 'mine'. The existence of a marriage contract does not appear
to be the crucial point. It seems to me that the relation would have to be
analysed in terms of the trust that has existed between us; and so we come back
to the difficulty of understanding what this trust is. Furthermore, typically, our
trust in family members and friends is not tied to a specific issue at all. Hence,
we cannot pin down a specific belief corresponding to it.

!Most of the material included in this and the next chapter was published in the volume edited
by Alanen, Heinamaa & Wallgren (1997; Lagerspetz 1997). Some of the new material is occasioned
by Annette Baier's 'Response to Olli Lagerspetz' in the same volume (Baier 1997a). In the original
paper, I may have attributed to Baier more definite psychological views than she in fact subscribes
to. As for Baier's other objections, owners of the volume are invited to compare my argument with
her rendering of it.
2Wittgenstein, Z, § 126. Emphasis in the original.
 TRUST AND THE MENTAL LIFE 15

Nor can we unproblematically say that I was thinking of my wife's

trustworthiness. At the time, I was perhaps not thinking of her at all.
Nor, finally, can trust be an emotion: psychologically, trust rather seems to
be characterised by the fact that a number of beliefs and emotions-such as
certain suspicions or fears-fail to appear.
In the philosophy of mind, the traditional opposite pole of beliefs, thoughts,
and emotions is behaviour. But trust cannot simply be a form of behaviour (or
a behavioural disposition) since I might still behave as if I trusted my wife
without actually trusting her.
Beliefs, thoughts, emotions; behaviour, behavioural dispositions-this is the
shortlist for most scholars trying to pin down what trust is. Frequently, it is
suggested that trust should be seen as some combination of these elements, e.g.,
a belief of the other's trustworthiness combined with a cooperative disposition
and an emotive attitude of a certain type. 3 This involves the assumption that trust
is a specific state which could be discovered in the individual whenever the word
'trust' is applicable.
In this chapter, I will argue that it is very unhelpful to analyse trust in terms
of 'mental states', 'states of mind', and the like; this also holds for dispositional
states, as well as the suggestion that the relevant states sometimes are uncon-
scious. The confusions turn obvious when Trudy Govier writes that 'we
sometimes feel' (1) 'unconscious or unreflective trust,.4
Similar points could be made about many words commonly used in
discussions of human thought and behaviour-including 'fear', 'love', 'under-
standing', 'thinking', 'intention', 'expectation', and others. Looking for a state-or
some other thing going on in us that the word 'trust' refers to-obscures the way
in which the notion of trust is constituted by its role in human interaction.

3According to Govier (1992, note 4), the problem of whether trust is 'an attitude, emotion,
disposition, belief, or some combination of these' has not been explored in depth. Her own view is
that '[t]rust is an attitude based on beliefs and expectations about what others are likely to do' (op.
cit., 17). Trust is: for John Dunn (1988, 74), a 'psychic state'; for Hobbes, a 'passion' (1840,44) or
a 'belief (1651/1985, ch. 7); For Patrick Bateson (1988, 15), a 'mental state'; for Diego Gambetta
(1988, 230), a 'state'; for Baier, a 'belief-cum-feeling-cum-intention' (1994, 132), and (at least
sometimes?) a 'mental phenomenon' (Baier 1986, 235). It has a belief component that is usually
implicit (Baier 1994, 132).
4Govier 1993a, 156.
16 CHAPTER 2

2.2. Genuine Duration

The expression 'state of mind', in ordinary speech, covers cases between which
there are important psychological differences. Roughly, we can distinguish
between feelings and 'states' that do not involve a specific feeling.
In his Philosophical Investigations, Ludwig Wittgenstein observed this type
of ambiguity in the way we speak of human thoughts and attitudes. For instance,

We say "I am expecting him", when we believe that he will come, though his coming does not
occupy our thoughts. (Here "I am expecting him" would mean "I should be surprised if he didn't
come" and that will not be called the description of a state of mind.) But we also say "I am expecting
him" when it is supposed to mean: I am eagerly awaiting him. We could imagine a language in which
different verbs were consistently used in these cases. And similarly more than one verb where we
speak of 'believing', 'hoping' and so on. Perhaps the concepts of such a language would be more
suitable for understanding psychology than the concepts of our language. 5

I may be waiting intensely. My expectation, as it were, reaches a climax at a

certain moment: everything else stops, I look at my watch or towards the door.
But in other cases, my expectation may just amount to the fact that-if you ask
me-I say 'I should be surprised if he didn't come'. Perhaps I plan my timetables
in a certain way. Or I sit chatting away in a room where someone is about to
arrive; at the moment, my expectation just amounts to the fact that I sit there. To
sit there is 'to wait for someone' by virtue of connecting events. The expectation
is 'defined' by the thing expected. It 'culminates' when it comes true: there it
comes!6 Note that what I just described was a number of situations rather than
something going on in me.
In the passage just quoted, Wittgenstein restricts the use of the expression
'state of mind' to phenomena having genuine duration. 7 A psychological pheno-
menon has genuine duration if its presence could be established by spot-checking
or if it could imaginably be interrupted by something else. We could not have
it dispositionally: we only have it as long as it is present. Its duration could be
measured by means of a stop-watch (well-this is what Wittgenstein suggests;
what is important here is that it makes sense to speak of the state as being on
one's mind for some definite period of time).

5Wittgenstein, PI, I: § 577. Emphasis in the original.

I: § 581.
6 Ibid.,
7Wittgenstein describes genuine duration in Z, §§ 45, 78, 81. Also see §§ 46-47, 50, 76-78, 82-83,
85.
 TRUST AND THE MENTAL LIFE 17

For instance, sleep, and feelings of pain or intense expectation have genuine
duration. A large number of phenomena-such as expectation-sometimes have
genuine duration and sometimes not. Knowledge, ability, or understanding have
no genuine duration.s They are not interrupted when we are asleep or in a faint.
Intentions do not have genuine duration either. 9 We could not, e.g., have an
intention intermittently, unless this means having it, abandoning it, resuming it,
and so on. We may be said to have intentions even though they are not in our
minds. In fact, they are not the sorts of thing that mostly 'are in our minds' when
we have them. This is sometimes misleadingly expressed by calling intentions
'dispositional states'. What is misleading is the word 'state', which still suggests
genuine duration.
However, Wittgenstein's choice of terminology is in some ways unfortunate.lO
This is shown, e.g., by the fact that states like toothache become, for him, the
paradigm for 'states of mind'. We should be alarmed since, if we want to use the
word 'state', it seems more plausible to call toothache a physical state or perhaps,
a state of one's tooth.
Perhaps Wittgenstein went too far in going along with a usage originating in
a view to which he was deeply opposed. The view is roughly this. States of mind
are something taking place in an individual, in a place called 'the mind'. Earlier
authors wrote about the soul as the 'space' in which this process occurs; today,
it is typically identified with the central nervous system. Now if this way of
speaking of 'states of mind' is accepted, then Wittgenstein was correct in noting
that most interesting psychological phenomena-such as beliefs, intentions, and
attitudes-are not covered by the term.
It is often more illuminating to look at things like expecting-or believing,
intending, thinking, hoping, or loving-as ways in which one 'takes' one's
situation. It will be misleading to ask what kinds of state these phenomena are:
'taking one's situation' may involve different states. No doubt what goes on in us,
too, may have a role in determining how our attitude is to be characterised. But
a mental state depends on a background for being the state it is:

Could someone have a feeling of ardent love or hope for the space of one second-no matter what
preceded or followed this second? -What is happening now has significance-in these surroundings.

S/bid., § 82.
9/hid., § 45. -'One may disturb someone in thinking-but in intending? -Certainly in planning.
Also in keeping to an intention, that is thinking or acting' (§ 50).
JODavid Cockburn drew my attention to this. Baier also rightly points this out in her reply to me
(Baier 1997a).
18 CHAPTER 2

The surroundings give it its importance. And the word 'hope' refers to a phenomenon of human life.
(A smiling mouth only smiles in a human face)."

Certain mental states are correctly called feelings of expectation, or of love or

hope. The existence of such feelings is certainly not unimportant. But when we
discern, say, hope in someone's life it is not just because we have identified her
mental states as feelings of hope. 12 This also holds true for our own part, not
only when we look at others. When I simply hope I have no need to consult my
feelings in order to recognise my condition as one of hope; and when I am
unsure about whether I do hope, an examination of my feelings will not be
enough to settle the issue. -True, in some cases the way I feel may make me
realise that in fact I still do hope. Sometimes again, I communicate to others the
kind of hope it is by telling them what I feel. Yet the presence or absence of a
feeling is not, on its own, what settles the issue.
Hope shows itself in the life of whoever the person may be: in her relations
to others, to her own past and present and future; perhaps in courage, or in
willingness to make commitments or shoulder responsibilities. Hope may also
show itself in the fact that she is not willing to take on competing commitments.
Here we may also note that whatever our views on the relation between
mental life and the brain, it would be unintelligible to claim that phenomena with
no genuine duration-such as hopes or beliefs--could be identified simply by
observing the brain. This obviously is a severe restriction on any theory of mind;
however, the question cannot be addressed here.
But as I said, Wittgenstein's choice of terminology may be misleading. It
might be more instructive to stick to the ordinary usage. Hope, for instance,
might be called a state of mind without committing oneself to any view about
whether it has genuine duration.
Annette Baier, who read my discussion, suggested that the term 'state of mind'
should cover all instances of such phenomena as 'knowledge and ignorance,
intention and motive, expectation and lack of expectation [1], attention and
ignoring, hopes and desires,.13 But this, again, seems too much. Applying a

Illbid., I: § 583. Second emphasis added. Also see I: § 581. -Also see, e.g., Malcolm 1989.
12Cf. Elster 1989. Elster speaks of hope as an emotion, parasitic on a pleasurable 'core emotion':
'Hope is a pleasurable experience because it is hope of a pleasurable experience' (p. 62). His overall
characterisation of the human psyche is rather similar to Hobbes's in the Leviathan (1651/1985).
13Baier 1997a. Strictly speaking, Baier says she takes 'the most important states of a human mind
to concern knowledge and ignorance, [etc.-my emphasis]'. This is vague. But if she is taken to be
voicing an objection against Wittgenstein's use of the term 'states of mind'-as she wants to--she
must be read as subscribing to the more definite thesis that knowledge and ignorance, etc., are states
 TRUST AND THE MENTAL LIFE 19

blanket term would gloss over VarIatIOns that are far too substantial-both
between the different notions that 'state of mind' would have to cover, and
between different uses of each notion individually.
Probably a reason why one might want to speak of 'states of mind' on all
these occasions is that knowledge, intention, lack of expectation, etc., all
presuppose mental capacities of some kind. They imply the ability to think, feel,
perceive, and so on. But if those are the criteria it would be impossible not to
make one's list of 'states of mind' very much longer. Going shopping, for
instance, surely should be included as it also presupposes the ability to think,
perceive, etc .. The same holds for 'being Mayor', 'owning a flat', and so on. -So
the question here is, for what purpose is the term 'state of mind' introduced?
What is it contrasted with? I do not mean that the expression requires
clarification each time it is used. But if it is ostensibly introduced for
philosophical clarity about the nature of trust it is legitimate to expect an account
of what exactly is implied by it.
Anyway-all that matters here is that one should recognise the distinction
highlighted by the notion of genuine duration. The point is rather straightforward
and involves no mystification of the issue. 14
Does trust have genuine duration? Can a 'feeling of trust' ever be identified?
According to Annette Baier,

[trust] has its special 'feel', most easily acknowledged when it is missed, say, when one moves from
a friendly 'safe' neighborhood to a tense insecure one'.15

This, however, is not to describe the 'feel' of trust, but that of distrust. Or are
feelings of trust whatever we feel when it is not distrust? That could be just
anything. Compare the 'feeling of familiarity' that Wittgenstein also discussed in
Philosophical Investigations: I come into my room and something is changed.
I have a feeling of unfamiliarity. But did I have a feeling of familiarity

of mind.
14Cf. Baier, op. cit .. In 'Trust and Antitrust', Baier (1986) refers to trust as a 'mental phenomenon'
(p. 235) and stresses the importance of the trusting parties' 'state of mind' (257-258). However, Baier
is not committed to the view that mental states involve genuine duration (Baier I 997a).
15Baier 1994, 132. The idea that trust involves a feeling is pervasive. See, e.g., Giddens 1991,
36; Sellerberg 1982: 40. 45. 46; Govier 1993a, 156.
20 CHAPTER 2

previously, each time I entered the room?16 When I act with certainty, this does
not imply a constant feeling of certainty. 17
When we trust others, very different emotional states seem to be involved.
We have no description of what their common feature might be, apart from the
tautologous point that they all involve trust. The possible candidates for 'feelings
of trust' perhaps shade into love, relief, and so on? At least this much can be
said: the occurrence of specific emotions-such as feelings of trust, if there are
such-is not the general criterion for the correct use of the word 'trust'.
In this section I have not been suggesting that, since trust is not an emotion,
it is, instead, 'an attitude'.'8 On the contrary, I find it confusing in the first place
to ask in general terms, out of the blue, what kind of a state trust is. That would
only divert our attention from the important question: how do questions about
trusting arise?

2.3. Trust as 'Posthumous'

I put up a friend for the night. She sleeps in the kitchen-where the knives are!
Am I trusting her not to take one and stab me while I am asleep in bed?
Incomprehension would be an obvious reaction to this. Simply to utter an
interrogative sentence is not yet to raise a question. It is difficult to imagine how
I could be brought to address seriously the question of whether I trust my friend
not to attack me with a kitchen knife. Normally, to think that such questions
might arise would not even be suspicious; it would be insane. The fact that we
do not normally have certain suspicions is constitutive of what we mean by
sanity.'9 Questions like this are meaningful only if particular reasons for raising
them can be produced. This, of course, is not an empirical statement but a point
about what is meant by calling a situation 'normal'. I let my friend sleep in the
kitchen as a matter of course. I am acting without reflection; yet this is not to say
I am acting thoughtlessly. I do not reflect; but if I were told to, I would find
nothing to reflect upon.

16Wittgenstein, PI, I: §§ 596, 600-605. -Peter Winch drew my attention to the passage.
17Wittgenstein, C&E, 413. Also see Wittgenstein, PI, I: § 575; 11: xi, p. 225: 'Ask, not: "What
goes on in us when we are certain that ... ?"-but: How is 'the certainty that this is the case'
manifested in human action?'
18C f. Baier 1997a.
19Gaita 1991, 314. Also see Chapter 8 below.
 TRUST AND THE MENTAL LIFE 21

Someone might suggest that I just trust my friend too firmly for these
questions to occur to me. 20 After all, we would say I am displaying trust if my
guest was a complete stranger from the street; and surely, one could add, I will
trust a friend more than a stranger. But that would be misleading. It is not just
that I will be unlikely to speak of trust in the situation. Rather, there is no room
here for the notion of trust. I have no particular expectations; the situation is, in
this respect, undefined. I do not trust my friend not to stab me-any more than
a mother trusts her children not to put out her eyes during the night. Of course,
I do not distrust my friend either-the issue has not arisen.
We can rewrite the example in a way that makes it intelligible to say I trust
a guest not to attack me. Suppose my guest is a stranger who has asked me to
put her up for a night. Now you might ask me whether I trust her. Suppose I
have not considered the question and tend to dismiss it. (I may say, on the con-
trary, that my guest has given proof of considerable trust by approaching a
stranger.) You might then tell me of cases of strangers murdering their hosts. I
now come to see your question as intelligible-even if this of course does not
mean that I must share your suspicions. But here we see graphically how the
existence of a genuine question-no matter what the answer-already gives the
situation a particular twist. If I recognise your question as a serious one, my
perception of my guest will have changed-by that very fact.
Suppose my answer, after reflection, is that I do trust my guest. Now I am
not simply identifying a state of trust that was there all along-as a doctor might
diagnose a disease I have had for a while without being aware of it. The new
description will bring in a distinction that was not originally there. You now
have the right to ask for an explanation of why I am trustful. A new idea has
been activated. Is it reasonable of me to trust this person?
The point is that a certain lack of reflexion and explicitness is constitutive of
the trustfulness of the original relation. This also means that certain types of
question do not make sense to those who stand in such relations to one another.
In 'Trust and Antitrust', Baier wants to work out criteria for when trusting
relationships are morally acceptable. According to Baier, a trusting relation is
unacceptable 'to the extent that either party relies on qualities in the other which
would be weakened by the knowledge that the other relies on them'.21 Morally
acceptable trust should be able to survive the explicit expression of the attitudes
and considerations informing it. For instance, a relation based on either party's
gullibility will be unlikely to survive the expressibility test. The exploited party

20 As suggested by Lilli Alanen.

21 Baier 1986, 256.
22 CHAPTER 2

will terminate the relation once he realises its character. 22 But my discussion
suggests that the expressibility test cannot be applied to an important range of
(morally acceptable) relations to which the word 'trust' is applicable.
For example, if I invite a friend over for dinner I will not be making sure he
is not pocketing valuables from the house. Someone might describe me as
'relying on my friend's honesty'. But this description would imply that a serious
question can be raised about my friend's honesty in the circumstances. I might
protest against the suggestion and reject any articulation of our relation in such
terms. Or-if I do accept the new description, by doing so I will change my
view of the relation. And imagine my friend's reaction when I tell him I am
relying on his honesty. The relation itself would be changed by the application
of the expressibility test.
The general point I am making is that the expressibility required by Baier
involves looking at the relation from a perspective which itself makes sustaining
the relation impossible. As Baier herself puts it, 'we come to realize what trust
involves retrospectively and posthumously, once our vulnerability is brought
home to us by actual wounds,.z3 I have argued that the posthumous character of
trusting is not just a contingent psychological fact (the way Baier represents it)
but constitutive of how we use the concept.
We act-then something happens. Only now does it dawn on us that we have
trusted someone. The issue may come up in different ways. Perhaps we are
betrayed; or something may show us that distrust would have been if not
advisable, at least conceivable. This gives the word 'trust' something to
accomplish. It is deviations from the normal case that make it meaningful to use
the word at all.

2.4. Summoning the Unconscious

Someone might read the argument so far in the following way. Trust is a state
which we, in some sense, are in; but that state cannot be sustained if made
explicit. It seems to me that this would still be misleading.
Suppose my guest unexpectedly walks away with the family silver. I will say,
'I trusted him'. But how exactly did my trust manifest itself at the time? Was it
a mental state, or a disposition of some particular kind? -That would lead to a

22 1n Chapter 5, 1 will argue that relations of such a manipulative kind cannot be properly called
trustful. For now, 1 will only discuss the implications for genuine trusting relations.
23Baier 1986, 235.
 TRUST AND THE MENTAL LIFE 23

difficulty. We can truthfully say that my guest took advantage of my trust. And
yet-before I found out about the theft I did not think I was 'trusting him'. (If
asked, I might have dismissed the description.) But if trusting is a matter of
being in a particular state (disposition, etc.) it seems that the relevant state was
there irrespectively of what happened afterwards. It either was there or it was
not. So was I mistaken at first about the state I was in? This would be unusual
since we are normally supposed to be the best authorities in questions about the
mental states we are in.
The obvious answer might seem to be that I had just been unaware of my
trust. The grammatical form of the phrase, 'I trusted', is likely to lead the analysis
in this direction. With a past tense verb, it looks like a description of an activity
in the past. It suggests that something-apparently, a mental process-was going
on in me before I was let down. This looks inevitable if we are to preserve the
truth of the claim, 'I trusted!,24
And yet-perhaps there was no particular mental process? I had simply
invited a friend for dinner. Perhaps I was not thinking of her trustworthiness at
all. So did I, or did 1 not trust her? The law of the excluded middle seems to
force a choice on us.
Someone might suggest a way out: I did not consciously feel trust-but
unconsciously, I did. A passage by the psychoanalyst Erik H. Erikson suggests
something in that direction:

In describing the growth and the crises of the human person as a series of alternative basic attitudes
such as trust v. mistrust. we take recourse to the term 'sense of, although, like a 'sense of health', or
a 'sense of being unwell', such 'senses' pervade surface and depth, consciousness and the unconscious.
They are, then, at the same time, ways of experiencing accessible to introspection; ways of behaving,
observable by others; and unconscious inner states determinable by test and analysis2~

We find out about the unconscious inner states, it seems, either from the way
individuals feel and think, or from what they do. The criteria for the inner state
collapse into those for experiencing and behaving. Why, then, an inner state? It
is there because it looks as if only a state could accomplish what we demand of
trust.

24Cf. Wittgenstein, RPP, 11: § 265: 'How strange, that something has happened while I was
speaking and yet I cannot say what! -The best thing would be to say it was an illusion, and nothing
really happened; and now I investigate the usefulness of the utterance'. -Also see § 266.
25Erikson 1977. 226. Emphasis in the original.
24 CHAPTER 2

Here I find it illuminating to approach the issue of unconscious mental states

via another notion having to do with human psychology. Consider thinking. It is
usually supposed to consist of a succession of states in a person's mind.
I sit down; suddenly the chair collapses under my weight. Someone says, 'He
thought the chair would hold his weight'?6 That sounds like a straightforward
description of a mental state. But if it is, it will almost certainly be incorrect. I
probably did not sit down anticipating and telling myself, e.g., 'The chair won't
collapse'. This may be why I was not more careful in the first place. Yet to say,
'He thought the chair would hold', is appropriate.
Note in passing that the same situation would arise even if I were saying of
myself that I had 'thought the chair would hold'. What is problematic about it has
nothing to do with problems about knowing what went on in my mind.
At this juncture, the idea of unconscious mental states rather naturally springs
to mind. One might suggest that my mental state was basically the same as it
would have been, had I actually been saying to myself: 'The chair will hold'.
Only, now it was unconscious. Here, of course, the only possible proof of my
mental state is the fact that I did sit down (in specified circumstances). Lacking
further criteria, we would have to conclude that the same unconscious mental
state is there whenever I sit down. It would be there even if the chair did not
collapse-in fact even if I did not know that chairs can collapse. For then, too,
after all, it might; and you would truthfully say I had thought that the chair
would hold my weight.
The reasoning leads us to a slippery slope: we must go on attributing an
infinite number of the most bizarre unconscious mental states to ourselves and
others. Life involves a multitude of routinised patterns of behaviour; at any given
time, something might go wrong with them and my behaviour might correctly
be explained by saying, 'He thought...' .
When a train conductor says, 'All tickets please', I will not search my pockets
for aeroplane tickets or an old return ticket from Swansea to Cwmrhydyceirw.
So do I think that he did not mean those tickets? Normally-No. Or yes, if we
like-but the 'Yes' would be but a misleading way of highlighting the fact that
my life involves routines. Mostly the question would never come up at all.
However, in the unlikely event that the train conductor went on: 'I mean all
tickets you have on you, including old bus and aeroplane tickets'-yes; we would
naturally say I thought at first he only meant train tickets. What matters here is
not what went on in my mind-which may have been the same in both cases,

26 See Wittgenstein. PI, I: § 575.

 TRUST AND THE MENTAL LIFE 25
i.e., nothing-but the situation that makes it natural to use an expression in the
one case but not in the other.
It is not, then-as one might suggest-'strictly speaking' incorrect to use ex-
pressions like 'I thought, 1 expected, 1 was going to' unless there was a preceding
thought process. The one usage is exactly as literal as the other. Only, it has
nothing to do with what was going on in my mind at the time. When someone
says of me, 'He thought the chair would hold' it is usually not because he
assumes his interlocutor to be collecting data about my mental processes.
Typically, he will be explaining or justifying my behaviour; perhaps reproaching
someone else for not fixing the chair. This is not to say he is giving a rational-
isation, falsely imposing it on my earlier behaviour. My behaviour, if you like,
did not result from a thought; but nevertheless it was expressive of a thought.27
What 1 did was intelligible in the light of a thought.
So my thinking that the chair would hold my weight consisted in thinking
nothing! This is paradoxical in a way-but only in relation to a preconceived
idea of what it is to speak of human thoughts and attitudes. 28
Similarly, my trust in a guest shows itself in the fact that I do not think I
trust. What makes it appropriate to speak of trust here is not what I am
thinking-i.e., nothing in particular-but the situation that makes it natural to use
the expression in a description of what 1 am doing.
No general objection is implied here against the possibility of unconscious
thoughts. However, if someone were to suggest, in the case at hand, that my
mental state must have been unconscious it would not be for the reason that
originally made Freud speak of the unconscious. His aim was to explain his
patients' puzzling behaviour; but in the present example, there is nothing
particular to puzzle the observer. There is, instead, a philosophical puzzlement
about how a certain kind of uniformity of human behaviour is possible. An
unconscious mental state is supposed to account for the uniformity and give the
expression 'He thought...' a justification, the air of describing something tangible.
A grammatical difference between two kinds of uses of 'He thought...' is masked
as a difference between different degrees of consciousness?9 This saves the
conviction that descriptions of human thoughts and attitudes always involve

27 A point made by John Daniel, Lampeter, it propos of another example.

28 Also see Wittgenstein, RPP, 11: §§ 248-258.
29 See Wittgenstein, PI. I: § 149. -Fingarette's argument on self-deception (1977) is reminiscent
of mine.
26 CHAPTER 2

references to corresponding, specific states or processes. '[W]here our language

suggests a body and there is none: there, we would like to say, is a spirit'.30
This longing for the tangible connects with general philosophical tendencies;
perhaps with an underlying general belief or wish. That is the idea that words,
in order to have meaning, should stand for independently recognisable 'chunks'
of reality. The idea is not new; today, it has been championed, e.g., by Daniel
Dennett. 31 He claims that describing human life in terms of intentions and beliefs
is legitimate if and only if the terms correspond to 'real patterns' that can be re-
cognised in the arrangement of physical objects (e.g., in neural or behavioural
processes) independently of any preexisting tendency on our part to conceptualise
things in that particular way. Accordingly, by positing an unconscious mental
state, an illusion of the 'reality' and 'constancy' of 'He thought .. .' is preserved in
the changing circumstances.
The postulated mental states and processes are sometimes further identified
as material states or processes in the organism-notably, the brain-thus con-
tributing to the growing discipline of 'cognitive science'. Of course, once we
accept the assimilation of human thoughts and attitudes into states or processes
taking place in a 'space' called the mind, this final step seems no more than
natural unless we want to subscribe to metaphysical dualism. As a cognitive
scientist put it, '[m]ental phenomena cannot float around in the universe without
being anchored to their fundamental micro-level basis'.32 The crucial step lies not
in the thesis that mental states are brain states but is made already when the
identity between thoughts and any particular states and processes is assumed.

2.5. Impalpability

Trust seems to elude us: like a flame, it is 'impalpable'. The impossibility of pin-
pointing a mental phenomenon for which the word 'trust' stands has been the
main theme of this discussion. (One way to gloss over the difficulty is to call
trust an 'attitude' and then go on as if what is meant were a psychological state
of the individuaL33)

30To use Wittgenstein's words from a different but related occasion; Wittgenstein, PI, I: § 36.
First emphasis added.
31 Dennett 1991.
32Revonsuo 1995, 30. Also see, loco cit.: This as-sumption is implicitly taken for granted in all
cognitive neuroscience and functional brain imagining'.
3300vier 1993a, 157 and passim; 1993b, 104; 1992, 17.
 TRUST AND THE MENTAL LIFE 27

To put this in another way-if we go along with speaking of trust, or

expectation, certainty, belief, etc., as 'states' we must be clear about the fact that
they cannot be states of an individual's psyche, let alone of his brain. They are
'states', perhaps, roughly in the way wealth and poverty can be said to be states
that a person is in. They imply something about her prospects, about what she
can meaningfully think or plan to do, about how others look at her, and so on.
While it is true, for instance, that if I am to be said to trust someone it must
also make sense to say that I have some expectations from her, these
expectations do not have to be states of mind in the strong sense. The
circumstances-for instance, the routines I am following; or perhaps, something
else--define my 'state' as one of expectation.
What makes anything a riddle to us is a function of what we take as given.
The 'riddle' of trust stems from a tendency to analyse it in confusing categories
rather than from anything inherently mysterious about it. (Of course, a
philosopher might also analyse the notion in confusing categories and fail or
refuse to see that a problem arises!) Like many other words having to do with
human psychology, the word 'trust' sometimes behaves as if it stood for a
psychological state. This fact is liable to mislead us.
Psychological concepts may seem to lose their meaning if we cannot point
to something 'real' behind them-to corresponding mental states or dispositions
of the individual-as their reference. However, I have pointed out that our
psychological language is more nuanced than that.
Hence it was actually misleading for Wittgenstein to suggest, in the quoted
passage, that a language that takes notice of the difference between states of
genuine duration and other 'states' would be more suitable for understanding
psychology. Outside certain theoretical contexts-say, neurology-these
differences are not what interests us. This itself is, of course, an important point
about the relation between neurology and our attempts to understand human
psychology.
I have argued that nothing philosophically helpful is to be learned about trust
by examining what goes on in us when we can be said to trust each other. Even
if I have not explicitly argued this, it seems to me that similar points can be
made about almost all interesting descriptions of human thoughts and attitudes.
 3

ASYMMETRY

3.1. The Role of Reflection

The lack of explicitness and reflection normally characterising trust has raised
problems for many authors discussing the topic. I already suggested that this
feature is not an accidental difficulty but rather constitutive of the meaningfulness
of speaking of trust. I will now go on to examine what this means. I will argue
that the meaningfulness of speaking of trust is dependent on a form of asymmetry
between the perspective of the agent and that of the observer.
Where everything is normal I simply act. My guest seems nice and I put her
up for the night. And there is nothing special about my lack of reflection here.
There is no need, for instance, to suppose that I know my guest extremely well,
or indeed at all. An analogous lack of reflection characterises-in many different
ways-almost all our dealings with people. Here my lack of reflection might
nevertheless be truthfully described as an expression of trust.
One way of dealing with this is by suggesting that trusting is largely unself-
conscious.'
However, regardless of our views about the underlying mental life, words like
'unconscious' or 'unself-conscious' tend to lead the analysis in a direction that
seems problematic. They suggest a deviation: an element that is normally
there-awareness-is now absent. This implies a certain structure for further ana-
lysis. The agent's unself-conscious behaviour is best elucidated by analogy with
the corresponding conscious activity. Similarly, we understand what is meant by
'unconscious jealousy' in the light of the immediately intelligible everyday idea
of (conscious) jealousy.
Annette Baier-whose discussion of trust has been enormously in-
fluential-consequently suggests that we analyse trust on the model of entrusting.
It is natural, she argues, to analyse an unself-conscious activity by looking at the
corresponding conscious undertaking. Through reflection, we gradually grow
aware of the originally unconscious undertaking that has been there all along

'Baier 1986, 235-236.

 ASYMMETRY 29
awaiting discovery.2 It is, after all, simply a full-fledged version of the same
thing. 'Proper trust' includes awareness by the trusting parties. 3
Not that Baier fails to acknowledge the existence of unreflective cases. The
problem is the place she assigns to them. As a direct consequence of the
structure of her analysis, she cannot but treat this lack of reflection as accidental.
What is more, she makes it look like a straightforward weakness. She fails to see
how that very 'weakness' is constitutive of our notion of trust. We do not only
'sometimes let ourselves fall asleep on trains [etc .... ] with scarcely any sense of
recklessness'4 but many of us fall asleep naturally. We do not think about our
fellow passengers-and that is trusting them. On the other hand, if we are very
conscious of the fact that we trust one another, or keep talking about it, one will
have some reason to wonder if there is really trust between us at all. 5
The point is logical, not one about statistics. 'Trust' would simply not be the
same thing if it were the rule that people were 'trustful' because they had con-
sciously set out to be so. It would be more akin to what the word sometimes
means in the technical language of economics.
No value judgment is implied here. 6 It is not implied that it would be better
if we did not reflect too much on our trustful relations. In fact, I find it quite
confusing to ask what one should prefer-reflective or unreflective trust? First
of all, perhaps we should generally leave questions about preferences to those
involved. But more importantly: the question suggests that one could simply
articulate one's unreflective trusting relationships should one so choose. But
obviously, to suggest that a person displays unreflective trust is to say that she
does not think of herself as trusting. From her point of view, the question of
whether or not to trust has not arisen; there is nothing for her to articulate. The
'articulation' would be, for her, to sketch out merely theoretical possibilities; or
alternatively, she would reason herself into believing in risks that she has not
previously thought existed. No doubt this is sometimes a good thing, but it is not

2Baier, loc.cit.
'Ibid., 235.
4 Ibid., 234; my emphasis.
5Baier also takes this up (ibid., 260). Also see Baier 1994, 196. -Corresponding things can be
said about distrust: when we lock our doors-which could be looked upon as distrust by someone
coming from a rural setting-we neither feel distrust nor think of ourselves as distrustful. It is just
a thing we do. If we start speaking about locking one's door as a sign of distrust our perception is
already changing.
6C f. Baier 1997a. Baier's objections against me are analogous to Govier's misunderstanding of
Hertzberg (Govier 1993a). Govier thinks Hertzberg recommends a general attitude of 'slight trust' and
puts it down to his North European background.
30 CHAPTER 3

to simply to articulate a preexistent state of mind. Besides, it lies in the nature

of things that one could never come up with a complete list of what one may
legitimately be said to have trust in (that would mean listing all the unexpected
actions which might make one say that someone has betrayed one's trust). Hence,
our lives will always involve unreflective trust.
Probably one should not be too restrictive about the kinds of phenomenon to
which the word 'trust' can be legitimately applied. Nevertheless, there are central
cases in which trust cannot possibly be treated on the model of a conscious
undertaking. It seems, then, that unreflective cases must be analysed--as they
are.

3.2. A Paradox of Asymmetry

In short, there is a disparity between how I would describe my present trustful

attitude and how someone else might see it. My unreflective trust is shown-to
others-in the fact that I do not think I am trusting. Our use of the word 'trust'
not only tolerates, but feeds on, a disparity between first- and third-person (or
agent and observer) perspectives.
This is also true of many other descriptions of human behaviour and
character. The original domain of those descriptions, so to say, is a situation
where two people discuss a third one who is absent-while, at the same time,
having a certain idea of how that person would look at what she is doing. For
instance, we may describe a young woman as innocent; but we can only do this
on the assumption that this is not how she would characterise herselC We might
wish that we were like her; yet one thing we would be admiring in her is the fact
that she does not think of her own behaviour as innocent. 'Deliberate innocence'
would not be innocence at all. Similar points apply to how we speak of, say,
generosity, modesty, or hastiness.

7Perhaps I should point out here-to avoid misreadings (cL Baier 1997a)-that I have used
innocence as an analogy in order to make grammatical points of limited application. I should not be
taken to suggest a particularly close relation between trust and innocence in other respects (as
opposed to, e.g., trust and experience). -We see innocence, as it were, as a pool, given to us at birth
and gradually drained in the course of life. If we lose it there is usually nothing we can do to regain
it. Nor can it normally be 'added' to. But my trust in another person grows with me, it develops as
friendship or common projects bring us closer. In fact, most of the examples of unrefJective trust
given in the present chapter-rather than being nostalgic depictions of infant trust and
innocence-presuppose the background of years of friendship or love.
 ASYMMETRY 31

It is true that 'trust'-unlike 'innocence'-makes sense in a person's de-

scription of her own present attitude as well. Yet trust as a conscious undertaking
is logically secondary to unreflective trust. The meaning of 'trust' for us is
essentially connected to the fact that we typically do not articulate, reflect upon,
or plan our trust.
This is why I typically discover my own trust posthumously. When I say, 'I
trusted her', the past tense indicates that my relation to my earlier behaviour has
changed. Either 1 have ceased to trust, or I am referring to a specific situation
that no longer obtains.
By saying, in the present tense, 'I trust N.N.', 1 typically vouch for someone
against a suspicion which 1 do not share but which 1 can recognise as intelligible.
1 may be pointing out that 1 trust her now as opposed to before, or comparing her
with others whom one cannot trust. When 1 say, 'I trust you' this is, perhaps, to
reassure you when no one else does. Sometimes it is to remind you that you
should keep my trust-here 1 may be on my way out of the trustful relation. In
both cases, the risk of betrayal is invoked and, at the same time, dismissed by
me.
The distinction between first- and third-person perspectives clearly does not
coincide with our use of pronouns in speech.8 Rather, it reflects a difference
between the situations of an acting subject and an object under observation. Thus
it highlights the role of practical reasoning for us; in a distant way, it parallels
Kant's distinction between man as a natural object and as a subject (freely)
employing practical reason. 9 According to Kant, it is possible for me to describe
my life as a series of natural occurrences determined by causal influences;
however, that is primarily a way of describing other things, not my own life. It
cannot be the mode of my practical reasoning.
In other words, certain descriptions which make sense in a description of my
attitude cannot enter my practical deliberation as its premisses. I cannot sincerely

RIn Baier I997a. Baier offers the phrase, 'In God We Trust' (as on U.S. banknotes) as a refutation
of what I have said about the role of first and third person perspectives. She thinks the phrase cannot
plausibly be seen as 'third-person' without taking it to mean something like 'In God the rest of you
trust' or, 'In God we trusted'. -But I have not said we can never use the first person when we speak
of our present trust (as when we retlect on it or articulate it). Thus, this is not a counter-example to
anything I have said. It is also odd that Baier should use this particular example given her general
view that religious faith is unfit to elucidate trustful relations between mature adults (see Baier 1986,
241-242). Furthermore, it is unclear exactly what the phrase 'In God We Trust' is an expression of.
Who is trusting God? The designer of the banknotes? The Federal Reserve? The nation as a whole?
What would it be, for them, not to?
9 See Kant, KrV. AS49-550. Also see Nagel 1991.
32 CHAPTER 3

think: 'I am an innocent, thoughtless, irascible, or generous person-therefore I

ought to behave in accordance with these character traits'. 10 That would be what
Sartre called bad faith.
Contrast those terms with justice-a notion that emphatically requires the co-
incidence of first- and third-person perspectives. Calling a person 'just' suggests
that she, too, wants to be exactly that: just. The notion of justice enters her
reasoning as well as ours, either explicitly or implicitly. There may be disagree-
ment as to the actual extent to which she is just, but the notion of justice will be
employed by all parties. Our judgments are at least expected to coincide; when
they do not there is genuine disagreement.
This may also be why Kant attached such an importance to justice in his
description of moral reasoning. If there is to be reasoning about what I morally
ought to do it must be conducted in terms that can enter my practical deliberation
as its premisses.
The disparity between first- and third-person perspectives must be kept apart
from disparities dependent upon what the observer and the agent know. We
normally expect each individual to be in a privileged position vis-a-vis others to
tell them about her mental states. Any disparity is either put down to the
observer's ignorance or to the agent's dishonesty. However, when we speak of
'trust' or 'innocence', disparity is expected. The first-person perspective is not
taken to be the one that settles the issue. Primarily, the characterisation of a
person's condition of as one of 'trust' or 'innocence' belongs to a third-person per-
spective.
The phrase, 'I trust her!'-out of the blue-would in fact be counterpro-
ductive. Suppose 1 introduce you to a friend of mine and tell you by the way that
1 trust her not to attack you. You will probably not feel more reassured than if
told nothing at all. I am not saying that certain questions and worries would, in
that situation, be likely to suggest themselves. Rather, paradoxically, the notion
of trust is logically tied up with the fact that our trust will implicitly be called
into question once we start talking about it.
A similar sense of paradox runs through Wittgenstein's discussions of the
sense of 'I know .. .' or, 'I am certain .. .' . Wittgenstein, Moore, and Malcolm
tangled with the question of what we can, with complete certainty, say we
know. 11 Take an example of something so obviously true that it would not occur
to us to doubt it: what I see standing a few yards away from me, on a clear

10, might, on the other hand, think: , am (generally) trustful-therefore 1 ought to be more careful
now.
IIMa\Colm 1977; Moore 1939; Wittgenstein, QC; Wolgast 1977, 189-205.
 ASYMMETRY 33

summer day, is a tree. But once I say I know it or that I am certain about it, it
will feel appropriate to ask how I know it and how certain I can reasonably be.
Scepticism creeps in. How do I know the tree is not a dummy, that I am not
hallucinating, and so forth? We may trim the example to remove every doubt we
can think of; but then the whole assertion looks pointless. Why say I 'know' it?
Why not just state the facts? Why even state the facts if they are obvious? -It
is not simply that we would be likely to find the assertions odd. The grammar
of expressions like 'I know' and 'I am certain' presupposes conceivable reasons
for doubt. My certainty is no longer absolute, now it is a struggling certainty. 12
The lesson is not that we can never be certain of anything. But unquestioning
certainty is tacit. The language of certainty, on the other hand, belongs to a
situation where our certainty is called into question and we assert it against
conceivable doubt.
This duality between first- and third-person perspectives, never satisfactorily
resolved, runs through Wittgenstein's On Certainty. First of all, as I suggested,
I cannot meaningfully speak oJmyself as being certain of something unless there
are conceivable grounds for someone to doubt it. The duality shows itself, in
another form, in the distinction between knowing and believing. That is, it seems
not simply a difference in assessed probabilities but one of perspective.
I may be justified in saying that I know something~.g., that I know my
name; nothing I remember of my life contradicts this and nothing could make me
doubt it. 'Knowing' logically implies the truth of what is known; hence it is
logically impossible for me to doubt something I think I know. Yet the fact that
someone else says he knows his name is compatible with taking him to be
mistaken~.g" if he suffers from amnesia. Furthermore, I can recognise that
someone else might, in certain conditions, reasonably look at me the way I am
looking at the man suffering from amnesia. To others, the fact that I say I know
something only implies a fact about me, i.e., that I believe something very
firmly. I3 This means that certain doubts are, at the same time, both unimaginable
for me (from a first-person perspective) and imaginable for me (from a third-
person perspective).
The asymmetry I am pointing to is not easily described in general terms.
However, such is the case with many philosophically crucial ideas (like many
distinctions connected with the idea of rationality, to be discussed in the next
chapters). This of course does not mean that they cannot add to our
understanding of particular cases.

I2Wolgast 1987, 155 and passim.

I3 See Wittgenstein, OC, §§ 12-16,21-22,30,86.
34 CHAPTER 3

3.3. Deciding to Trust

The discussion so far implies that there will be something problematic about
deciding or planning to trust someone else. This is a consequence of the fact that
we cannot freely choose what kinds of ideas we are to see as reasonable. Our
trust consists in the fact that certain suspicions or lines of inquiry do not strike
us as reasonable. While we may realise that one may, from the third-person
perspective, invoke certain suspicions we cannot, for our own part, understand
that there could be genuine room for suspicion.
On the other hand, once we do think a person is going to let us down, or
even just think he is likely to do so, no decision will change our perception of
the probabilities. Our doubts and fears may be dispelled when we consider the
case at hand, but our perception cannot be changed by fiat. We may decide what
to do-and gamble if we wish to-but this is not to trust.
The problem is conceptual, not one of mental agility. A trusting relation is
one for which certain possibilities or risks do not exist. Deciding, on the other
hand, presupposes that one considers the risks. (This has nothing to do with any
views held by the present writer about whether one should consider the risks.
One should typically consider them, I guess, if one sees them.)
It might, however, be objected that it does seem natural, in certain situations,
to speak of 'deciding to trust' .14 R. A. Sharpe points out the admirable way in
which a person may decide to risk her well-being rather than distrusting a
stranger. 15 Her trust would, perhaps, express her consciousness that failing to
show trust would be wrong, perhaps shameful. The con man will think she was
made a dupe (as she was, in an external sense); but she has not behaved
shamefully as she might have, had she refused to trust him. We could call this
a form of magnanimity. Here the line between trusting and voluntarily giving up
some cherished good may be vague.
I might, it seems, even think that the man is more likely than not to let me
down without significantly altering the example. What is important here is not
how likely I think betrayal will be (-e.g., whether p < .50). Instead, the
important fact is my commitment to behaving decently even in unpromising
circumstances.

14Also see Baier 1986, 244; Luhmann 1979,43; Giddens 1991, 19. Cf. Wittgenstein, Z, § 51.
-Baier speaks of 'intentional trusting' (p. 235).
15Sharpe 1996, 187.
 ASYMMETRY 35

But we may ask: in what sense can we speak of trust here? Do I trust the
other if I think he will let me down? 'Trusting against one's better judgment'
looks like an oxymoron: to trust is to judge that one will not be harmed. 16
-Perhaps we could say: here the notion of being harmed is changing. To trust
in this way is, in one sense, to make oneself invulnerable to betrayal. I have
already bid farewell to the money I will be losing, hence a risk no longer exists
from my point of view.
We may also say that this form of trust is more like acting and less like
entertaining a belief. In some sense, it is acting as if one trusted, even if I do not
protest against using the word 'trust' here. Clearly the case is different from usual
cases and might be said to be parasitic on them.
All I can (and perhaps need to) say here is that I have, up to now, been
analysing a central but neglected feature of the grammar of one important range
of cases of trusting; ones, however, that in certain ways are paradigm cases. How
far we are to generalise from those is another question which should be
addressed from case to case.
In some sense, it may even to be possible to make 'a decision to perceive a
situation differently'. A religious conversion could be described in such terms.
However, we cannot speak of deciding here in the straightforward manner
involved, e.g., in deciding to go for a walk.
We may speak of a resolution to trust when our perspective on the situation
changes. For illustration, consider William Godwin's novel Caleb Williams. 17
First published in 1794, the story is mainly set in contemporary rural Britain.
Caleb Williams is a boy of modest origins who becomes the secretary of the
local squire, Mr Falkland, a man greatly admired by everyone. Early on,
Williams is told that Falkland has been tried for a murder, of which he was
acquitted. Williams observes his master closely and finally discovers documents
suggesting that he was guilty after all. Williams's spying activities are discovered
by the enraged Falkland who confirms his guilt.
Forester, Falkland's half-brother, visits the house. He is friendly with
Williams, who hopes for sympathy (without revealing the reason for his troubles
with Falkland). Falkland now forbids him to enter into conversation with anyone.
He is to spend the rest of his life at Falkland House under his master's watchful
eye. The following night, Williams leaves the house. 'No force shall ever drag
me to that place alive' (Vol. 2 Ch. IX p. 165).

16Johnson (1993, 63) suggests that trust can be given voluntarily against the truster's better
judgment. This is puzzling, unless he means something like what Sharpe has in mind.
17Godwin 1988.
36 CHAPTER 3

On his way to London, Williams is reached by a messenger who hands him

a letter (2:IX: 166):

Williams,
My brother Falkland has sent the bearer in pursuit of you. He expects that, if found, you will
return with him: I expect it too. It is of the utmost consequence to your future honour and character.
After reading these lines, if you are a villain and a rascal, you will perhaps endeavour to fly; if your
conscience tells you, 'You are innocent,' you will out of all doubt come back. Show me then whether
you have been your dupe; and, while I was won over by your seeming ingenuousness, have suffered
myself to be made the tool of a designing knave. If you come, I pledge myself that, if you clear your
reputation, you shall not only be free to go wherever you please, but shall receive every assistance
in my power to give. Remember, I engage for nothing further than that.
v ALENTINE FORESTER

The letter appeals to Williams's sense of honour. Yet only the day before he was
warned by Falkland that he will do anything to protect his own reputation:

[Pjrepare a tale however plausible, or however true, the whole world shall execrate you for an
impostor. Your innocence shall be of no service to you; I laugh at so feeble a defence (2:VII:160).

In a rigid class society, Falkland and Forester are vastly superior to Williams; the
English landlord's power to destroy his inferiors was the main theme of an early
part of the novel. If Williams now returns he will throw himself into the hands
of a murderer. Yet his 'mind seem[ s] to undergo an entire revolution':

Timid and embarrassed as I had felt myself when I regarded Mr Falkland as my clandestine and
domestic foe, I now conceived that the case was entirely altered.
Meet me, said I, as an open accuser: if we must contend, let us contend in the face of day; and
then, unparalleled as your resources may be, I will not fear you (2:IX:167).

Williams immediately wants to return. He thinks there will be a meeting where

the case will be resolved on its own merits. His innocence will shine through like
a jewel.
What is important here is Williams's change of perspective. It is something
of a conversion-literally, 'turning around'. This is not a matter of striking a
balance between possible risks and rewards. Considerations which were earlier
seen as crucial (Falkland's hostility) lose their importance and others (Williams's
sense of personal worth) reassert themselves. The image of a balance is too static
to capture the change. The weights themselves are, as it were, transmuted.
Subsequently, Falkland has Williams imprisoned on a trumped-up charge. He
escapes. At one point, Williams runs into CaBins, Falkland's old servant and once
 ASYMMETRY 37

WiIliams's trusted friend. Williams tries to convince him of his innocence. To no

avail:

'And what benefit will result from this conviction? I have known you a promising boy, whose
character might turn to one side or the other as events should decide. I have known Mr Falkland in
his maturer years, and have always admired him as the living model of liberality and goodness. If
you could change all my ideas, and show me that there was no criterion by which vice might be
prevented from being mistaken for virtue, what benefit would arise from that? I must part with all
my interior consolation, and all my external connections. And for what? [... ]
You know what consequences are annexed to that. But I do not believe I shall find you innocent.
If you even succeed in perplexing my understanding, you will not succeed in enlightening it. [... ]
Meanwhile, for the purchase of this uncertainty, I must sacrifice all the remaining comforts of
my life. I believe Mr Falkland to be virtuous; but I know him to be prejudiced. He would never
forgive me even this accidental parley. if by any means he should come to be acquainted with it'
(3:XIV:320-321 ).

To believe Falkland is to be able to continue in his service; to believe Williams

is to give up all one's earlier convictions. To act accordingly is to be headed for
destitute old age.
This looks like a consequentialist argument for not trusting. If indeed it is so
it must be dismissed. Surely the truth of a belief cannot be decided on the
grounds of its consequences.
Another way of looking at it is this. Here one testimony is standing against
another, hence one simply has to believe in one and reject the other. The only
criterion by which Collins could make the choice is the characters of the two
men as he knows them. To believe Williams would imply seeing Falkland, and
life itself, in a completely new light. But Coli ins is refusing to enter the
deliberation at all, hence he does not treat its possible consequence as a criterion
of truth. If Williams should seem innocent Coli ins will, in any case, not be in a
position to assert it with integrity. Paradoxically, Coli ins's refusal to embark on
a discussion that will lead to nothing shows a kind of integrity-or whatever can
be left of it in the situation.
This suggests a conclusion in line with Godwin's radical convictions: no real
integrity may be possible when one man wields power over another. However,
it is obvious that similar conflicts of loyalties would occur even in radically
egalitarian societies. Coli ins sincerely admires his master. Our loyalty-our
refusal to entertain suspicions against those we love-is often a sign of moral
integrity. (In a sense, this case is opposite to the one mentioned by Sharpe:
integrity requires him not to trust Williams.)
One might reply that integrity requires us to look at every question on its own
merits. But then, our loyalties are part of the 'merits' at hand. Our relations to
38 CHAPTER 3

others in part decide what kinds of suspicion we can take seriously. I will return
to this in Chapter 6.
In brief, the 'decisions' involved here are not matters of simply deciding what
to do but they are judgments about what is the correct way of viewing a
situation. By definition, it is not up to us to decide what is correct.

3.4. Trust, Entrusting, and Contract

Annette Baier, too, frequently reminds us that we mostly cannot decide to trust
or distrust a person. Yet implicitly she must suppose that we can-if crucial parts
of her own enterprise are to make sense. She wants to work out criteria for the
classification of different cases of trust as 'sensible' or ill-advised. But the idea
of such criteria already implies that trust is to be seen as if it were subject to
decision. 18 Consequently, Baier sometimes speaks as if the dependence of
children on their parents (which clearly cannot be based on decision) were
essentially on the same footing as a housewife's economic dependence on the
husband-cum-bread-winner. 19
Baier takes entrusting to be the paradigm case for trusting?O However, she
fails to consider some crucial differences. In the normal case, entrusting involves
a decision. We typically entrust things to others when we think they are more
likely than ourselves to safeguard those things or make them flourish.
These decisions are, then, typically based on our previous trust in those whom
we entrust with our belongings. Entrusting may be called a policy decision but
it is logically preceded by a trust which is not a decision. We may try to assess
the different probabilities. This judgment, however, would not be a decision.
A similar point can be made about giving someone the benefit of a doubt. To
give someone the benefit of a doubt is to believe that he deserves it in some
way. The matter is one of making a judgment, not only one of deciding what to
do.
Suppose, for instance, that I decide to trust a stranger to keep an eye on my
luggage because he looks trustworthy. First of all, I will not decide how he looks

18Baier 1986,253-260. Baier cites similar objections by a reader for Ethics (257). Also see Baier's
other articles in Baier 1994, 130-202; e.g., p. 180.
19Baier 1986,246-247; Baier 1994: 113, 179-180, 199-200.
20 Apart from the fact that-as I tried to show in the first section-the description of trust as
entrusting seems strained in cases where we do not entrust people with specific items (Baier is
perhaps conscious of this difficulty but thinks it can be overcome-see Baier 1986, 238).
 ASYMMETRY 39

to me, that is a judgment I make about him. Secondly, this judgment itself is not
independent of the attitude I already have. It takes a certain context for 'looking
trustworthy' to be possible. I am entering a relationship where it makes sense to
see things like that as reasons for action. 'Looking trustworthy' (if that is to be
more than something like wearing a suit conventionally described as respectable)
is not a quality of personal appearance like baldness or racial features-a quality
that can be recognised independently of the situation. It cannot be pinned down
by pointing to unambiguous features of someone's face or demeanour. Another
observer may put the same features down to stupidity or good acting. Thus my
description of someone as 'looking trustworthy' may tell you as much about me
as about the stranger. My decision is based on the fact that I see him as someone
I may trust.
There may be deviant cases where we entrust others with things against our
own better judgment, perhaps somewhat like the example noted by Sharpe. (We
might also entrust others with things in order to test them. This is a special case
in which the word 'trust' is strained; on the other hand, the relation at hand may
later develop into a trustful one.)
Entrusting can be seen as an implicit or explicit form of contract, or mutual
promise. But as Baier, too, realises, contracts and promises involve a develop-
ment of trust, a sophistication. 21 Not in the sense that we can never make
contracts with people we do not trust; we might just as well say that contracts
are needed exactly because people are not always trustworthy. Yet the idea of a
contract presupposes a general expectation of trustworthiness concerning either
the other party or a third, coercive instance.
Contracts exist on their own, independently of perspective. Even if the con-
tracting parties may disagree about what they have signed, they can always have
recourse to the explicit wording. From the 'independent existence' of contracts
and promises it also follows that one may, without contradiction, imagine
deceitful cases-whereas there is no such thing as 'deceitful trust'.

3.5. Trust and Goods

In the light of this discussion, let me turn to a definition of 'trust' that is quickly
becoming the paradigm. It is proposed by Baier in 'Trust and Antitrust', a paper
that has been very influential. It is unclear from whose perspective she is giving

21 It involves, as Luhmann puts it, 'a technical reformulation of the principle of trust'. -Luhmann
1979, 34. Also see Baier 1986, 250.
40 CHAPTER 3

her description. My suggestion is that the subsequent confusions stem from this
ambiguity of her position.

When I trust another, I depend on her good will toward me. [... ) Where one depends on another's
good will, one is necessarily vulnerable to the limits of that good will. One leaves others an
opportunity to harm one when one trusts, and also shows confidence that they will not take it. [... )
Trust then, on this first approximation, is accepted vulnerability to another's possible but not expected
ill will (or lack of good will) toward one. 22

Baier herself makes use of her definition on several occasions, and very similar
analyses have recently been embraced by a number of scholars; the notions of
risk and vulnerability are central to them.23 To trust, according to Baier, is to
accept and endorse a vulnerable position in one's relation to the other; it is
'awareness of risk along with confidence that it is a good risk' .24 We entrust
someone else with some goods cherished by us-either things or people we care
about, or ourselves.
However, this definition cannot be right. It relies on a notion of risk taking
which is problematic in more than one way.
Life is full of situations where we trust others without risking very much or
anything at all. We go for walks and ask strangers to give us directions. The
risks are minimal. Baier might reply that if the risk is trivial or nonexistent we
cannot really speak of trust either. 25 However, speaking of a risk is problematic
in cases that surely cannot be dismissed as marginal.
A young husband kisses his wife goodbye. He is not anxious: if we ask him
he will tell us he knows she will be faithful to him. He trusts her. But what is
the risk he is taking?
His wife may sleep with someone else. Suppose she does. How is the young
husband, then, harmed? -She may infect him with something, of course... ?
-Or perhaps the harm consists in a psychological strain on their marriage? -In
that case, the unfaithful wife might prevent the harm by keeping him in the dark.

22Baier 1986, 235. Emphasis added.

23E.g., Luhmann 1988,97; Hart 1988, 188; Gambetta 1988,219. -Also see Govier 1992, 17;
1993a, 157; 10hnson 1993, 15. See my review of 10hnson (Lagerspetz 1995). Govier and 10hnson
draw on Baier and accept her definition more or less as it stands. Also Luhmann comes (in this
respect) quite close to Baier's analysis. Both emphasise the connection between trust and risk.
Luhmann sets forth conditions for when the word 'trust' is appropriate; but he seems to treat the
conditions as empirical facts about linguistic usage. See Luhmann 1979, 42.
24/bid., 236.
2510hnson draws this conclusion (1993, 90). 'Trust assumes the value of what is entrusted [... )
[otherwise) it is difficult to see how trust is involved here at all'.
 ASYMMETRY 41

-Finally, to give the argument a rule-utilitarian twist: the risk might be that she
grows into the habit of breaking her promises to him on other occasions as well;
on occasions that-unlike this one?-would be truly important.
There surely are marriages where such considerations come to the fore. But
in many marriages, going to bed with others is, in itself, a breach of trust quite
independently of connected risks. And even if disloyalty may result in some
independently recognisable loss it will be insensitive to claim that the husband's
hurt and grief are caused by that alone. 26 To receive misleading information is
not, in itself, a loss unless it results in some further harm; yet one may be hurt
by the mere fact that someone tells one a lie. The hurt that lies in being deceived
by someone one trusts can be recognised independently of any additional harm
produced by the deception.
Perhaps nothing is at risk here, apart from fidelity itself. But fidelity is not
a piece of goods. You cannot use it, or sell it.
Baier, who read my objections, replied that the risked 'goods' here consist of
the trustful relation itself.27 A good marital relation is, in itself, something to be
cherished. But either the argument is circular or Baier is now contradicting her
earlier definition of 'trust'.
If the relationship itself is seen as a valuable piece of 'goods' it will be
intelligible to ask why it is valuable (for not every relationship--e.g., one of
hate-is valuable in this way). The answer will either be that a good marriage
is valuable in itself or that it is valuable because it helps the husband safeguard
some other goods. But it was agreed that other goods are irrelevant in the present
case. Hence the relation is simply valuable in itself. But now we return to the
question in what sense the trustful relation constitutes a piece of valuable goods.
For instance, no explanation in terms of psychological well-being will do since
it will finally fall back on the fact that the husband sees the trustful relation as
valuable; and that is to be explained.
Now, by pain of circularity, we cannot say: 'The relation is valuable because
it helps the husband safeguard the relation itself. Hence, if we ask what are the
goods involved the answer will be: 'Nothing'. The relation cannot be construed
on the model of accepting a risk to valuable goods.

26Baier does not want to say this but it is hard to see how she can avoid it, given the obscurity
of her idea that the 'goods' consist of the trustful relation itself (see below). In Baier 1997a, she
indeed arguably does say it: according to her, a breach of trust always involves some particular loss,
e.g., having one's children turned against one.
27Baier 1997a.
42 CHAPTER 3

Besides, it seems odd to think that the husband, by trusting her wife, puts
their trustful relation at risk. Surely we should say, on the contrary, that the
trustful relation can survive only if the spouses continue to display this kind of
trust in each other.
We may speak of trust as involving a risk. But if we want to talk in that way
we must understand the word 'risk' in relation to betrayal, not in relation to inde-
pendently valuable 'goods' entrusted. To say that the husband has made himself
'vulnerable' is to say that it would be a betrayal-wrong-to take advantage of
him. But Baier-using the conceptual resources at her disposal-is unable to see
the notion of vulnerability for what it is here: the expression of an ethical
concern. The intelligibility of such talk depends on the listener's previous grasp
of the ethical import of trust, fidelity, and so on. Such an understanding is itself
constitutive of what the word 'risk' means here-hence speaking of a risk cannot
explain what it involves.

3.6. Possibility and Asymmetry

Baier's definition of trust also raises a deeper difficulty having to do with the
asymmetry of perspectives. The truster, says Baier, is vulnerable to the 'possible
but not expected ill will' of the trusted. What does the 'not expected' amount to?
The truster must be either excluding the possibility of betrayal altogether; or
finding it unlikely. The first alternative would mean not taking betrayal to be
possible, hence it is ruled out by the definition. We are left with the second al-
ternative: when I trust someone, I find betrayal unlikely but not out of the
question. I assign to it a certain (low) probability.z8 This is in accordance with
most of the existing literature. It is usually assumed that trust occupies the
middle of a continuum of assessed probabilities, with knowledge at one end and
mere guesswork at the other. According to this analysis, trusting involves an
element of uncertainty.29
But this is to distort trust in two ways in a single stroke. It makes trust
indistiguishable from a risky reliance on the good behaviour of others.
Alternatively, trusting is reduced to a kind of pretence: we know that betrayal is
possible but act as if it were impossible. 30

28 Ifwe are to believe Gambetta, p < 0.50. -Gambetta 1988,218.

29 E.g.,Gambetta, loc.cit.; DuBose 1995,43; Dasgupta 1988,51-52; Hart 1988, 188.
30 Also see a remark by Gambetta to this effect-Gambetta 1988, 234.
 ASYMMETRY 43

That these are distortions is beyond doubt. It is clearly not true that we only
trust a person when we think that she will possibly betray us. - I deliberately
said the young husband would claim to know his wife will be faithful. In fact,
if he told us he is 'taking a risk' our impression would be that he distrusts her.
'Accepted vulnerability' suggests awareness of risk-but if he trusts his wife there
is just nothing he has 'accepted'. From his own point of view, he does not find
his predicament particularly vulnerable. Of course, he might agree that he would
be taking a risk if he were to trust anyone else in that way. He does not take
betrayal to be possible while, at the same time, we can sometimes see that it is,
or might be.
We trust our friends, but to say that we take risks with them would be an odd
way to describe friendship. Willful exposure to danger can be anything from
courage to foolhardiness to curiosity-anything but trust. Certainly, readiness to
take risks is quite central to friendship and trust in another way. We should be
prepared to stick to those we love and face trouble for their sake. But this is not
to say that the friend we trust is herself a risk to our safety. We would dismiss
such a description off-hand. Conversely, a friend who generally thinks it is risky
to have dealings with me distrusts me.
Or take the related suggestion that we grant the trusted person 'power' over
ourselves or things we care about. In friendship, questions of power relations just
are not supposed to arise. The use of power in friendship is a problem, perhaps
a corruption-certainly not a defining feature of friendship.
Returning to the example in the previous chapter: when I let a trusted friend
sleep in my kitchen I will typically not be 'taking a risk'. This would be true
even if my guest subsequently attacked me with a kitchen knife. I would have
run a risk, not taken one. Furthermore, this is not to imply that my risk taking
is unconscious: 'unconscious risk taking' rather suggests mental disorder.
Something could, I guess, be said here by elaborating on the concept of possi-
bility: it is 'physically possible' for my friend to take a kitchen knife and kill me.
To this one might add the Humean idea that, roughly speaking, everything is
possible unless ruled out as logically inconsistent. But this would not resolve the
difficulty. By 'risk', we clearly mean more than just that something might
imaginably go wrong.
It is in fact doubtful whether speaking of a 'physical possibility', out of the
blue, makes sense at all. The suggestion of a possibility gets its sense in a
discussion where surrounding states of affairs are imagined as unchanged, or
changed in some ways but not others. If we imagine those-and-those things as
remaining the same we can imagine such-and-such new developments. But which
distributions of change v. remaining the same we will consider has not been
44 CHAPTER 3

determined in advance. And since-barring cases that involve logical

inconsistency-any given physical state of affairs can be imagined as either
changed or as unchanged (provided relevant changes in the surroundings) we
cannot classify imaginable changes tout court as 'physically possible' or
'physically impossible'. 31
Nothing is just 'possible'. A certain state of affairs being physically possible
is not itself a physical state of affairs. A state of affairs either does or does not
hold. The idea of a possibility, instead, gets its meaning in practical reasoning
of a certain kind. It is a function of our judgments about what kinds of inquiries,
efforts, or doubts are reasonable. It mirrors the fact that we perceive certain
obstacles or prohibitions as potentially 'standing in the way' of an action.
Saying it is possible for my friend to kill me involves the suggestion that she
may want to do it. To say it is possible for her not to kill me sounds even
odder. 32 Yet, according to a standard view among professional thinkers it should
not: if something is the case then, a fortiori, it should be possible as well. As
if the objects that actually exist were crystallisations of particularly strong
possibilities (p > .50).
A wife may find it impossible that her husband could be involved in a rape. 33
Now of course we could imagine that a man could commit a rape and then keep
it secret from his wife. However, this particular wife cannot imagine that her
husband would do such a thing. When the police question her about it she tells
them she knows it is impossible. Someone might suggest that she is just refusing
to cover all the possibilities. But from her point of view there is no further
possibility. She might just as well allow for the possibility that she committed
the rape in her sleep (that, too, may have been a physical possibility). -What
if she is deluded? -What if she is not? We can obviously imagine a story like
this where she is deluded. But then we can imagine one where she is not. On the
face of it, the one is no less plausible than the other. So why should we presume
in advance that her view of the situation must be the wrong one?
By saying it was 'possible' for the man to commit the rape, we mean
something like the following. The crime was committed by someone; this man's
guilt is compatible with reports by eyewitnesses, he does not have an alibi, and
so on. Hence, one must find out whether it was he. The police are expected to

31 This implies that Possible Worlds Semantics may be misleading in treating the actual world as
one possible world among many. It is rather the point of departure from which we go on to explore
its imaginable variations.
32 A point suggested by Ieuan Lloyd, in discussion.
33 An example from an unpublished manuscript by Lars Hertzberg.
 ASYMMETRY 45

cover the possibility whatever their own views of the matter. In this case, then,
the notion of a possibility gets its sense from the duty of the police to pursue a
line of investigation. The wife, instead, does not see a possibility where the
police should see one.
I am not suggesting here that we should side with the wife rather than the
police. The attitudes of both make sense in the situation. And note that there is
no neutral way for us to decide, in advance, who is right about the facts: all we
can do is wait and see what they turn out to be.
Baier's distortions here stem, it seems to me, from ignoring the asymmetry
I have been discussing. Note her switch of the pronoun in the passage quoted
earlier: "When I trust another, [.. .]. One leaves others an opportunity to harm one
when one trusts ... ". -Baier leaves it unclear from whose point of view she is
describing the situation.
This is why she has to incorporate mutually inconsistent elements in her
definition of 'trust'. On the one hand, to trust is not to suspect betrayal. On the
other hand, speaking of trust does not make sense except in relation to an
intelligible suggestion of betrayal. But the two points do not add up to the
conclusion that the person who trusts also, by definition, suspects betrayal.
Baier's confusion of the two perspectives gives trust the character of
something inherently inexplicable: knowing that betrayal is possible but acting
as if it was impossible. It strikes one, perhaps, as a courageous and romantic leap
into the unknown. The only explanation Baier can give to our preparedness to
trust others at all is that it must be innate-otherwise 'it would appear a miracle
that trust ever occurs'.34 I have said, on the contrary, that there is nothing special
about trusting since we do not think we are making ourselves vulnerable.

3.7. Conclusions

To sum up, then: trust is in the eye of the beholder. It is not 'there' as a neutrally
recognisable state of affairs-say, a psychological state. Rather, questions about
trust must arise in some way. This primarily happens in what I have called a
third-person perspective. The observer will describe someone's behaviour as
trustful only because he sees that there is conceivable room for suspicion. And
yet the suspicion itself is not part of the behaviour, state of mind, or attitude we
are, in the situation, characterising as trust. This means that 'the right answer'

34Baier 1986. 242. Emphasis added.

46 CHAPTER 3

to the question whether I trust someone cannot be given in the abstract,

regardless of perspective.
This might be seen as implying a disquieting 'lack of constancy' in our
concepts. That, however, is only a problem if symmetry between perspectives is
seen as the norm. That, I believe, is the outcome of a tacit assumption to the
effect that language is primarily descriptive, and that our descriptions should
ideally converge on a single point, i.e., a truth independent of perspective. If our
descriptions differ one might ask whose perspective is the correct one. In the
present case, however, it is more instructive to see our descriptions as tools of
human interaction.
To call someone's attitude one of trust is not simply to suggest a label for it.
Remember: most of the time our main concern, after all, is not that. We lead a
life with others; saying things is a way in which we cope with what that life
faces us with. It involves explaining and justifying action. Certainly, sometimes
pure description comes in as well, but just as one of the things we do with
language.
By using the word 'trust', I evoke a certain perspective on action; I invite
others to see a person's behaviour in a certain light. To use the word is to
represent her behaviour as expressive of a relation that perhaps now has been
broken; or kept in the face of trouble and temptation. To characterise a human
relation as trustful is to perceive it against the background of such risks. This
underlies the appeal of the idea that trust always means 'leaving oneself in
someone else's power'. The idea of risk does come in after all. That is-from an
observer's perspective.
The distinction between trusting and, as it were, simply living is, then, a
distinction between perspectives, not one between assigning different degrees of
probability to events.
In the previous chapter, it was argued that trust is not primarily something
going on in us. A description of what happens in the individual who trusts-how
she feels, etc.-is unimportant in abstraction from its role in her relations to
others. In the present chapter, I have argued that the lack of awareness and
reflection that usually characterises trust is not accidental, but essential to what
'trust' means.
These two themes-the impossibility of identifying a mental state for which
the word 'trust' always stands; and the fact that the word gets its meaning from
a contrast between two perspectives-connect in the following way. The fact that
a 'trustful state of mind' cannot be pinned down is a prerequisite for the fact that
trust exists only in the difference between first- and third-person perspectives. On
the other hand, it is because of this very dependence on perspective that one will
 ASYMMETRY 47
not be able to find anything 'objective' for which the word stands. In this way,
my two points merge into one.
 4

DOES TRUST PAY?

4.1. Trust and Reliance

The questions of how and when trusting can be rational have recently been
addressed by several writers.! By definition, trust seems to involve relying on
assumptions not 'sufficiently' warranted; and what is but another aspect of the
same thing, believing what others tell one for no other reason than that it is they
who say it. Such behaviour may seem to go against the grain of what is usually
meant by rationality. Is there some way to rescue trust for rationality, or must it
be dismissed as irrational?
While I think there is something misleading in this description, I believe it
is worthwhile to see how the question arises and how it is usually answered. The
fact that, if I am right, a satisfactory answer cannot be given in these terms will
raise important questions about the adequacy of received views of the relation
between rationality and social life. The criticism, in itself, is a helpful way of
introducing positive observations about the topic.
It will be helpful to start by making a distinction between trust and
reliance-originally coming from Lars Hertzberg? To rely on others is to
exercise judgment concerning the reasonableness of depending on them for some
particular purpose. The judgment will take account of the risks and possible
benefits involved, in the light of what one knows about the other person's
competence, disposition, and so on. This is not to imply that all cases of reliance
are outcomes of explicit reasoning. The point is that they can be assessed in
terms of such reasoning. Thus, for instance, the fact that we rely on the mail to
deliver a parcel can be seen as justified (or hasty) in the light of considerations
about our earlier experience, the value of the items, and the other available
options. Similarly, for instance, earlier experience may make it reasonable for us
to rely on a particular watch to keep time.
The difference between reliance and trust proper is that, insofar as we trust
a person, we do not consider the possibility that she might deliberately let us

ISaier 1986, 1989; Gambetta 1989 (also several other papers included in the volume); Govier
1993a, 1993c.
2Hertzberg 1988,312. Also see Giddens 1991, 19.
 DOES TRUST PA Y? 49

down. True, we may realise that she may be unable to keep her promises in
unforeseen circumstances; however, that would not, as such, count as betrayal.
The distinction between trust and reliance does not always coincide with our
use of the corresponding words. For instance, we might say we trust the weather
not to let us down without implying anything more than reliance based on earlier
experience. Nevertheless it is important to see the distinction.
However, my argument here will be to the effect that most philosophers fail
to do so. Moreover, it seems to me that the very idea of assessing trust in terms
of rationality will, in itself, involve running together the concepts of trust and
reliance.

4.2. The Dilemma

Issues of predictability have been central in most contemporary discussions of

trust. According to a rather widely held consensus, trust is based on predictive
beliefs or expectations concerning the future behaviour of others. Sometimes trust
is equated with an assumption of predictability. I can trust the Cretan liar (who
is 'as informative as a knowledgeable saint') as long as I can interpret his
messages correctly.] But it is agreed that at least normally, '[w]hen we say we
trust someone or that someone is trustworthy, we implicitly mean that the
probability that he will perform an action that is beneficial or at least not
detrimental to us is high enough for us to consider engaging in some form of
cooperation with him'.4 -According to Hobbes,

[tlo have faith in, or trust to, or beleeve a man, signify the same thing; namely, an opinion of the
veracity of the man.'

On the other hand, however, trust is-

a Passion proceeding from the Belief of him from whom we expect or hope for Good, so free from
Doubt that upon the same we pursue no other Way to attain the same Good."

)Dasgupta 1988, 52.

4Gambetta 1988, 217. A similar position is explicitly stated in the following contributions to the
volume edited by Gambetta: Dasgupta 1988,51; Good 1988,33; Hart 1988, 186-187; Pagden 1988,
129; Williams 1988, 8.-AIso see Govier 1993a; Baier 1986, 235; 10hnson 1933, 15. E1ster, like
Hobbes in the Leviathan, equates trust with the belief in the other party's credibility.
'Hobbes 1651/1985, 31
"Hobbes 1840, 44.
50 CHAPTER 4

So trust either is a belief, or it is a cooperative disposition proceeding from it.

There is a connection, of course: what we believe to be the likely course of
events will determine what we are prepared to do. -Hobbes's account is echoed
by a modem psychologist:

[Tjrust is based on an individual's theory on how another person will perform on some future
occasion, as a function of that target person's current and previous claims, either implicit or explicit,
as to how they will behave.

The term 'theory' is used very loosely here, and nothing particular rests upon its choice. The terms
'lay theory', 'lay conception', 'set of beliefs', and the like would do just as well if they were as short. 7

Speaking of a theory highlights the fact that trust typically springs from
something we assume rather than know. Trust occupies the middle of a scale
ranging from unsubstantiated guesses and wishful thinking to positive knowledge.
At the safest extreme, there is what Bemard Williams calls 'thick' trust, i.e., trust
between individuals who know each others' character and disposition. s But the
authors discussed here agree that some element of uncertainty must be present
in order for the 'theory' (or disposition based on it) to count as trust.
When should we, then, treat a theory as warranted? A short answer is: when
there are reasons to think it likely to be true.
According to what most, if not all, the writers discussed here would say, how
firmly we are to hold a theory will normally be somewhat proportionate to the
amount of available evidence. 'Reasonable trust', Annette Baier claims, 'will
require good grounds for such confidence in another's goodwill, or at least the
absence of good grounds for expecting their ill will or indifference'.9 As another
writer puts it,

you do not trust a person (or agency) to do something because he says he will do it. You trust him
only because, knowing what you know of his disposition, his available options and their
consequences, his ability and so forth, you expect that he will choose to do it. His promise must be
credible. That is why we like to distinguish 'trusting someone' from 'trusting someone blindly', and
think the latter to be ill-advised. JO

7000d 1988, 33 and note 2. Also see DuBose 1995, 30.

KWilliams 1988. -Sometimes the word 'confidence' is preferred for beliefs that rest on evidence:
Hart 1988, 197.
YBaier 1986, 236.
JODasgupta 1988, 50-51.
 DOES TRUST PAY? 51

But this takes us to the heart of the problem. It now seems as if there could only
be unreasonable cases of trusting.
We treat theories as substitutes for knowledge, not as the real thing. And we
'expect rational persons to seek evidence for their beliefs and to offer that
evidence to others'." Yet-as those writing on the subject agree-trust is
frequently expressed in, and referred to as a justification of, the fact that we do
not seek evidence.
Even worse, trust seems resistant to evidence that runs counter to it. If a
friend is accused of a crime we may naturally trust her word in the face of what
may, to others, appear as incriminating evidence.'2 The preservation of trust
therefore involves a 'confirmation bias, and a general cognitive inertia,.'3 The
choice of words reinforces the idea that an intellectual deficiency is involved.
Sometimes I do have the evidence leading to acquittal, in which case no
problem arises. However, those cases can now be left on one side. No trust is
required here since we know the truth. But a friend whom I 'trust' only to the
extent that there is evidence of her trustworthiness could reasonably enough
accuse me of distrust. -In this way, '[t]rust rests on illusion. In actuality, there
is less information available than would be required to give assurance of success.
The actor willingly surmounts to this deficit of information'. '4 Trust involves, as
it were, a leap that cannot be accounted for.
If we go along with the views presented here, trust will now either appear as
something very ill-advised or as pointless. The authors agree that to trust a
person is to hold a theory about her future conduct. But rationally, we should not
hold a theory unless it is likely to be true. Hence, we should not trust anyone
unless we know how she is likely to behave. But if we already know, trust is
redundant-or indeed, excluded by definition: for it is agreed that trusting
involves going beyond or against the available evidence. So we are enjoined to
trust only when it is either redundant or impossible.'s
That is not a conclusion that those writing on the subject generally want to
embrace. Hence they look for other ways of rescuing trust for rationality. Can
there be a reason why we may sometimes be rationally justified in trusting, in
spite of the lack of relevant evidence?

llGambetta 1988,233. Also see, e.g., Hart 1988, 187.

12Baker 1987, 5; Gambetta 1988, 227-228. The example comes from Baker, pp. 3-6. -However,
there is in fact something problematic about the notion of evidence considered in abstraction from
the human relationship; but more of this later.
l1Good 1988,43.
14Luhmann 1979,32.
l'lbid., 78-79; Gambetta 1988, 233; Hawthorn 1988, 112, 114.
52 CHAPTER 4

4.3. Why Then Trust At All?

A natural response is to undertake to show that trusting 'pays'. The favoured

solution is to construe trust as risk taking. Even in the absence of 'sufficient' in-
formation about the likely behaviour of others, taking certain risks with them can
serve the individual's interests.
Philosophers, psychologists and economists have recently turned to theories
of rational choice for answers of this form. There is now a wide literature on
idealised decision making situations like The Prisoner's Dilemma. 16 The authors
tend to view their application rather ambitiously. Thus, Ion Elster writes, '[t]o act
rationally is to do as well for oneself as one can. [... ] In fact, once one has come
to appreciate [game theory] fully, it appears not to be a theory in the ordinary
sense, but the natural, indispensable framework for understanding human inter-
action,.'7 What is true is that game theory, far from being an isolated genre, is
a formalisation of views that go largely unquestioned in many philosophical
contexts.
The use of game theory might seem to suggest that everything we do really
is 'selfish'; this may in fact account for some of its popular appeal. We tend to
enjoy it when apparently noble motives are shown up for what they really are;
perhaps, because encounters with genuine selflessness uncomfortably expose our
own frailty. However, in game theory the content of the individual player's
preferences-e.g., their selfish or unselfish character-is unimportant. What one
must assume, however, is that the player's preferences are, as it were, purely hers.
They are basically independent of her relation to the other player. This way of
seeing social life has close connections with economic theory. On the whole, we
are presented with a view of human interaction modelled on a market where
agents meet to reconcile their respective, preexistent preferences.
In The Prisoner's Dilemma, the players may choose between two moves,
usually labelled 'cooperation' and 'defection'. While the score of each individual
player depends both on his own choice and on that of the other party, neither of
the two knows in advance what the other will do. With the players A and B, the
possible outcomes for A are, in descending order of desirability: A defects, B
cooperates; > A cooperates, B cooperates; > A defects, B defects; > A

16For a description of the game and an overview, see Pruitt & Kimmel 1976. Also see Good 1988,

31-48. For a critical description of the Prisoner's Dilemma, see Grant 1993, 425-430. For some other
games, see, e.g., Elster 1991, Cudd 1993, Hollis 1994, 115-141.
I7Elster 1989, 28.
 DOES TRUST PAY? 53

cooperates. B defects. It follows that defection by A will pay, for A, whenever

B cooperates. If B is not cooperating, it will likewise be unprofitable for A to do
so. Since both know this, it follows further that both players will defect and
expect the other to defect. But this yields, for both, an outcome that is inferior
to what would be produced by mutual cooperation.
According to a standard interpretation of the Prisoner's Dilemma, the players'
lack of mutual trust will prevent cooperation and consequently result in a
suboptimal outcome for both players.
The point has important economic applications. Generally, it seems that all
economic activities require a certain atmosphere of trust in order to flourish.
Francis Fukuyama suggests that classical economic theory explains only 80% of
economic behaviour while the rest must be accounted for in terms of culture.
That is a metaphor at best, and a bad one at that: as his own work demonstrates,
a cultural background is crucial to any economic exchange. It is noted by
Fukuyama that cultural variations in patterns of trusting result in far-reaching
differences in patterns of economic development. 18 For instance, in regions where
entrepreneurs are reluctant to trust non-family members as partners, businesses
rarely grow beyond a certain size. The atmosphere of trust, however, is
dependent on the wider society within which economic activities are carried out.
The growth of, say, the u.s. economy was built on networks of religious
affiliation rather than all-out competition for profit; its continued success may
depend on the maintenance of analogous social structures.
On this type of analysis, trust is what economists call an externality: the
market requires it in order to work efficiently. It is 'an important lubricant of a
social system. It is extremely efficient; it saves a lot of trouble to have a fair
degree of reliance on other people's word' .19 Yet externalities cannot be produced
by a market or anything analogous to it. While it is good for us on the whole
that a general atmosphere of trust should prevail, it is not in the interest of any
one individual to be trustworthy if he can get away with defection. Hence it will
not be advisable for any other individual to trust him either.
Some research suggests, however, that patterns of cooperation might
spontaneously arise under certain conditions. The iterated Prisoner's Dilemma
was studied in a well-known experimental work by Robert Axelrod who pitted
different computer programmes against one another. 20 The game was continued
for a large number of rounds, giving the 'players' a chance to react to each others'

IXFukuyama 1995.
I'! Arrow 1974, 23. Also see p. 16. -The passage was pointed out to me by leuan Williams.
20 Axe1rod 1984.
54 CHAPTER 4

previous moves in the next round (,punishing' 'noncooperative' moves). It was

established that a strategy of tit-for-tat with a 'cooperative' first move will tend
to yield the highest score for the individual player. In the long, if not short run,
moderate 'cooperativeness' is more advantageous than straight 'egoism'. This
claim is strengthened on the flank by applications in psychology and modem
evolutionary theory.21 We could imagine coinciding 'cooperative' strategies first
emerging by chance and then stabilising in a game played by two rationally self-
interested agents.
What is the application of this? The Prisoner's Dilemma can illustrate, say,
aspects of the nuclear arms race-though it might be asked why one would use
the model instead of analysing the political and military situation directly.
Axelrod gives another interesting real-life example: the cooperation of 'live and
let live' between enemy soldiers, stationed in opposite trenches in the First World
war. Daily routines of unofficial ceasefires emerged.
These commonly cited examples of successful application of the Prisoner's
Dilemma come, of course, from relations between enemies and may look like
unlikely candidates to illustrate friendship. (Besides, ifAxelrod had focussed on
relations within the troops on one side he should, instead, have defined
persistence in fighting as 'cooperation' and the unofficial ceasefires as
'defection'-as the military leadership no doubt did. This highlights the fact that
the desirability of cooperation depends on who cooperates and for what purpose).
In any case, game theorists have lost no time in pointing out similarities
between cooperation due to strategic reasons and cooperation expressive of trust.
According to Diego Gambetta, the results indicate that there is-

a powerful set of reasons why [ ... ] a basic disposition to trust can be perceived and adopted as a
rational pursuit even by moderately forward-looking egoists. [ ... ] [I]t can be rewarding to behave as
if we trusted even in un promising situations'.22

Let p be the perceived probability of cooperation. It may be rational to-

trust trust and distrust distrust, that is, to choose deliberately a testing value of p which is both high
enough for us to engage in tentative action, and small enough to set the risk and scale of disappoint-
ment acceptably low. 2]

21Bateson 1988. Also see Good 1988,35; Dawkins 1989,203-227.

22Gambetta 1988, 228. Emphasis in the original.
23 lbid., 234.
 DOES TRUST PAY? 55
Consequently, several authors-game theorists and others--converge in recom-
mending a form of Pascal's wager. Despite our inability to establish the
trustworthiness of others, the belief itself has outcomes of great utility?4
In this way, trust can be seen as justified in terms of the individual's rational
pursuit of interests. The advisability of trusting will chiefly depend on two
variables: the perceived likelihood of defection and the value of what is at stake.
The argument may either be thought of as providing a local, or a global
justification of trusting (or both)?5
A local justification of trusting in these terms would imply that the individual
decision whether or not to trust the other party may in principle be assessed by
balancing the available evidence against the value of what is at stake. When the
costs of disappointment are tolerable the agent may justifiably rely on the other's
goodwill even if the available evidence falls significantly short of warranting
certainty.
For instance, Trudy Govier says this, adding that the deliberation should 'in
some cases' be tempered by 'ethical or prudential considerations' which are
somehow superimposed. 26 According to her, trust can be slight, moderate, or
complete. 27 'To accept a man's help carrying packages across a busy street', she
suggests, 'a woman needs to trust him, but slight trust will be enough-unless the
packages contain exceedingly valuable items'.28
A global justification of trusting, on the other hand, would not imply
committing oneself to the view that justifications of this type are applicable to
individual cases of trusting. However, it would involve the claim that a general
preparedness to trust others contributes significantly to human well-being.

4.4. Critique of the Local lust!fication

However-any use of Pascal's wager must face an obvious objection. The fact
that it is advisable for me to act as if I believed something is no good ground for
holding that belief. 29 The argument can only give me reasons to act as if I
believed that the other person is trustworthy.

24Adler 1994,274; Baker 1988, 10; Gambetta 1988,235; Govier 1993a, 169; Pagden 1988, 129.
2'This was pointed out by an anonymous reader.
2('Govier 1993a, 167-168.
27/bid., 157.
2x/bid ., 167.
2YSee Baker 1988, 6.
56 CHAPTER 4

Another way of taking the argument would be to say that 'trusting is acting
as if you believed' and to think that Pascal's wager gives you reason to do that.
But that would be portraying trust as a form of pretence. The fact that two
attitudes sometimes produce similar behaviour does not show that they are the
same. As most of the writers dicussed here recognise, trusting involves genuinely
taking the other to be trustworthy. And Pascal's wager cannot yield a sufficient
justification of those cases. Considerations about risk taking can only motivate
risk taking, not trusting.
We may indeed say that the whole enterprise of justifying trust in this way
is a bit like trying to decide when it is useful to fall in love. A relation of
trust-as opposed to one of reliance-is characterised by the fact that strategic
or prudential considerations cannot motivate it at all. Insofar as I think there is
room for considering the risk of defection I am already displaying my distrust.
If I trust a person I simply will not think such considerations are relevant. Trust
leaves strategy redundant and vice versa. 3D
We are back at a point where trust must be dismissed either as stupid (when
'ill-advised') or as trivial (when 'sensible'). Again, this is not a conclusion that the
writers addressing the topic wish to subscribe to.
It might be suggested that I am dismissing justifications of trust in terms of
sensible risk taking just because I am arbitrarily siding with the first person?
From a third-person perspective, we will be able to see that certain trustful
relations are advisable while others involve intolerable risks (and after all, parents
will typically have opinions about whether it is sensible of their child to fall in
love). -But here a general point must be made about the idea of a justification.
Justifying one's conduct belongs to practical reasoning. By 'practical
reasoning', we primarily mean inferences that lead to action. Obviously, not all
justificatory reasoning has consequences for subsequent action (even if reasoning
in a sense already is action). Yet speaking of practical reasoning here highlights
the fact that the intelligibility of the idea of a justification is bound up with the
fact that justifications may be invoked as reasons for acting.
To give a justification is to produce intelligible reasons for engaging in the
relevant activity; or it is to tell someone what might make one do it, or to
explain what it means to the one who does it. Of course, similar accounts may
be given in cases where we describe the motives of someone's actions without

lOKenneth Arrow has an inkling of the problem-but no more than that-when he writes, Tu]n-
fortunately [trust] is not a commodity that can be bought very [!] easily. If you have to buy it, you
already have some doubts about what you've bought'. -Arrow 1974, 23.
liThe question was raised by a reader for this series.
 DOES TRUST PAY? 57

wishing to imply that there was a justification for them: the response was
intelligible in view of the circumstances, but not justified by them. Thus
justifying an action involves a suggestion of intelligible motives plus the further
claim that those motives are acceptable.
A justification, then, is roughly of the form, 'She did it (does it) because... ;
and you might have done the same (or should consider doing it)'. It must, then,
primarily be given from a first-person perspective; i.e., it must be such that it
could be accepted, as a description of her motives, by the person who is going
to embark on the relevant course of action.
But here we return to a point made in the previous chapter: trusting cannot
be a subject of decision or planning in any normal sense. The person who trusts
another will not invoke an additional justification for her trust since it is enough
for her to say that there is no risk of betrayal. She might agree that various
additional considerations may seem to justify her conduct in the eyes of others
who do not trust; but she could never truthfully embrace the justification as an
explanation of her motives.
And what holds for her holds for us all. We could never think that
considerations about risk taking justify our own case of trusting. It follows that
we cannot imagine that they could truly justify anyone's case-since it is hard
to see in what sense something might 'justify' an action if it had no connection
at all to the way the agent herself thinks about what she is doing. So we are left
with a 'justification' that could neither motivate nor explain nor be a truthful de-
scription of a single instance of the sort of action it is meant to justify.
The general problem is not that the justification is offered in terms of self-
interest. The argument stands regardless of what the justifying considerations are
taken to be. As soon as we cite something other than the mere fact that the other
party is trustworthy we will be implying that the relation to be considered is
something other than truSt. 32
The frustrating conclusions reported earlier in this chapter are a direct con-
sequence of this. The very act of producing a justification of the required kind
would involve a construal of trust as something else.

12lohnson (1993, 102) makes, it seems to me, an analogous mistake without suggesting that trust
can be justified in tenns of self-interest. He describes a short story by Henry lames. There a man
trusts a woman, according to lohnson, because he sees in trust 'a moral virtue whose value is
intrinsic, sufficient in itself. But this suggests, it seems, that his trust is not genuine; perhaps, that
he has decided to reserve judgment and give her a chance to earn his trust. This is to misconstrue the
original story where the man trusted her instantly.
58 CHAPTER 4

4.5. Critique of the Global Justification

The writers discussed here do not agree about everything. Annette Baier is
critical of the use of game theory in moral and political philosophy.33 She sees
its overrated position as symptomatic of a general malaise: the urge to reduce all
moral relations to hypothetical contracts between minimally trusting, minimally
trustworthy adults-or adolescents. Baier objects to the fact that the 'players' are,
as a matter of course, taken to be self-interested and independent. Such
approaches throw no light on the dependence of children on their parents, the
parents' duty to take care of them, or on any other ways in which human beings
are necessarily dependent on others without ever having contracted to be so.
Baier also observes that, provided general criteria for acceptable cases of
trusting were found, it might still prove difficult or impossible to apply the
criteria to individual cases. 34 Unlike many game theorists she is, then, sceptical
of the idea of a local justification of trust. However, she holds that trusting can
generally, with a view to the overall yields, be endorsed as a rational pursuit. 35
One can produce a global, if not local, justification.
The Global Justification view can, however, be criticised on two counts.
First, it may be argued that a global justification is redundant if it can never
be applied to individual cases. Hence any acceptable global justification would
be vulnerable to the same objections as the local justification. Second, the idea
of justifying such an integral part of human life looks, in itself, problematic. The
alternative-i.e., a life that involves no trusting relationships-would be
impossible for us to assess.
Starting with the first point. In order for me to see an argument as a
justification of the way I live I must be able to see how it could make a
difference at least to something I do. Just to say that people should 'generally' act
in certain ways amounts to nothing unless one can specify what it means in
practice. A global justification that works can be cashed out in terms of how an
agent could apply it to some particular situation. 36
Reliance can be justified in that way. The maxim 'if you never take risks you
never get anything done' may motivate me to take some particular risk. Here a

33Baier 1986. She later discusses Gambetta and some other essays in his collection, but without
directly linking her discussion of them to criticism of game theory and quasi-contractual accounts of
social life (Baier 1994, 183-202).
34Baier 1994: 141-142,151, 179-181.
35 Baier 1986, 236; 1994, 145-146. For similar views, see, e.g., Baker 1987, 8.

30 A parallel point about the relation between strategy and justice is made by Phillips (1964-5). Cf.
Foot 1967.
 DOES TRUST PAY? 59

'global' justification of reliance gives me a reason to adopt a particular course of

action. But in the previous section, it was argued that corresponding examples
of individual cases cannot be produced when trust is concerned.
-'If you never trust anyone you never get anything done' may motivate
reliance. -'If you never trust anyone your life will be empty and meaningless'
inspires trust in me if, by that remark, I am brought to abandon my earlier
suspicions and to look at life in a new way. It cannot make me trust unless I do
abandon them. But a consideration of the emotional or material rewards does not,
in itself, show my suspicions to be groundless.
Someone might suggest that a global justification could, at any rate, give us
reasons to be slightly more trusting than we tend to be, provided we live
approximately the sort of lives we now do. Could we not say that it would be in
one's rational interest generally to be a kind of person who trusts in such-and-
such circumstances; and that we can try to turn ourselves into such
persons-without that suggesting that there is room for reasoning about the
rationality of particular cases of trusting?37
But this brings in difficulties about the subjective assessment of risks.
Negligent and overcautious persons will perceive the relevant risks differently.
Which assessment was the correct one can, however, only be appreciated after
the fact. Thus even if it seems plausible to say that we should, on the whole,
avoid being overcautious, it is left to our judgment to decide what counts as
exaggerated caution.
What would we do in order to argue someone into a more trustful attitude?
A normally suspicious person would agree with us that some people (perhaps
very few and very seldom), are worth trusting; the disagreement would be about
how often it is so. For our part, we would argue that people just seem to be more
trustworthy than he tends to think; we might here be discussing mutual friends
or relatives about whose character we disagree. We might tell him of unexpected
glimpses of goodwill and integrity encountered by us; he in turn might give us
examples of the contrary. We might then tell our interlocutor that his suspicions
cause him to miss out on important rewards. But he may reply that he simply
prefers safety; he only wants the company of those he knows he can trust. That
is all. We might now try to get the man to see that he judges situations
differently from many other people; i.e., that he is an uncommonly suspicious
kind of person. But he might just take that to demonstrate the nai"vete of others.
-The problem is not simply that our interlocutor is refusing to participate in
activities which we think would pay. His whole perception of the situation is

)7 A question raised by David Cockburn.

60 CHAPTER 4

different from ours. In the end, the outcome will depend on whether he is
prepared to adopt our point of view; that is, to take us on trust.
This is not to say there is no room for reasoning here-I have just given
examples of such reasoning. But 'reasoning', in this context, is not a matter of
assessing strategies but one of producing persuasive samples that inspire a certain
way of looking at life. Whether or not we are successful in producing conviction,
this remains the reasonable and appropriate thing to do in cases of conflict. 38
It is certainly true that our ability to trust others produces many kinds of
material, as well as emotional, rewards. Nor should we deny that the life of a
paranoiac would strike us (that is, those of us who are not paranoiacs) as in
many ways impoverished. But we should not think that trust could be motivated
by the desire to avoid such impoverishment. And insofar as it is correct to say
that a justificatory argument is based on a conception of what could intelligibly
motivate action, it must be concluded that trust cannot be justified by an appeal
to such considerations. 39
Once again we are left with a 'justification' that bears no intelligible relation
at all to practical reasoning.
My second main objection has to do with the fact that virtually all social life
will, in one way or another, necessarily involve some preparedness to trust. 40 The
justification of our general preparedness to trust others would, in other words,
amount to no less than a justification of the fact that we are social beings.
Whether such a justification would make sense is a question of dispute.
According to Baier, it is generally a good thing that we live a life that
involves trust. Most of the goods that matter to us cannot be produced or pro-
tected unless we are prepared to trust others to contribute. But here Baier can be
accused of relapsing to a version of the position she is critical of. This is still the
standard view of economists and game theorists: trust as an 'externality' in the
production of 'goods'.
The argument remains independently of what the goods are taken to be. Baier
wants to include 'intrinsically shared goods' like conversation, theatre, or political
life. 41 She appears to think that this is the main difference between her and the
game theorists.

JKThis point is made, it prop os of religious disagreement, by Whittaker (1996, 207).

wPerhaps I am being too restrictive about the word 'trust'. In any case, the point is that there are
a number of important cases for which we could not imagine a justification, without that implying
that they must be irrational.
4('As observed, e.g., by Baier (1986).
41Baier 1986, 236. -For the idea that the entrusted goods might consist of the trustful relation
itself, see my discussion in Chapter 3.
 DOES TRUST PA Y? 61

First of all, one may object that the desirability of intrinsically shared goods
is not as compelling as Baier thinks. Cooperation, in itself, is not valuable
regardless of what it is for. The goods created by trust also include conspiracies,
wars, famine, concentration camps, and so on.42 We are faced with the
formidable task of assessing the overall balance.
But let us grant that the balance, for us, is positive. If we never trust others
we will not be able to satisfy our needs of conversation, theatre, political life,
and so on. -But then, clearly, social life as we know it would be beyond the
reach of a being that does not sometimes trust (and sometimes distrust) others.
So would a creature of that kind have needs for conversation, etc.?
In the present context, 'human well-being' must, of course, be understood in
a way that does not beg the question. Thus the analysis cannot start with the
assumption that the ability to trust others, to have conversations, and so on,
already is one aspect of what we mean by well-being. Rather, one needs to
produce an argument for those not already convinced.
We must either suppose that the social needs Baier has in mind are created
by a life that already involves trust; or suppose that non-trusting beings would
have them before engaging in social life. In the first case-if a discussion like
this is intelligible at all-it would seem that the emergence of new needs should
rather count against participation in social life. In the second case, one must
explain why non-social beings would have social needs. Just postulating them
will not do. It seems that the non-trusting creature's need of 'intrinsically shared
goods' would have to be reduced to the fact that those goods somehow help him
meet some other, strictly individual needs. Which finally makes Baier's position
indistinguishable from that of the game theorists.
Summing up: while one can (possibly) imagine a global justification of
reliance, arguments of that kind could not conceivably produce a justification of
trusting. Our general readiness to trust others is susceptible of rational
justification if and only if the very fact that we are social beings can be so
justified.

4.6. Is It Useful to Be a Social Being?

This takes us to central questions addressed in current moral and political

philosophy.

42See Sharpe 1996, 188.

62 CHAPTER 4

The quest for a rational justification of trusting is the offshoot of a philo-

sophical enterprise that has been on the agenda ever since Hobbes derived 'the
laws of nature' from the individual's pursuit of pleasure and avoidance of pain.43
It is that of providing justifications for the existence of society (or calling for a
reform of it) in terms of individual rational preferences. In the context, justifying
society and explaining the intelligibility of its existence come down to more or
less the same thing: both make an appeal to a description of human motives in
terms of rational preferences. I am not suggesting that all the writers discussed
in this chapter would see this as a viable line of investigation, but this is the road
we must travel if we think there can be a global justification of trusting.
The trouble with Hobbes is not simply that he, in some sense at least,
claimed that the ultimate human motives must be selfish. Possibly, there is room
for moral criticism of him on those grounds; but then it seems to me that
someone might also, on moral grounds, criticise the idea that, e.g., our moral
concerns are justified by our altruistic preferences-as Kant came close to
doing. 44
My misgivings stem from the form of the analysis. Similar objections apply
whatever the justifying individual preferences are taken to be-including the
well-being of a group or institution. The analysis that I am sceptical about runs
as follows.
We are invited to see why an organised society is needed by first describing
life as it would be if there was no society. Classical political philosophers capture
this vividly in the idea of a state of nature but it can be done in other ways as
well. Thus we start by envisaging a human being who is, as it were, socially
innocent; to presuppose that he is already social would be begging the question.
As long as this individual does not reach out to others he is assumed to be
philosophically unproblematic. Once he does, a reason is required. (We are now
discussing the intelligibility of social life as a whole, not only, e.g., that of
altruistic behaviour). The explanation must be given in terms of the individual's
preferences since these make her actions intelligible. The preferences in question
might be selfish or altruistic; the important thing is that they are preferences.
However, the problem with this is that the terms in which any explanation
or justification is given should not presuppose what is being explained. Hence

4JHobbes 165111985. ch. 14-15. Here I am assuming the interpretation of Hobbes put forward in
the first chapter. -This section has profited from Peter Winch's seminar on political authority at the
University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, Autumn 1990.
44Kant, GMS, 10-11. Kant's point is that the categorical character of morality is lost if one takes
morality to be dependent on anyone's (contingent) preferences whatever those may be.
 DOES TRUST PAY? 63

we must suppose that the preferences of the individual in question can be

described without making reference to social life. But obviously we cannot
describe an actual individual's most important preferences without somehow
referring to his friends, to his job, his family, the books he reads ... -in brief, to
organised social life. If, on the other hand, we settle for a description that makes
no reference to such elements we are left with a being that has no obvious points
of contact with how we live; hence it is unclear what conclusions we should
draw from the description.
Another way to put the point is this. The enterprise rests on a simplified
notion of preferences. The paradigm is something like a man who is to choose
between tea, coffee, and chocolate. His choice of coffee is accounted for by his
particular, subjective tastes. By definition, we have reached rock bottom. His
tastes are what justifies the choice. There is nothing we could say to criticise this
since his choice is a matter of subjective preferences.
However, ex hypothesi, we are here excluding considerations such as: the
coffee is Nescafe and should be boycotted; or, no one else is having coffee and
it would be selfish of you to have your host prepare it just for you. Here we
might say that your original preference for coffee should be overruled by other
considerations. But 'the original preference' counted as the rock bottom only
because no other consideration was allowed, i.e., because the choice was
originally portrayed as trivial.
Furthermore, your choice was already limited by various circumstances. You
went to this tea party and were presented with a few items to choose from. But
what about having sex with the hostess instead? -Your original preference was,
then, to go to the party and choose one of the items offered; which implies regard
for others, social conventions, and so on.
The point is that the individual's preferences can be represented as the rock
bottom of justificatory reasoning only if the choices involved are assumed to be
trivial. The special status of preferences evaporates as soon as anything
interesting is introduced. When the choice is not trivial our preferences, too, are
expressions of the ways in which we think; hence they are susceptible of
discussion and criticism like everything else.
Preferences obviously often have some importance as starting points of
justificatory reasoning. Everything else being equal, we should opt for solutions
that satisfy the preferences of those involved. We may say that human beings,
as such, deserve that their preferences are taken seriously. This is one way of
showing respect for the autonomy of others. But by invoking respect we already
posit a moral relation between ourselves and the beings we are discussing. We
do not say that animals have a prima facie right to the food of their choosing,
64 CHAPTER 4

nor that a drop of water deserves to flow unimpeded. Thus the importance of
preferences is not the ground of moral obligation but an expression of it.
In the present case, we are invited to look at the preferences of non-social
beings. But while there is probably nothing controversial about non-social beings
having preferences, they will lack crucial, distinctively human preferences and
needs. Again we get the question of why we should be concerned about them any
more than about any other non-human species.
A life with no role for trust whatsoever would be radically different from the
way we live and can hardly be called human. It might be more like the life of
cats or orang-outangs. But then, we do not trust others in order not to be orang-
outangs. We may well imagine a way of life-and not an unhappy one-where
neither trust nor distrust has a role. Our relations to other individuals of the same
species would be largely accidental. Something like this was sketched out by
Rousseau, in Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, as the state of nature. 45 His
conceptual point was that the very problems to which social life has been
represented as a solution are only conceivable in the context of a life that is
already social. On the whole, it is perplexing to ask whether it is a good thing
that we should be social-and not because the answer is too self-evident even to
be worth stating.
The fact that a rational justification is not forthcoming does not imply that
it is irrational to trust others and to live a social life. These are aspects of our
rationality (as well as our irrationality!), not something to be justified by
rationality; this is a point to be elaborated in the following chapters.

45Rousseau 1987, 1 p. 52. Rousseau is taking up an argument against Hobbes: 'I know that we are
repeatedly told that nothing would have been so miserable as man in that state [... ]. But if we under-
stand the word miserable properly, it is a word which is without meaning or which signifies merely
a painful privation and suffering of the body or the soul. Now I would very much like someone to
explain to me what kind of misery can there be for a free being whose heart is at peace and whose
body is in good healthT -Cf. Hobbes 165111985, ch. 13, p. 62. The relation between Hobbes and
Rousseau has been discussed by Peter Winch (in Winch 1972b as well as in his Seminar on political
authority, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, Autumn 1990).
 5

INDIVIDUALS AND THEIR RELATIONS

For a proper appreciation of their actions, men

must be considered in all their relationships ...
-Rousseau. '

5. J. The Role of Beliefs

There is indeed something very wrong about the idea that trust could be
motivated by prudential considerations. In the previous chapter, it was argued
that the attempt fails on its own terms. At this point we will need to have a new
look at some assumptions about trust inherent in the argument that was rejected.
Trust was defined as a cooperative disposition based on the belief that the
other party is cooperative. If we went along with this definition we could then
describe a relation of mutual trust as a situation where: first, A believes B to be
cooperative and is, for his part, willing to maintain a cooperative relation;
second, B similarly believes A to be cooperative and is willing, for his part, to
maintain cooperation; and third, both are conscious that the other party has these
beliefs and dispositions.
But first of all one can ask why we should describe the relation in terms of
beliefs. Are beliefs always involved? And what else is involved?
A possible answer to the first question is that all interaction involves, by
definition, beliefs about the other. When, for instance, I ask you what time it is
I believe that you understand my question, that you know what time it is, and are
willing to tell me; and if you do understand my question then you, too, believe
that I have these beliefs. The possibility of mutual understanding, on this view,
is based on such (usually tacit) beliefs.

Shaking hands is one example [of mutual beliefs), and so is rowing a boat, speaking and listening,
driving down a highway, signalling Morse code, walking in a crowd of people, meeting, and
dancing. 2

'Rousseau 1986, ch. 9, p. 49.

2Clark & Carlson 1982, 2. Quoted in E. Lagerspetz 1995, 9.
66 CHAPTER 5

Consider another example of mutual beliefs: 'the Russians know the Americans
believe the Russians think the Soviets could win a first strike nuclear war'.3 If
this was true at the time it was written we have here a complex network of
beliefs accounting for some features of nuclear disarmament talks.
There is a crucial difference, of course, between the examples. The first set
of examples were cases of non-problematic cooperation; the latter example was
derived from a relation between enemies. And it seems misleading to assume that
beliefs have the same role in both types of cases. In situations of the latter type,
the parties typically try to predict each other's behaviour and, on the other hand,
to make themselves unpredictable. Both will need to form explicit beliefs about
the other party's intentions and expectations. In the former type of case, on the
other hand, explicit beliefs are an exception. When our interaction proceeds
smoothly, we have no need to think about them. We typically speak of
assumptions about the other only when interaction is disturbed in some
way-say, in cases of distrust, misunderstanding, or disinformation.
'Belief also contrasts with 'fact'. Thus when I ask you what time it is and you
simply tell me, one might say I did not believe that you understood my question:
you really did understand it. Speaking of a belief suggests a problem that did not
exist in the situation. Hence it might be less misleading to say that I did not
believe that you believed I wanted to know what time it is. I did not disbelieve
it either. The issue was not brought up-hence I never formed a belief about it.
Clearly, it can now be objected that my beliefs, in this case, were simply
implicit, perhaps too obvious to be stated. And it would certainly be dogmatic
to dismiss that way of speaking in all circumstances. 4 But then what did my
implicit belief amount to in the case at hand? It consisted in the fact that I
approached you 'on the assumption' that you would understand me. 'The
assumption' itself amounted to nothing more than the fact that I approached you
with no particular assumption in mind; i.e., the fact that I initiated the
interaction. Your corresponding assumption about me consisted of the fact that
you replied to me without wondering whether I would understand you. Thus it
seems that the statement 'our interaction involved mutual beliefs' here simply
means 'our interaction involved interaction'.
I might be said to have held the relevant beliefs dispositionally; in other
words, if something had gone wrong I would have said, 'I believed .. .'. But again,
to say that I entertained the beliefs, in the normal case, only amounts to saying

3The Economist (29.12.1979), quoted in E. Lagerspetz 1995,8.

Even if it may be asked how I know my beliefs are too obvious to be made explicit until I have
4

actually done so.

 INDIVIDUALS AND THEIR RELATIONS 67

that I was acting according to certain routines (see the argument in 2.4.). When
problems arise, beliefs can be invoked as part of an explanation of how the
parties acted; however, in unproblematic cases there is no similar need of
explanation. Now to argue that there simply must have been a belief in all cases
is only to express a refusal to accept any other way of describing what went on.
It might be more illuminating to say that normal interaction is characterised
by the absence of assumptions about the other. When problems arise-say, when
you look confused-I form new assumptions; say, that you are a tourist from
Russia who only knows Russian. I switch to Russian and, to the best of my
abilities, continue the dialogue-again, without making further assumptions about
you. In this sense, my beliefs about you only arise as we go along, and only to
the extent that there is something new to be accounted for.
Thus there is a good case for saying that the description of human relations
in terms of beliefs about the other party (plus dispositions based on them) is
particularly inept in the case of trusting.
However, the idea of cashing out interaction in these terms has one
theoretical advantage which, as far as I can see, accounts for its use. This is the
fact that beliefs and dispositions are something that can be attributed to
individuals. Hence, if the analysis is right, the interactive situation can be
'chopped up' into pieces of what happens on the individual level. This again is
an advantage if we think that a complete understanding of interaction, ideally,
involves analysing it into components present at the level of the individual
participants. I will return to the question later in this chapter.
The other question to be addressed now was whether speaking of trust in
terms of (explicit or implicit) beliefs about the other's cooperativeness, and
dispositions based on such beliefs, exhausts the topic. The answer is no.
Think of some considerations that might make me believe a person to be
cooperative. I may know it is in her interest not to harm me (it would get her
into trouble). I might also know she is too stupid or unimaginative to take ad-
vantage of me; or, that she is a weak character whom I can bully into carrying
out my requests. -Or, to borrow a description by Baier:

Sensible trust could persist [... ] in conditions where truster and trusted suspect each other of
willingness to harm the other if they could get away with it, the one by breach of trust, the other by
vengeful response to that. The stability of the relationship will depend on the trusted's skill in cover-
up activities, or on the truster's evident threat advantage, or a combination of these.'

'Baier 1986, 255.

68 CHAPTER 5

Finally, taking an example from Gambetta:

The rulers of a slave society-assuming that they do not mind what slaves think-<:an restrict their
trust in the slaves [... ] to the belief that the slaves are not going to commit mass suicide. They simply
trust to the fact [... ] that most humans, even under extreme conditions-have a preference ordering
which ranks life before death."

These examples all conform to the definitions of 'trust' reviewed in 4.2. But they
clearly tell us nothing about what it is to trust a person. They exemplify a
manipulative mode of thought that becomes possible-perhaps necessary-when
trust is absent. Of course, the word 'trust' is not important; but we should realise
that very important aspects of human relations are simply being ignored.
Gambetta speaks of 'trusting to [a] fact'. That is a departure from common
usage but it, too, serves to assimilate trust to reliance. The problem in the quoted
passage is not just that there is so little trust between the rulers and the slaves,
but also the fact that the one thing cited as trust strikes me anyway as utter
distrust.

5.2. The Prisoners Revisited

I return to The Prisoner's Dilemma-since the argument discussed in the previous

chapter relied on it, or on some analogous way of presenting the issue. Two
prisoners are to decide on whether or not to collaborate with the police in
exchange for a reduced sentence. With a mixture of threats and promises, the
police urge them to turn each other in.
The analysis of a situation of this type could be used in a discussion of the
role of trust in interaction. But in the present case, initial assumptions are in
place which make it wrong to operationalise 'A trusts B' as 'A believes that B will
not defect'.
First of all, as made clear by the examples just noted, A could hold the
relevant belief for some other reason. Second, the setting is such that 'believing
that B will not defect' could never count as 'trusting B'.
It is not the case that the two prisoners have agreed on cooperating prior to
their imprisonment. There is no earlier relation between them; or the new
situation has rendered it unimportant. The only thing the prisoners 'share' is a

"Gambetta 1988, 219. -Gambetta claims to be presenting Bernard Williams's positIOn.

Gambetta's reading of him is, at any rate, natural and Williams says nothing to discourage it.
 INDIVIDUALS AND THEIR RELATIONS 69
coinciding interest in a third thing-that is, the interest of each in minimising his
own prison sentence.
Hence one obviously cannot, in the normal sense, speak of cooperation or
defection in the circumstances. The moral tie implied by the words does not
exist. Thus if A assumes, erroneously, that B will make the move of 'not
defecting' it does not follow that 'defection' by B would count as a betrayal of
A's trust. Their individual decisions simply coincide in one way-or another.
Furthermore, a prisoner who collaborates with the police does not really
confess or turn the other in. In a proper trial, a confession extorted from a
prisoner in this way would be void. The question of whether the prisoners are
guilty is assumed to be irrelevant. The police, ex hypothesi, do not really want
to know.
There is no 'outside': each player is only supposed to want to maximise his
performance. He is indifferent as to who the adversary is. He can never withdraw
from the game; and (in the iterated Prisoner's Dilemma) neither of the two can
be allowed to know how many games there are left.? Thus, another elimination
involved-besides the elimination of communication between the prisoners-is
that of life before and after the game; that of a genuine time perspective.
In sum, all the features that would make it meaningful to speak of trust are
removed. Hence it is no surprise that psychological laboratory tests with games
of this type very often have to be interrupted. Psychological difficulties-perhaps
due to actual trust?-mess up the research design. 8 -However, this fact itself is
of importance. The research subjects tend to view the game in terms of a
relationship of trust, and to see 'defecting' moves as actual defection-whereas
success in the game requires that such considerations are set aside, to the point
of seeing the other party as something like a computer, i.e., as an entity with
which no meaningful fellowship can exist. 9
On the whole, we are dealing with an extreme situation with limited
applications.

71f A knew, he would take advantage of the cooperative relation established earlier, and defect
at the last round. If both knew, both would do so, and the penultimate round would now count as 'the
last round'. Hence, A would defect at the penultimate round. But B would also defect in order to pre-
empt A's anticipated defection. Now the round before that round would count as the last round-and
so on. The effect would be carried over to the whole game, thus rendering rational cooperation
impossible. -See Axelrod 1984.
xGood 1988, 34.
~The state of the art is indicated by recent discussions of an imaginary machine called Newcomb
predictor-supposedly having to do with the nature of moral and political obligation. See, e.g., Hurley
1994, Nozick 1993.
70 CHAPTER 5

Let us now, instead, take seriously the scenario on which the game is meant
to be based. We need to address questions like: Who are these
prisoners---criminals or political prisoners? What are they charged with? Did they
do it? What was their earlier relation? and finally-Who are the 'police' whose
promises they are supposed to take seriously?
These are not unfair questions. The prisoners' moral relations to one another
and the 'police' will determine what counts as the desirable (and thus rationally
preferred) outcome. JO Answers to questions such as the choice between abiding
by the law and being loyal to a companion (and the related question of how
genuine the companionship has been)-would be constitutive of the meaning of
'a desirable outcome'. A prisoner guilty of terrorism may be prepared to confess
and go to prison but, at the same time, feel that confessing would involve deceit.
His choice will, then, not be made in terms of loyalty v. self-interest; the notion
of self-interest may not enter his deliberation at all.
Thus, it cannot be taken for granted that the choice that matters to the
individual prisoner is simply that between a short sentence and a longer one. Not
only because his preferences might be different (although they might-but this
could be accommodated in the original model). But there may just not be an
adequate way of describing what is involved in the choice if we have to stick to
a description in terms of preexistent individual preferences. If we were asked
what our preferences would be in the situation, perhaps most of us would not
have a fixed set of preferences at all before knowing who the other party is: a
spouse?-an accomplice?-an innocent stranger? The dilemma is, in a central
way, about finding out what one's preferences ought to be in the situation. The
deliberation may involve an internal struggle. On the other hand, a prisoner who
trusts 'the other party' may have no dilemma in the first place; nor a prisoner
who distrusts the promises of 'the police'. They have not entered the deliberation
to start with.
In a genuine relationship of trust, deliberation is essentially shaped by who
the other party is. Not only by what he is likely to do, but by the fact that it is
he, a particular individual with respect to whom certain considerations are
appropriate. An additional difficulty stems from the fact that even our 'individual'

iO lt has been suggested that in some games, 'social norms' may induce the player to play 'irration-

ally', i.e., in ways that prevent him from scoring the maximum (Elster 1991, 35-36, 279). Here we
might think of conventions such as rules of courtesy. Such rules are sometimes quite superficially and
accidentally related to the actual game-though even here we must not forget the way, e.g.,
conceptions of honour were internally related to the objectives of mediaeval warriors. In this
particular dilemma, however, it is quite misleading to contrast 'rationality' and 'social norms'.
 INDIVIDUALS AND THEIR RELATIONS 71

preferences are, by necessity, largely shaped by our contacts with other people
whom we trust. We think of certain things as valuable or worthwhile because
they say it-or rather, because it is they who say it."
The police may put pressure on a prisoner, telling him that his companion
will soon enough turn him in. If he believes them we say he 'breaks down'; 'his
world falls to pieces'. He no longer knows what he can believe, whom he can
trust. Saving one's own skin now overshadows everything. The prisoner may
cynically turn against his former companions; or more likely he, like a drowning
man, will clutch at the inquisitor as a saviour. How to reduce people to such a
state is all too well known by all too many. It will certainly be grotesque to
portray the prisoner's choice as paradigmatically rational.
Thus any analysis of the game should take account of what is the single
overwhelming fact informing the prisoners' decision: the presence of coercion.
The analysis would show the importance of the institutional constraints
determining the range of possible choices.
Like all games, this one must take an elaborate background as given. Games
are played according to rules; they involve criteria of participation and success,
over which there is agreement. If the stakes are high and the game cannot be
allowed to break down there must be a way of enforcing the rules. Game theory
in fact presupposes extremely stable and well-defined conditions seldom fulfilled
even in games. (It would be mere wishful thinking, for instance, to imagine that
anything remotely like them was in place during the early evolution of the
human species.'2)
These points are instructive, say, for demonstrating the importance of an
institutional framework for the functioning of a free market or democracy. This,
however, is not the general tenor of discussions where The Prisoner's Dilemma
is employed. On the contrary, the game has even been taken to show that
institutional arrangements could arise in a 'state of nature'. This is to ignore the
institutional constraints that initially make the model possible. Thus my objection
is not directed against the use of models in general but against using a model
while ignoring its initial assumptions. In sum, game theory will tell us less about
the natural state of mankind than about very specific institutional settings.'3

"See Hertzberg 1988, and the next chapter.

'2et'. Dawkins 1989,203-227.
"See Grant's (1993) powerful criticism of the uses of the Prisoner's Dilemma. Also see, e.g., Satz
& Ferejohn 1994, 72: Rational choice theories 'are most plausible in settings where individual action
is severely constrained, and thus where the theory gets its explanatory power from structure-generated
interests and not from actual individual psychology.'
72 CHAPTER 5

The same points can be made concerning the use of The Prisoner's Dilemma
in studies of the nuclear arms race.
In The Selfish Gene, Richard Dawkins writes enthusiastically: '[m]any
influential people think [The Prisoner's Dilemma] holds the key to strategic
defence planning, and that we should study it to prevent a third world war'. 14
-This may be true, but for reasons opposite to those Dawkins has in mind. A
study of the game, it is to be hoped, would weaken its hold on policy makers,
a development that might solve the problems which are in fact partly perpetuated
by the model itself.
The model assumes, in the context, that the best score is achieved by not
disarming while the other party does so. The problem of the arms race, however,
consists exactly in the fact that this order of preferences is assigned to the two
countries in question. But how a country defines its goals is a matter of political
choice, not a law of nature. Arguably, the driving forces of military expansionism
lie in domestic issues such as the interests of the military-industrial complex,
political unrest, or concern about employment. Both the development of a strong
defense and abstention from it are motivated by various economic, moral and
political considerations. Those issues should be (and in fact are) at the centre of
serious peace research.
Generally, the point advanced in this section is this. The individual-his
deliberation, beliefs and preferences-cannot be adequately described in
abstraction from his relations to others. But if we take the prisoners seriously
(which game theorists, it seems, never do) we see how complex--or
simple-these choices will be depending on the relation involved.

5.3. Methodological Individualism

Why is it, then, that so many writers who set out to describe trust end up giving
examples of the very opposite (perhaps resembling the social life of the Ik, as
described by TurnbuIl 15 )? The reason for this, I suggest, can be understood if we
assume that they share-either explicitly or implicitly-a reductivist approach
best characterised as methodological individualism.
The combination of methodological individualism and game theory is a usual
one. True, not all methodological individualists agree that game theory yields
interesting descriptions of social life (while the converse seems to be the case:

'4Dawkins 1989,203.
"Turnbull 1972.
 INDIVIDUALS AND THEIR RELATIONS 73

using the models of game theory as authoritative implies a form of

'individualism' where the individual players-either human individuals or groups
acting as agents-are seen as basically self-contained units). Yet I take it that
game theory spells out some important presuppositions of methodological
individualism in general.
The issue between methodological individualism and methodological holism
has been said to be about what is 'real'. Can 'reality' be attributed to social groups
and institutions, or only to individual human beings? -This is, however,
misleading. The 'real' excludes the illusory, faked, negligible, or nonexistent in
various ways. It can be no straightforward matter to compare individuals and
social institutions in terms of their 'reality'. Hence, for instance, it is by no means
an obvious 'intuition' (as the term goes) that only individuals really exist. The
issue of methodological individualism v. holism should rather be stated not in
terms of ontology, but as a question of how to analyse the notions in terms of
which social relations are commonly described.
The programme of methodological individualism is formulated by Wiberg in
the following way.

According to the thesis of methodological individualism, all social processes and events should be
explained by being deduced from principles governing the behaviour of participating individuals and
descriptions of their situations.

Further down the page, he gives an alternative formulation:

There are no properties of social groups that cannot be adequately described, explained and predicted
exclusively by reference to properties of individual members of those groups, i.e. at the level of
individuals. Methodological individualism claims that all social phenomena, their structure and their
change are explicable only in terms of individuals, their properties, goals and beliefs.'"

The two statements are offered as equivalents, but the italicised phrases convey
a difference. The crux lies in what 'descriptions of [the individuals'] situations'
may amount to. Descriptions of my situation will in relevant contexts include,
e.g., the facts that I am married, citizen of a certain country, have such-and-such
friends, and occupy a certain position in a university structure. But this is to
make reference to social institutions and other group level phenomena. If this is
allowed it has not been explained how methodological individualism contrasts
with holism.
Wiberg's first formulation is equivalent with Elster's-

I"Wiberg 1988, 35. Emphases added.

74 CHAPTER 5

To explain social institutions and social change is to show how they arise as the result of the action
and interaction of individuals. 17

-as well as with a formulation by Watkins: large-scale social phenomena

(inflation, full employment) are not explained-

until we have deduced an account of them from statements about the dispositions, beliefs, resources
and inter-relations of individuals. IX

The question, again, is how much we are allowed to read into 'interaction' and
'interrelations'-i.e., what is the thesis that methodological individualism
excludes. The point surely cannot be just that there can be no groups without
individual members-partly because no one denies this; and partly because
exponents of methodological individualism claim that more is at stake.
Therefore I take it that, in the case at hand, the group level phenomena to
which I referred must, according to methodological individualism, be analysable
in terms of the 'properties, goals and beliefs' of myself and other individuals. For
the sake of not undermining the thesis, it also seems necessary to make sure that
no reference to group level terms sneaks into the description of my properties,
goals, and beliefs. If, for instance, you explained my behaviour towards my
spouse by saying that I believe I am married you would be making a covert
reference to the marriage institution. The thesis is, then, that such references can
be further analysed into terms that do not imply social institutions.
But this looks like a thesis that could easily be overthrown. At any rate, it
cannot be accepted right away until such analyses are produced. I leave it open
whether there has ever been an interesting description of social life that
consistently employs only such frugal terms.
Perhaps a plausible version of methodological individualism could be offered
as follows. When we try to account for the existence of an institution or some
other group level phenomenon in a given situation, we should look for the
motives, etc., of the individual participants. This approach looks plausible
provided we allow for descriptions which represent these individuals as in
different ways taking account of, and being influenced by, other social

17Elster 1989, 13. Emphasis added. --This is taken as authoritative in Hollis 1994, 19. This, as
well as the following quote, were pointed out to me by a reader for this series. Also see E.
Lagerspetz 1995, 2.
IXJ.W.N. Watkins, 'Historical Explanation in the Social Sciences', British Journal for the
Philosophy of Science, 8(1957), 106. Quoted in Nagel 1961,541. Emphasis added.
 INDIVIDUALS AND THEIR RELATIONS 75

institutions and group level phenomena. 19 This seems to me a possible way of

accounting for the origin of, say, trade unions and other voluntary
associations-but not of, e.g., economic exchange, language, religion, or society
as a whole. What is more debatable is the contention that illuminating accounts
of social life can be given only in these terms, or that these terms exhaust the
topic.
I do not wish to take issue with that form of the thesis. This is partly because
I do not consider it very pernicious. Partly, too, I do not think this is all that
professing methodological individualists want to say; the sort of ambiguity I
pointed out seems to be the rule. It seems to me that a much stronger form of
individualism is taken for granted by much of contemporary moral and political
philosophy. This is true, for instance, of various attempts to construe morality or
social life on the model of quasi-contractual arrangements. 20 Such approaches
often go together with applications of theories of rational choice. My contention,
however, is that they are more pervasive today than most writers have
realised-including many of the writers themselves.
By 'methodological individualism', I will, then, mean the idea that statements
concerning relationships between people can, in principle at least, be completely
analysed into statements about what individual agents do. It implies a priority
thesis about explanation and justification: social relationships can in principle be
explained and (if acceptable) justified by reference to the beliefs and needs of
individual people. The individual's needs and beliefs can, on the other hand, be
described and understood in terms that are logically independent of the fact that
he has social relations with others.
These are also the assumptions that make game theory problematic. (My
criticism has not at all, for instance, dealt with the fact that the individual
preferences standardly suggested by game theory are selfish. That is another
issue.) The agents enter the interactive situation complete with the beliefs, goals
and properties that determine its outcome. The situation shapes the way in which
the agents' goals are realised but the goals are seen as preexistent.
My discussion of the prisoners shows, I think, first of all, that the notion of
individual preferences and beliefs is more complex than is recognised by those
who like to speak of them; and hence that, if this is acknowledged by
methodological individualists, it is unclear what is the approach that theirs would

IYThis, for instance, is the way 'the Prisoner's Dilemma' is in fact discussed and understood:

patterns of cooperation may arise in the context of a given coercive institutional arrangement ('the
prison')-see above.
2oE.g., Rawls 1971, Gauthier 1986.
76 CHAPTER 5

rule out-since the individual's preferences, etc., will have to be understood in

the context of his relation to the other and to the surrounding institutional
framework.
On the other hand, if we take 'methodological individualism' in the strong
sense specified here we see that it cannot produce a satisfactory account of the
individual, her beliefs and goals-even in the case of the two prisoners; that is,
in the case that the authors themselves tend to regard as paradigmatic.

5.4. Knowing People

I have suggested that it will be misleading to equate trust with a predictive belief
about what the other party is likely to do, or with a disposition based on such a
belief.
Rather, trust can sometimes be replaced by a predictive theory or vice versa,
as they can be said to constitute alternative ways of coming to terms with other
people's freedom of decision. 21 For instance, a paranoiac characteristically acts
on the basis of theories about what others are likely to do. 22 He substitutes
reliance for trust.
If I ask an electrician who is a stranger to me to work where I live, I can rely
on him not to help himself to valuables from the house. At a minimum, I rely
on his awareness that if he were caught he would have to face unpleasant
sanctions. On the other hand, if he is a friend I trust I will not be thinking of his
actions in these terms at all.
The first case is characterised by a cognitively based relation. In the other,
I would speak of a moral relation. Speaking of trust as a moral relation implies
that certain ways of behaving towards the other party are ipso facto morally
appropriate or inappropriate. That is, when we characterise a relationship as one
of trust we have already said something about what kinds of behaviour are
appropriate in the context. (This contrasts, for instance, with Baier who thinks
that to recognise a relationship as one of trust is not yet to say anything about
its moral status. 23 )
A related question may illustrate the distinction between cognitively based
relations and moral relations. What is it to know a person?

2ISee Luhmann 1979,88.

22Radden, forthcoming.
2JBaier 1986, 253.
 INDIVIDUALS AND THEIR RELATIONS 77
In the Bible, to 'know' a woman is to have sex with her. To meet her, touch
her and be touched; perhaps, to be one with her in body and soul. 24
The biblical usage has a parallel in how we speak. We are all familiar with
the distinction between knowing a person and knowing who she is, or having
information about her. Several, probably most, European languages acknowledge
the distinction by the use of two different verbs for 'knowing':
connaitre-savoir; kennen-wissen; nabod-gwybod; tuntea-tietaa. 25
I can have knowledge about a person without ever having met her but I
cannot then, in a normal sense, be said to know her. If I have knowledge about
a person you can meaningfully ask me what I know; the answer would, roughly,
be a list of facts. But if you ask me how well I know her the answer will be
given in terms of what we have done together, or perhaps, in what ways I could
think of asking her to help me; in short, it will be something about the ties
between us, about appropriate or intelligible forms for our dealings with one
another. 26 No doubt I will also have knowledge about a person I know, but our
relation cannot for that reason be exhausted in terms of what I know. Something
similar can be said about knowing a geographical area: it has to do with having
spent time there and being able to get one's bearings there. I cannot come to
know London just by studying maps, Baedeker, and the like.
Can I ever know a person completely? The problem here is that the word
'completely' creates an expectation the fulfilment of which it also excludes. The
problems to be overcome by our mutual knowledge have not been specified
when the word is used in this general way. There are no limits to how close two
people can grow to be-but nothing short of being the same person would now
seem to count as complete knowledge unless we arbitrarily put a stopping point
somewhere. And if the stopping point is simply stipulated we can always imagine
an even closer acquaintance. And thus it looks as if we were somehow tragically
estranged from one another.
But this appearance is created by the general form of the question. For in any
given case, I might continually grow closer to another person until no problems
arise for the time being.
It is also true that I can never know 'everything' about someone else, just as
I cannot know 'everything' about myself, or about anything at all. This is because

HAs discussed by Oilman 1987. 127.

2'J ust to take four examples from four linguistic families: Romance (French). Germanic (Gennan),
Celtic (Welsh). Uralic (Finnish).
1('See Hamlyn 198:1. 208-238.
78 CHAPTER 5

'everything', unspecified, could be just anything-and there are no limits to what

that might be. But then knowing someone is not a matter of having knowledge.
Obviously, there are differences between knowing a person and trusting her.
ilham Oilman, having made some of the points noted here, goes on to write:

In an important sense of 'know' if I know him l ... ] I can trust him or vouch for him. At any rate I
would feel let down if he lied to me. This would make me think I did not really know him. Not
simply because I was deceived about him, but because I was deceived by him. In deceiving me what
he does is to undo the relationship of trust between us. We have to get back to it before I can say
I know him in the same way. Thus he may say he is sorry and I may forgive him. This is the
restoration of contact.
Such contact has to be sustained if I am to be able to continue to say that! know him.27

Oilman's emphasis on mutuality and contact is important. But this is too much.
He more or less makes it seem as if knowing a person were the same as trusting
him. But what about the fact that knowing a person may well be a reason for not
trusting him? (True, as Oilman says, we will not know him in the same way.) As
Oilman acknowledges, we may say of a habitual liar, 'I know him only too well'.
However, he explains this away by suggesting that insofar as we know him as
a liar we do not really know him. We do not encounter an authentic person in
him, perhaps because there is nothing in him for us to know. 28
But this is misleading. Obviously it is true that when we see through a
person's duplicity we do not know him 'in the same way' as we did before. To
say more than that, however, is to confuse the issue.
However, Oilman's main point stands. Significantly enough, if I say I know
someone well it normally follows that he also knows me well. Analogously,
'being someone's friend/enemy' normally implies a mutual relation. The point is
not simply that the 'knowledge' in question must be analysed in terms of the
cognitive states of two persons instead of one. 'Knowing a person' is a relation
where certain ways of behaving towards the other are implied as appropriate.

5.5. The Role of Induction

I can trust a friend more than others because I know him. But 'knowing' cannot
here just be synonymous with 'holding a justified true belief. It would be wrong
to think here that I am drawing a conclusion about my friend as I do when I

27Dilman 1987, 121.

2RDilman 1987, 128-130.
 INDIVIDUALS AND THEIR RELATIONS 79

support a theory by an appeal to data. As ludith Baker observes, a scientific

theory is generally accepted after rigorous testing and discussion whereas,
'typically, a friend is not someone who has come through a set of tests,.z9 It
seems that trustful relations cannot be viewed, in any important sense, as
inductively based. This is so for three reasons.
First of all, we frequently trust strangers without stopping to consider whether
they are trustworthy. As they are strangers, our trust cannot be based on
inferences from their previous behaviour. It might be replied that we make a
generalisation from earlier similar experience. But as there are no objective
criteria for when a person looks trustworthy (rather than looking like a clever con
man) we have no independent grounds for placing this case into the relevant
class of experiences, apart from the fact that the stranger just strikes us as
trustworthy.
Second, the suggestion that the trust involved, e.g., in a long-standing
friendship, is inductively based would invite the question which of our friend's
earlier actions-say, her scrupulous tax returns-should be cited as instances of
the same kind of behaviour that we are now expecting from her. 30 Anything we
may think of might just as well be part of a prolonged plan to deceive us. A
paranoiac could consistently see every new act of benevolence as a fresh attempt
to lull him into false confidence.
Finally, our trust in a friend does not always imply that we expect her to
perform some specific action. Hence there is no specific expectation here to be
inferred by induction. We may trust that whatever our friend does about some
situation will be right in the circumstances. A disappointment may give us reason
to reconsider our own expectations. Thus the question whether our trust was
violated is not always settled by the facts alone.
My judgment that I can trust my friend concerns the nature of our relation-
ship, the claims and expectations that are reasonable within it. I am not only, and
not primarily, appealing to his past record of good behaviour. I believe that our
relationship makes it reasonable for me to expect his trustworthiness. This holds
in two ways. Most importantly, my statement is a point about the claim I have
on his loyalty, given the nature of our relationship. Second, it is a statement
about what he will be likely (or: certain) to do. I am expecting my friend to
recognise his obligation towards me and show that in his actions.

2<'Baker 1987,4.
lOSce Baker, lac.cil ..
80 CHAPTER 5

5.6. Trust as a Moral Relation

To trust a person is not, then-or not primarily-to know, assume, or believe

something about her. We believe in her, perhaps, but we do not entertain a
theory about what she is likely to do; or even if we do, still that is not what our
trust consists in.
The distinction between moral and cognitively based relations can best be
appreciated in cases of disappointment. Suppose that, on the basis of my
information about a person's past actions, his available options and their
consequences, I make a prediction about how he will behave. I judge it to be safe
to engage in some form of cooperation with him. We need not presuppose that
my reasoning here is very explicit; but this is how I would describe it if you
asked me. So far, my beliefs about him are qualitatively no different from other
beliefs that give me reason for action. This could be a description of the relation
between a psychologist and his research subject.
But now suppose that my prediction concerning a crucial laboratory exper-
iment with people proves false. Perhaps I grow reproachful of the research
subject whose performance has failed to meet my expectations. While you may
understand my frustration my attitude would nevertheless strike you as childish.
My reaction indicates a psychological weakness in me. The relation between a
psychologist and his research subject is expected to be one between an observer
and the object of his observation. But this is not a relationship that can properly
speaking be betrayed or violated. 3 ! Facts cannot be said to 'betray' a theory when
they fail to conform to it.
The failure of my expectations cannot alone constitute an insult-and if I do
feel insulted you may rightly dismiss my reaction as confused. Someone might
see this as a psychological point: what distinguishes trusting from believing is an
additional 'emotional component'. That would be to construe our sense of hurt
simply as a fact about us. But the crucial point is not one about psychology but
one about the sorts of description that can be meaningfully applied in the circum-
stances.
Trustful relations might certainly develop between a psychologist and his
subject-though in laboratory conditions, that would sometimes ruin the research
design. But they would derive from a shared life, not merely from (individual or
shared) theories about what the other is likely to do. We could not, e.g., have

31 The research subject might cheat during the test. This is a different case. Here the problem is

not his 'bad' performance but the fact that he violates an initial agreement that he made as a man, not
as a research subject.
 INDIVIDUALS AND THEIR RELATIONS 81

such relations with machines except in an unlikely sci-fi scenario where the
machine is, in effect, an unconventionally designed human being.
The crux of my argument is that trust is a relation that can be 'broken'. It
binds the truster and the trusted together. This is not to imply mutuality, i.e., that
if I trust another he will also trust me---even if many trusting relations do
involve such mutuality. Rather: when we say that someone trusts me it is implied
that I am not to break his trust. This is why the phrase, 'I trusted you!' can be an
admonition.
The failure of a theory has, in itself, no moral significance. As a contrast,
trust does not 'fail' but is betrayed. If anyone 'fails' it is the one who betrays the
trust. We do not normally write it off by blaming the wronged party-whereas
the falsification of a theory always implies some failure on the part of those who
have held it.
It is in fact revealing that the word 'wronged' makes sense here. Speaking of
trust creates room for a discussion where notions like betrayal, sincerity and
conscientiousness make sense. To describe someone's expectation of goodwill
from us as 'trust' is to suggest that her expectation has a right to be respected. 32
By going along with the description we accept the truster's claim to our respect
as justified. This is not to say that we must fulfil his expectations whatever
happens; but such respect must show in our attitude in some way.33
Conversely, when I say that I can trust my friend I mean that our relation is
such that I am in a position to require such respect. On the other hand, if I do
not find myself insulted by betrayal but see the other's behaviour as the way of
the world it may be concluded that I really never trusted her.
We may hold a theory about the behaviour of a person who does not know
of our existence. However, strictly speaking we cannot be said to trust her unless
she in some way knows about it. 34 The appropriate moral ties between us would
be missing. Similarly, if I rely on someone else's goodwill in order to manipulate
her I am not properly speaking trusting her---even if my actions would conform
to the definitions of 'trust' subscribed to by the authors discussed in the previous
chapter. Calling my expectations 'trust' would imply that the other has a duty to

32Hertzberg 1988, 319-320; L~gstrup 1957, 1971. -Conversely, we can be ashamed of our
suspicions. Here our very shame shows us something about our relation to the other: we acknowledge
that she has a claim on our trust.
DWhen someone's expectations are obviously foolish we tend to speak of naIvete. If we speak
of trust here we imply, it appears, that the trusted person has at least some duty to take account of
the other's expectations, perhaps by enlightening her about the real nature of the situation.
34When we say that citizens trust a leader we must at least suppose that he is conscious of the
fact that there are people who are pinning their hopes on him.
82 CHAPTER 5

respect them. But she will have such a duty only if my own designs are honest.
By my own actions I sever the tie between us.
Here I have of course not been making ethical recommendations but points
about the conceptual difference between trust and the related notions of belief
and reliance. To describe a relationship as one of trust is to make a statement
about what a person has right to expect, even require, from US. 35 The natural
analogy of trust should therefore be sought not in predictions but in morally
significant relations like friendship or religious faith.

5.7. Religious Faith

Incidentally, the distinction between trusting and holding a belief is theologically

central, particularly in Lutheran Protestant theology. According to Lutheran
doctrine, it is possible to believe in the historical truth of the Bible, in the
existence of God, etc., while lacking true faith. Even devils believe in the
existence of God. Genuine faith, on the other hand, is trust (mcrtt<;, fiducia,
Zuversicht) or joyous confidence in God's mercy.36 In this view of religious
faith, the philosophical emphasis is shifted from questions about the existence of
God to questions about the nature of faith. For the religious believer, the
existence of God is no more of an issue than is the existence of a friend. 37
In the words of Melanchthon (in a 1548 translation), faith is not 'an idel
cogitaci6, but it is a thing which stryueth and wrasteleth with the terrors and
tormentes of our consciece, with sinne, with deathe, and with the Deuyl'?8 The
distinction involved here is one between merely intellectual and genuine faith,
which is not the same as that between the cognitive content of faith and attitudes
taken towards it. Genuine faith is not cogitation plus an attitude. The distinction
has no application here: the content of the faith-what kinds of thing perdition,
God's mercy, and salvation are to the believer-is not independent of what it is
to have faith-what it is to 'wrestle with the Devil'. The believer expresses his

J5See L\:1gstrup 1957, 1971. This is also discussed by Hertzberg 1988. Sandbacka (1987, 137-139)
makes a related point about the notion of a need.
3"See Luther 1956, 289, Luther 153411931. Also see, e.g.: 'Die Augsburgische Konfession' (1960),
XX. W 35 (p. 79); 'Apologia .. .' (1960), IV, 44-45 (p. 168); 'KonkordienformellSolida Declaratio'
(1960), IV. W 644 (p. 941). Also see Melanchthon 1953, 758 (p. 418). -These references were
originally pointed out to me by Hans-Olof Kvist.
"This is not to imply that the question of God's existence might not be legitimately raised by
others.
JXMelanchthon 1979 (1548), fol. xxxv.
 INDIVIDUALS AND THEIR RELATIONS 83

attitude already in the fact that losing God, for him, is perdition-the worst thing
that may befall him. The distinction between religious content and attitude is real
only to a person who has no faith: he is, for that reason, able to treat the content
(such as the reality of sin) as something to which his life is quite accidentally
related.
The fact that the religious believer trusts God informs his trust in a crucial
way. There is an internal connection between the identity of the object of trust
and the fact that trust is the appropriate attitude towards him. The empirical
question of whether God is trustworthy cannot arise. Unlike what is the case in
most human relations, it makes sense for trust in God to show itself in the
believer's preparedness to accept everything-in an extreme case, his own
physical destruction-as the will of God.
Some authors observe the analogy between trust and religious faith but leave
it on one side as unfit for elucidating relations between mature adults. 39 Certainly
there are reasons to be cautious. The religious believer's trust in God obviously
cannot be a relation between equals, and it would seem strained to speak of the
trust as 'mutual'. On the other hand, for this very reason it is, for instance, wrong
of Baier to call the believer's trust in God 'unreciprocated,:40 there is no room for
questions about reciprocation.
All forms of religious faith certainly cannot be depicted just as instances of
nostalgic regression to childhood na"ivete. To have faith is to resign oneself to the
will of God-to acknowledge one's helplessness. That itself, however, may
indeed be taken as a sign of maturity. Many religious writers, such as Luther, see
the life of faith as a continuous task that the believer must consciously undertake:

You have once been baptised with the sacrament, but you must always be baptised with faith, you
must always die and always come to life. The water of baptism has once covered you and let you
go again. In the same way. baptism must absorb your entire life, your body and soul and return it on
the last day wearing the cloak of clarity and immortality. Thus we can never live without the baptism,
its sign and its work. Rather, we must ever be haptised more and more until on the last day we
wholly fulfil the sign.
Hence you see that all we do in this life to mortify the flesh and vivify the spirit is part of the
baptism. [ ... ] Our entire life must, then, he nothing but baptism and fulfilment of the sign and
sacrament of baptism, so that we may be free of everything else and only be bound by baptism, i.e.,
by death and resurrection. 41

)YBaier 1986,241-242: Sharpe 1996.

40Cf. Baier 1986, 252. Also see Baier 1994, 187.
41Jta semel es baptisatus sacramentaliter, sed semper baptisandus fide, semper moriendum
semperque vivendum. Baptismus totum corpus absorbuit et rursus edidit: ita res baptismi totam vitam
tuam cum corpore et anima absorbcre debet et reddere in novissimo die indutam stola claritatis et im-
84 CHAPTER 5

The believer is to fulfil the promise of baptism by embracing his faith truly and
entirely. He is to search his heart, reflect on his life, free himself of selfishness,
and present himself to God on the last day. In a central sense, religious belief is
a struggle for authenticity-for a true faith that has been set for the believer as
a task.

5.8. Conclusions

In this chapter, basic assumptions informing influential views of trust were taken
to task. These assumptions, I have suggested, are part of the theoretical
framework of methodological individualism. The approach identified as
problematic was contrasted with alternative accounts representing trust as a
moral, rather than cognitively based, relation. The basic disagreement, it seems
to me, turns on what the task of the analysis is taken to be. The writers criticised
here want to incorporate trust into existing individualist accounts of rational
action. The alternative is, first, to look for an analysis that does justice to what
we mean by 'trust'; and then, to spell out its implications with regard to rational
action. These implications will be discussed further in the next chapter.
It may be asked if I am not now saddling the authors discussed in Chapter
4 with a view that many of them do not hold. At least one of them-Baier-has
explicitly disowned methodological individualism. 42
However, first of all we should not be surprised to find elements of
methodological individualism in their work-explicit or implicit-since that just
is a very wide-spread approach. But more importantly, the confusions
documented earlier hang together in an illuminating way if we take my
assumption to be correct.

mortalitatis, itaque numquam sine baptismi tarn signo quam re ipsa sumus, immo semper sumus
baptisandi, magis ac magis, donec signum perfecte impleamus in novissimo die.
Intelligis ergo, quicquid in hac vita gerimus, quod ad mortificationem carnis et vivificationem
spiritus valet, ad baptismum pertinere [... ]. Quicquid enim vivimus, Baptismus esse debet et signum
seu sacramentum baptismi implere, cum a creteris omnibus liberati uni tantum baptismo simus addicti,
id est, morti et resurrectioni. -Luther 152011888, p. 535, 10-26; my translation.
42Baier 1997b. Thus my critique of Baier may be made from a position she now, if not earlier,
holds herself. However, in discussion in connection with the paper (in Abo, August 1993), Baier still
subscribed to the essentially methodological individualist view that 'living in society pays'. The
implication must be that it pays for the individual in the light of preferences that she has regardless
of society, and before entering it-see my discussion in 4.5. and 4.6 ..
 INDIVIDUALS AND THEIR RELATIONS 85
If one assumes, with the methodological individualists, that social relations
ought to be analysed in terms of what individuals do, it will be imperative to
cash out trust in terms of the beliefs and dispositions of the individuals
concerned-something all these authors try to do.
And if it is assumed that social relations should be justified (if acceptable)
in terms of how they serve the individual's preferences-then trust, too, should
be justified in these terms. Again, this is what the authors try to do.
In general, the attempt to describe trust as a cognitively based, prima facie
morally neutral relation issues from a tendency (perhaps, for the most part,
unself-consciously) to take the individual as a starting point of the description
without pausing to consider who the individual is. For my own part, I have
suggested a shift of perspective: in order to account for the individual's
preferences and beliefs we should look at the social relations around him. If we
start by seeing trust as a moral relation we will understand its implications for
the individual.
 6

LEARNING FROM OTHERS

6.1. Evidence and Asymmetry

Let me return to the original difficulty. The apparent fact that trust goes beyond,
even resists, the available evidence seems to pose a problem for anyone who
cares for truth at all. It is as if our tendency to trust others were at odds with the
elementary requirements of intellectual honesty.
Consider an example, originally from a paper by ludith Baker. I A close
friend of mine is being accused of a major crime-say, of working for a foreign
intelligence agency. The available facts establish her guilt in the eyes of most
people. Yet if she tells me she is innocent I will believe her rather than the
others. Obviously, we can imagine that I react in some other way. But there are
cases where taking a friend's assurance on trust would be a natural, and it seems,
appropriate response.
The following image is now evoked. Facts are brought to my knowledge ('the
evidence'). Reasonably, they ought to make me assume the existence of some
further, unpleasant facts about my friend. However, add trust; and the scales are
turned. In this picture, trust simply outweighs the evidence. We naturally ought
to wonder how anyone who cares about correct judgment can let such things
happen. Yet they do happen; and this is often cited as admirable rather than
irrational. Baker now wonders how a biassed judgment can be rational.
This is her question. Probably we all agree that we are sometimes biassed in
favour of our friends, and that this is a shortcoming on our part. But the real
problem, it seems to me, is that we can imagine disagreements like this where
my belief in my friend's innocence is not due to bias in any usual sense of the
word.
The original example is not very detailed. But here I take it that, when first
presented with the would-be evidence, I do not even seriously consider the idea
that my friend could be deceiving me. The difference between me and the others
is then not just that we ask the same questions but are inclined to weigh the
evidence differently. I do not even seriously ask certain questions. I believe that

ISaker 1987.
 LEARNING FROM OTHERS 87

some other explanation can be given for the facts that others would cite against
her?
The others will perhaps now accuse me of bias, of ignoring undisputable
evidence. However-this invites a discussion of the notion of evidence.
A fact's being a piece of evidence is not a quality of it in the sense in which
shape and colour are qualities of objects. The notion of evidence derives its
intelligibility from situations where reasoning of a certain kind takes place.
By 'evidence' we mean facts that, under the circumstances, rightly incline us
to give a certain answer to the question at hand. Calling a fact 'a piece of
evidence' thus implies: first, that there exists a serious disagreement to which the
piece of evidence suggests an answer; and secondly, that the answer suggested
by the material is the correct one. Hence circumstances that seem to falsify what
we know to be the truth can only seemingly constitute evidence.
The first point implies, for instance, that newspapers from 1945 cannot today
be cited by scholars as evidence that World War 11 took place, as that would
imply that there might be a serious disagreement about the question. It would be
easy enough to gather facts that imply that a great war took place at the time but
historians could not, today, treat them as evidence: one cannot talk of evidence
(apparent or real, for or against a statement) where the facts are beyond any
serious doubt. 3 Of course, historians of a remote half-barbaric future might
meaningfully speak of evidence here.
The second point implies that a circumstance cannot correctly be called
evidence of a defendant's guilt by anyone who suspects or knows that the
'evidence' is forged or misleading. Thus, what constitutes evidence for us is
dependent on what kinds of question we can take seriously in the circumstances.
So if I am not prepared to consider my friend's innocence questionable I
cannot treat a fact as a piece of evidence for or against it. The total picture looks
different-and the picture defines 'evidence' for me. If I am told that copies of
confidential documents were found in my friend's desk I will be sceptical; and
if the facts are uncontroversial I will wonder who planted the documents there.
What others see as evidence will for me constitute problematic facts which
themselves call for investigation.
On the other hand, I will see certain facts as evidence while others fail to do
so. For instance, my friend's tone of voice could be enough to convince me of
her innocence.

2lbid, 3. Also see Gaita 1991,314.

'See Wolgast 1977, 197.
88 CHAPTER 6

This is not necessarily a sign of bias. My readiness to let a good friend's tone
of voice convince me goes with a confidence that if she lied to me, her tone of
voice would betray that. This is because our relationship has a history. I judge
the way she talks to me now in the light of what we have earlier gone through
together. If someone suggested that I may be deluded, it would amount to
suggesting that I have been profoundly wrong, not just this once but all the time.
My friend would constantly have been hiding her real thoughts from me. I either
mayor may not find such an idea a realistic one. My conclusion will determine
how I am to see our common past.
Alternatively, my friend must have profoundly changed; she is no longer the
person I once knew. I must see if I can believe this.
The original problem now disappears: my trust does not 'resist evidence'. I
rule out certain possibilities that other people take seriously and consider others
ignored by them. For me, therefore, there is no evidence here. It is only in the
eyes of others that I seem to be ignoring something. -I am only faced with the
factual problem that my perception of the situation does not coincide with that
of others. This is accounted for, among other things, by the fact that the others
do not know my friend closely enough to realise the absurdity of the charges
brought against her.
The reader may think this discussion makes the notion of evidence
unacceptably subjective. For, supposing my trusted friend really has done
something very wrong, and I refuse to believe it even though numerous facts
tending to establish betrayal (in the eyes of the world) are presented to me at the
time-? Then suppose I later come to agree that she in fact has betrayed my
trust. Will I not, at this later point, accuse myself of having ignored evidence that
was there all along?
Or was there no evidence then, but now it has come into existence? Yet
nothing of the facts originally presented to me has changed. Did they become
evidence only after I went along with treating them as such?4
Fair enough. Confidential documents were found in my friend's desk. But
now a switch of perspective has taken place. Initially, we were discussing a
situation where I did not yet know the truth. We were addressing the question
of what I could reasonably believe in the situation as I then knew it. The answer
was that it was reasonable of me to continue believing in my friend's innocence.
Now, instead, we are taking the perspective of someone who knows who the

4This objection was raised by an anonymous reader. -The question is actually answered already
by the definition of 'evidence' offered above: what we call evidence is relative to what we see as true.
-Lars Hertzberg, personal communication.
 LEARNING FROM OTHERS 89

culprit was. Thus the objection, 'Did it become evidence only later?', involves a
confusion between a change occurring in the thing we are discussing and a
change of the perspective from which we discuss it.
But whenever we make a judgment about what we should reasonably believe
we must obviously start from the situation as it appears to us at the time of
judging. And I was not (ex hypothesi) ignoring any of the facts. The
disagreement had to do with how to interpret the facts; again ex hypothesi, there
was room for alternative interpretations. The only thing I can be required to do
in order to justify my belief in my friend's innocence is to describe the situation
as I see it at the time. At that earlier time, of course, it will be useless for me to
speculate about how things would turn out later if I changed my mind or if new
facts-say, a confession-were produced.
Later, when I no longer believe my friend, I will agree that the evidence was
there for me to see though I misunderstood it. But it cannot be concluded that
my earlier interpretation of the facts must have been irrational or objectionable.
There is simply no account of rationality that precludes all error. Otherwise, I
would never have the right to judge for myself about anything at all-since it is
'theoretically conceivable' that I later come to think that my earlier judgment was
mistaken.
True, our use of the word 'evidence' seems somewhat ambiguous. If we
suspect the compromising documents to be forgeries we will be questioning their
status as evidence. On the other hand, during the lawsuit the lawyers will call the
documents 'pieces of evidence'. But if 'evidence' means 'facts which, in the
circumstances, correctly imply a certain conclusion' the lawsuit itself will concern
the question of what material should be granted the status of evidence. Thus what
constitutes evidence (or genuine evidence) cannot be decided independently of
the question of my friend's guilt. But this is exactly the question that (ex
hypothesi) was originally unresolved.
Hence the question whether the facts were evidence all along will now be
quite pointless-it is a bit like Aristotle's naval battle. Suppose we say that the
one or the other must have been the case. Either the existence of the documents
was evidence of my friend's guilt all the time, or it was not. Fine. But this will
not help us at all: in any case, we cannot find out the correct answer until we
know whether my friend was guilty or not.
The argument here is the same as in Chapter 3. An apparent inconsistency
is dissolved by tracing it to a difference between first- and third-person
perspectives. Trusting looks irrational-seeing the evidence while failing to draw
the conclusions-because someone else's description of certain facts as 'evidence'
90 CHAPTER 6

has been taken for granted. The problem arises because this account of the
situation mixes elements from incompatible points of view.

6.2. Evidence and Objectivity

The original problem involved the idea that there are objective methods of
judging my friend's guilt whereas my trust places me at odds with those methods.
While others take account of the facts as they see it, I am engaging in an
additional activity of trusting which tends to obscure my judgment. And so the
burden of proof will rest on me.
But a stick has two ends. s While we may (and often should) exercise
judgment concerning our relations with others, the exercise of judgment will, in
any case, imply not questioning in other directions. I could obviously turn the
tables and maintain that it is the others whose judgment is obscured. Of course,
the jurors too will have to make up their minds as to who is to be trusted. Their
belief in my friend's guilt implies trust in someone else such as the prosecution.
I can demand from them an account for their reasons for such unthinking
confidence. After all, it is not as if the question of what constitutes 'taking
account of the evidence' had been settled once and for all by others. The
difference between me and the others lies exactly in the fact that different kinds
of inquiries seem reasonable to us. This cuts both ways: from my point of view,
the others are blind to, or ignorant of, the implications of other facts that rule out
my friend's guilt.
Thus, for instance, nothing compels me to take the court's decision to be the
one that settles the matter. The court of law may consist of people whose
judgment or honesty I distrust. The reliability and motives of witnesses can be
called into question. The Dreyfus Affair should serve as a memento.
Furthermore, I may disagree with the court without implying irrationality or
bias on either part. The court must ignore many considerations that convince me
of my friend's innocence. There are norms about what makes something ac-
ceptable as a piece of evidence in a lawsuit: about how evidence is collected and
what conclusions it can reasonably warrant. But these norms are not sophisticated
versions of norms that usually ought to apply in interpersonal relations. They are,
rather, designed to run counter to reactions that normally-legitimately-make
us treat people with trust or distrust. Strongly formalised interrogation procedures

5Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov. Dostoevsky is describing a court case involving questions
similar to the ones discussed here.
 LEARNING FROM OTHERS 91

keep the jury and the court officials from personal contact with the witnesses; the
impersonal nature of the encounter is deliberately emphasised. Nor is it so that
the criteria used in courts of law are stringent whereas those used by friends are
lax. My friend's tone of voice might also make me aware that something is
wrong.
Yet this does not imply, either, that the criteria used by me are in any
absolute sense superior to those used by the court. All we can confidently say
now is that we disagree. Our disagreement, perhaps, has to do with the fact that
the contexts of our inquiries are different; hence the nature of the question
addressed is different. The court wants to close a case; I am trying to see what
I am to make of our friendship in the light of the charges brought against my
friend. 6
In other words, the determination by others to take the court's decision as
settling the question is just one possible way of looking at the issue of my
friend's guilt. While the existence of disagreement is sometimes a mark of
irrationality on either side, there is also room for rational disagreement. (There
will not, of course, be any sharp dividing line here.)
True, if I remain confident of my friend's innocence I will have to reconsider
my relation to those who present the ostensible evidence against her. This may
place me increasingly at odds with people around me. That may be a difficult
position but does not, as such, imply irrationality.
It might be replied that there will, in any case, be an objective truth to the
matter; thus there must be objective ways of finding out. -But we simply will
not know the truth until we do know the truth. What was objective will only be
settled then.
Am I, then, not being irrational because I take the risk of being fooled?
Again, I trust: I do not perceive the situation as a risky one (see Chapter 3). By
the same token, I could be accused of 'taking a risk' whatever I do-since it may
later turn out that I was mistaken. -Would not intellectual rigour require me to
treat all questions as open until I have consulted evidence? -Anyone who thinks
so should try to imagine what to do next. How do I recognise genuine evidence?

('It might be objected that we will both want to know whether my friend in fact is guilty. But this
is not quite true. In a fair trial, the fact that conclusive evidence cannot be mustered is enough for
acquittal. Similarly, the prosecution must establish that my friend actually broke a law, not just
engaged in an objectionable action. In a friendship, on the contrary, it is typically not enough that
one's friend cannot be proven to be guilty of breaking a law. We will want to know he is morally
upright. -Suppose I am not disagreeing with a court of law but, say, with another friend? Here we
ideally ought to come to an agreement. -All we can do here is to compare our accounts of the
situation until one of us, perhaps, changes his mind.
92 CHAPTER 6

Why not distrust the 'evidence'? And if I can stop there, why not before? -If I
cannot take people on trust at least in something it will be unintelligible how I
have come to learn things from others in the first place. Where to stop will be
a matter of what one finds 'reasonable'; but I am afraid no helpful general rule
can be given about that.
On the other hand, suppose it is finally confirmed that my friend has handed
over military secrets to a foreign power. It may-note: may-follow that I then
give up my trust in her. But another outcome is at least imaginable. Even when
it is quite clear to me that my friend has been giving me false information the
question of how I should react is still open. I might accept her lying to me as
something she could not avoid. If she did that it must have been the right thing
to do.?
I could revise my views about, say, the KGB. There is nothing inherently
absurd about this: after all, I have been suspicious about the KGB because I have
taken accounts of some other people on trust. Doubts may certainly arise now as
to how reasonable of me it will be to trust my friend. Yet there is no point where
my trust must come to an end. The frustration of my expectations might also
make me conclude that there has been something wrong with my expectations.
A few observations about what has not been said. I am not
suggesting-absurdly-that the facts of the matter cannot give me reasons to
trust someone or to give up my trust in her. Nor am I saying that I could never
be mistaken about whom or how far to trust. It is just that I am the one who is
to recognise facts as reasons, in the light of the situation as I know it. And
obviously, the same point applies to the other party. One could imagine sensible
and perverted cases on both sides; but there is nothing more prima facie
irrational or credulous about the one than the other!
Summing up the argument so far. What it is that facts 'rightly incline us to
believe' is a function of what kinds of suspicion we find reasonable; and that will
depend on how we perceive the situation as a whole. The notion of evidence is,
as it were, subordinate to our relations to others.
The fact that we may disagree in our judgments is not, in itself, a sign of
irrationality. It is a natural consequence of the fact that we are different peopLe,
differently placed in the world. While an important aspect of the human
condition, it is not, as such, a problem in the philosophical sense.

7 This point is from Hertzberg 1988.

 LEARNING FROM OTHERS 93

6.3. Reasoning and Its Background

These conclusions are not quite satisfactory from the point of view of traditional
post-Cartesian epistemology. The traditional view suggests a two-tier system for
rationally acceptable empirical claims. On the one hand, there are the claims that
I can accept on the testimony of my perception. On the other hand, there are the
testimonies of others-whose veracity I can only assume, and only to the extent
that they are compatible with my own perception. If I accept someone's
testimony I must assume both her veracity and the accuracy of her perception.
If, then, my perception is fallible, what I learn from others is one more remove
away from absolute certainty.
A traditional conclusion would be: even if we cannot strictly speaking say
that we know what we only learn from others it is nevertheless rational in many
cases (for various reasons) to act as if we knew it. Normal life would often, or
always, simply be impossible unless we did. s
But the traditional view can be said to distort what we usually mean by
rationality. In many cases it is, on the contrary, rational to believe the testimony
of others rather than one's own perception; think, for instance, of situations
where competing accounts of an event are presented by different people. 9 In the
face of conflicting accounts, it would often be irrational of me not to recognise
the fallibility of my perception and memory. Indeed, our standard way of
establishing the accuracy of our perceptions and memories is by comparing them
with the testimonies of others.
This is not only a factual point. The question if my perceptions and memories
may be mistaken can only get off the ground because I accept some competing
criteria for truth. I realise the possibility of delusion by comparing my own
perceptions and memories with the accounts of others.!D The assumption of our
fallibility is implied in the idea that there can be objective accounts of an event.
Descartes starts his reconstruction of the foundations of knowledge by
invoking the possibility of solipsism; but his argument for the possibility that 'the
external world' does not exist is itself based on the assumption that I can imagine
my perception and memory to fail me. This is already a departure from
solipsism.!! For a solipsist, it could not make sense to imagine a mistake in his

XAdler 1994; Govier 1993c. For an illuminating discussion see Coady 1992,21-24.
~Coady 1992, 147-151.
IOAlso see Govier 1993c, 28-29.
IIThis is not to say there are no other routes to solipsism.
94 CHAPTER 6

perceptions or memories. They could not even be internally inconsistent; they

could only show variation. At first, I have the perception of sitting by the fire.
A second later, I find myself lying in bed. Different states of consciousness are
involved, but the one does not contradict the other. It would not make sense
either, it seems, for the solipsist to say that he believes he has perceptions and
memories. The whole idea that we perceive and remember (as opposed to simply
going through various psychological states) has to do with the fact that there are
others who may confirm our statements.
Similar views are suggested by Wittgenstein's discussion of the idea of
certainty. In On Certainty, 12 he considers the fact that we take perhaps the bulk
of what we believe for granted without asking for proof. For instance: the world
has existed a long time before my birth. My certainty in believing this is not
based on evidence as usually understood. Any suggested proof could be accom-
modated on the opposing belief as well: the world might have popped into
existence a few years ago, complete with memories and historical records.
Wittgenstein is not flirting with scepticism. He is suggesting that the idea of
giving proofs or asking for them is somehow out of place here. I cannot seriously
doubt my conviction that the world is very old or, for instance, that I have never
been to China.
I learn such things from other people. It is impossible for me to know that
I have never been to China unless I accept a great deal of what I have been told
about geography. And in the great majority of cases it is impossible for me to
ascertain the veracity of my informants.
Even worse: the possible methods I could use for checking also presuppose
that I take for granted some information I have received from other people. I can
check a piece of geographical information from a map because I rely on the
map's accuracy. In a paper, Martin Gustafsson sums up the implications:

The conclusion we can draw from these observations is that a great deal of unfounded trust is
essentially connected to practices that we cannot dispense with without dispensing with everything
that has meaning for us. Whether or not what we rely on in these cases is principally susceptible of
doubt, in practice we must go on harbouring this trust as we do now, and without looking for
foundations for it, if we want to apply ourselves to, for instance, going for a walk, caring for an
injured neighbour, doing mathematics, doubting things, and using our first language-in short, if we
want to apply ourselves to what is our life. I]

12Wittgenstein, QC. The following presentation is largely based on the argument in Hertzberg
1988. For a classical treatment see Malcolm 1986, 201-235.
I3Gustafsson 1995,47. My translation; emphasis in the original. -Also see, e.g., Wittgenstein,
QC, § 344.
 LEARNING FROM OTHERS 95

It is not just that scepticism would be impracticable for various reasons. That
would roughly be Hume's position; and in this particular quote, Gustafsson's
contrast between 'principal' and 'practical' doubt might be taken to be in line with
it. Instead (as Gustafsson does point out), the very intelligibility of rationally
motivated doubt is dependent on the fact that there are things I do not doubt. The
fact that there are such things for me is part of my ability to make judgments. I
may be led to doubt some things I have previously taken for granted; but the
very possibility of judgments and proofs, and hence of rational doubt, depends
on a stable background-a 'substratum of all my enquiring and asserting' .14
Otherwise, a whole range of ways of asking questions and answering them-a
way of life-would have to go. For instance, the very idea of historical inquiries
(such as doubting or discussing the accuracy of a particular piece of historical
information) would be undermined if historians were prepared seriously to
consider that the world may have come into being just a few years before their
birth.
It is not, however, up to the philosopher to provide universal criteria for the
ideas and doubts that 'must' be ruled out of consideration. Different ideas will
have this role in different ages and cultures l5 (for instance, there is nothing to
indicate that every age would treat the possibility of historical inquiries as
essential for rationality). Indeed, different ideas will have this role for different
individuals. Personally, I cannot seriously doubt that I know my own name or
that I have never been to China. Others may, both with regard to me and to
themselves-though it may be important that this sort of thing is commonly
thought to be beyond doubt for an individual. The integrity of someone's promise
may, for me, be beyond every doubt. 16 Someone else may not share this
certainty, and indeed at a later point I, too, may change my view. Nevertheless
at the time it was the basis of my other beliefs and my action.
Wittgenstein does not claim to establish the logical or psychological 'founda-
tions' of our judgments. I know my own name, I know that I have had such-and-
such parents, I know that I now have two hands. Nothing of general importance
follows from these contingent facts about me. Yet if I cannot accept all this, what
can I possibly accept as proving it? Rationality cannot begin with doubt. The

'4Wittgenstein. OC, § 162; also see, e.g., §§ 103, 105, 115,329. Cf. Giddens 1991, 129, where
a 'substratum of trust' is represented as a psychological condition of normal life. For my criticism see
Ch. 8.
"Wittgenstein, OC, §§ 96-99. Cf. Collingwood 1979, where the study of the 'absolute presup-
positions' of thought is described as an essentially historical inquiry.
'I>Wittgenstein, C&V, 73; also see OC, §§ 174,629.
96 CHAPTER 6

bulk of what we know, or think we know, we have simply accepted on human

authority.
However, remember that this dependence is not only characteristic of children
but of any normal adult. Nor is it, as such, a sign of helplessness or exposedness;
I have, on the contrary, pointed out that our epistemic resources are less one-
sided than many philosophers tend to think. The fact that we often do not
question what we learn from others is not a residual 'childlike thoughtlessness,
innocence, and powerlessness'. 17 Rather, as we grow more independent, we learn
to make more use of such sources of knowledge.
This discussion, however, does not suggest a rational justification of reliance
on testimony. Rather, it suggests that it may be misguided to ask for a
justification. A certain preparedness to take other people's testimonies on trust is
constitutive of what we mean by rationality.

6.4. Is Trust Innate?

The conclusion so far is: rational judgment involves, in some sense, the
acceptance of various beliefs that one takes on trust. This taking on trust will not
in its turn be based on reasoning since it is itself part of reasoning. Putting it
temporally: before we can learn the use of our rational faculties we must start by
not questioning what our parents and educators tell US. 18 We must trust them;
taking a belief on trust involves, at this stage, trusting a person.
That leads to a question: do we not now have to assume an innate tendency
to trust others-or a 'basic trust'-as a precondition for the development of our
rational faculties?
This is suggested by several writers. Hertzberg's consideration of themes
discussed in On Certainty at least seems to invite the conclusion. Learning to
entertain doubts is, according to Hertzberg, a 'fall from grace' whereby the child
leaves its original state of innocence and truSt. 19 Annette Baier arrives, via
another route, at a conclusion that is similar in this respect. While thinking that
trusting in principle can be endorsed as a rational pursuit, she also sees the
difficulties involved in making anyone trust by means of an argument. She
concludes that trust, in some form at least, must be innate. Thus, 'this innate but

17Cf. Baier 1997a, 121.

lX E.g., Wittgenstein, QC, § 310.

IYHertzberg 1988. Also see my own similar suggestions in Lagerspetz I 992a. -However, the
views criticised below belong to Baier, not Hertzberg.
 LEARNING FROM OTHERS 97

fragile trust could serve as the explanation both of the possibility of other forms
of trust and of their fragility'?O We must suppose that 'infants emerge from the
womb already equipped with some ur-confidence in what supports them, so that
no choice is needed to continue with that attitude, until something happens to
shake or destroy such confidence'.21 This makes biological sense as well, Baier
thinks, since it is a condition of the survival of any being whose first
nourishment must come from someone else. -Starting with the newborn,
consider Baier's description:

[Sjurviving infants will usually have shown some trust, enough to accept offered nourishment, enough
not to attempt to prevent such close approach. The ultra-Hobbist child who fears or rejects the
mother's breast, as if fearing poison from that source, can be taken as displaying innate distrust, and
such newborns must be the exception in a surviving species. 22

Baier's expressions may mislead the reader. To speak of a Hobbist-or Witt-

gensteinian, or Marxist-baby is absurd, which Baier of course realises. But the
absurdity goes deeper than she thinks. The incongruity is not just one of postulat-
ing too intellectual grounds for the baby's choices. It is problematic in the first
place to speak of the baby 'accept[ing the] offered nourishment'. At birth, the
baby is completely at the mercy of the adults around it. It has no choice-or
even more, it has not yet come to the point where talk of choices makes sense.
Consequently we cannot say that its 'choice' to suck the breast is an expression
of trust. The same point applies to suspicion. Babies are typically scared more
easily than adults. However, we speak of the baby being upset, not unusually
SUSpICIOUS.
In fact, many newborn babies have difficulties with breast feeding. They
wave their arms about, push the breast away, make frustrated noises-behaviour
which, in adults, would express extreme distaste, anger, and distrust?3 But the
mother will not take this at face value. She will, perhaps, stimulate the baby's
sucking reflex with a finger and force the nipple against the baby's gum until the
baby starts feeding. Babies who fail are bottle-fed (if their homes can afford it).
Those who refuse the bottle or throw up the milk are taken to the doctor. We call
them sick or abnormal, not suspicious. The point is not empirical. In these sorts
of circumstances there just is no room for the notions of suspicion or doubt. This
should also make us wary of applying the word 'trust' to newborns.

211Baier 1986, 242.

hid., 244. Also see Baier 1994: 177, 195.
21 /

22Baier 1986, 241. Also see Baier 1994, 195.

211 am grateful to Oag Lagerspetz for making me realise this fact.
98 CHAPTER 6

Baier recalls elsewhere that several philosophers have objected to her descrip-
tion of babies as trustfuI. 24 Trust, her critics say, is too complex a mental state
to be attributed to a baby. Baier, however, at least thinks it is necessary that
babies have some innate capacity that later develops into the more full-fledged
forms of trust typical of adult life?5
The development of trust, on this account, would be analogous to the
development of the sense of balance. A potential for development exists and
gradually unfolds as the infant grows. A baby's sense of balance is first de-
monstrated by reflexes such as throwing out the hands when the baby's balance
is upset. When the innate faculty matures the child will learn to sit up, walk,
develop car sickness, and so on.
How does the analogy fit? Consider the typical development of an infant. The
following account is deliberately sketchy; not an attempt to support a
philosophical suggestion empirically but a reminder of what we mean when we
speak of a child as maturing. Nothing particular rests on the question whether or
not there are individual variations.
(1) Immediately after birth, the baby is completely dependent on the adults
around it; however, it does not yet seek contact and does not react strongly to
their presence or absence. It does not comprehend that it has very real needs that
can only be satisfied by other people. This lasts a day or two at most, until the
baby learns to turn to the mother for nourishment and comfort.
(2) The baby now depends on the adults around it for food, shelter, and
mobility. It is carried around, cuddled, washed, clothed, and handled by them.
It follows them with its eyes and is comforted by their presence.
(3) The baby gradually learns to be afraid of unfamiliar faces. It is scared by
sudden noises. It expresses its likes, dislikes, and fears by sounds, facial
expressions, and by wriggling.
(4) With increased mobility and understanding of speech, the toddler learns
to avoid forbidden objects. The child learns to do new things, but also to refuse
to do everything it is asked to do (such as eating, walking, answering questions).
(5) Later, the child learns not to believe everything others teII it.
Obviously, much more could be added. But in sum, the child's general line
of development points towards increased independence. An ever widening range
of activities are available for the child; consequently, the child also acquires more
and more freedom to refuse going along with its parents' wishes.

Z4Baier 1997a, 119-120.

z5Baier 1986, 241-243.
 LEARNING FROM OTHERS 99

But here the analogy with the sense of balance breaks down. It is true that
a richer notion of trust is applicable to, say, three-year-olds than to newboms.
But it seems confused to say that they are more trustful, or better at trusting, than
newboms-while of course it would make sense to say that their sense of
balance is better. We cannot pin down any particular faculty which constitutes
the child's ability to trust. What takes place is, instead, a steady increase of
situations where the notions of trust and distrust are applicable.
In psychology, attachment theories attempt to explain how children grow
attached to other people, mainly the mother. The chief question addressed by
them is to what extent the onset of attachment depends on genetically determined
maturation processes as opposed to social factors.
The development of attachment consists in reciprocal responses by infant and
mother (or some other adult playing the role of the mother figure). A traditional
view-if we discount secondary drive theories which lack empirical
plausibility26-is that the infant has an built-in propensity to be in touch with and
cling to a human being.
In a classical study, Bowlby defines 'attachment behaviour' as any behaviour
leading to a reduction of the physical distance between the infant and the mother
figure. This involves on the one hand, the infant moving towards the mother or
clinging to her, and on the other hand, calling mother, crying, smiling to her,
laughing, and looking for her, all of which typically arouse the mother's interest
in the baby.

For example, a young's vocal calls attract mother to it, and its locomotory movement takes it to her.
Since both kinds of behaviour, and others as well, have the same consequence, namely proximity,
it is useful to have a general term to cover them all; and for this purpose 'attachment behaviour' is
used. Anyone form of juvenile behaviour that results in proximity [of mother] can then be regarded
as a component of attachment behaviour. 27

If we take Bowlby's definition literally, running away or hurting oneself will also
count as attachment behaviour, insofar as the mother will rush to the child to
protect it. It might be unjust to read Bowlby in this way (even if he says nothing
to discourage it) but this nevertheless highlights a general difficulty. 'Attachment
behaviour' refers to the way the infant and its mother behave together. Thus we
unite these disparate forms of behaviour under one heading because we think of
attachment between mother and child as the natural outcome of the development.

26Bowlby 1969, 216-218.

27/bid., 181-182.
100 CHAPTER 6

When the baby cries in distress we already think of the distress primarily as a
concern for the mother.
Attachment behaviour cannot be defined as beginning only when the infant
starts actively moving towards the mother. Thus, for instance, cultural differences
in when this begins only reflect differences in the locomotory abilities of babies
rather than deeper psychological differences. Since human infants will not be
mobile until, perhaps, their eighth month, the responsibility of maintaining
proximity will at first fall entirely on the mother. This fact leads to a theoretical
difficulty in deciding by what criteria to fix the beginning of the infant's
attachment behaviour. 28
However, it is important that the difficulty is only theoretical. When the baby
learns to move towards the mother, that is naturally seen as a continuation of the
earlier stages where the mother is the active party.
The newborn expresses its distress, fear, hunger, etc., by crying and hopes for
someone or something to relieve the distress. At this early stage, any adequate
help would do. However, the mother will take it as a matter of course that her
presence is required. Thus it is initially the mother's reactions that define a
species of infant behaviour as being specifically directed towards herself. The
baby is welcomed to life by a specific person who takes the main responsibility
for its well-being. If no such pattern were present in adult reactions we could not
here speak of 'attachment behaviour'.
Crucially, at some point the baby will start to prefer a particular person's help
to that of others. It learns to see people in a selective way. It learns, for instance,
to be afraid of strangers-and not to be afraid of mother when she sneezes or
puts on her sun glasses. Hence, one might just as well say that what needs
explaining is not the fact that infants cling to their mothers but the fact that they
learn not to cling to everyone in the same way.
But perhaps this really needs no explanation-except in terms of general facts
about the maturation of discernment. The baby learns to direct its fears towards
the 'appropriate' objects, i.e., objects appropriate from the point of view of the
life that adults have prepared for it. It enters a life where a place has been staked
out for it, gradually to fill that place more and more fully. The parents, by
reacting to its cues in determined ways, create a pattern according to which the
baby will li ve.
If we do speak of a young baby as trustful the expression does not have the
same range of implications as when speaking of adults. In the absence of an
intelligible possibility of distrust, most of the usual implications are missing.

2X/bid., 199.
 LEARNING FROM OTHERS 101

One thing we can mean by calling the baby trustful is, perhaps, that there is
no 'moral distance' between the baby and others. There are none of the invisible
walls of affectation or embarrassment that arise between adults; none of the
untouchable field of privacy that surrounds us and separates us from one another.
If the baby falls asleep in my arms it is feeling safe. If it cries it is upset. It is
impossible to think that these expressions are not genuine. We may not always
understand what it wants but we cannot think it could be deceiving us. (This is
a grammatical point: deception is parasitic on genuine expressions; the ability to
deceive presupposes the mastery of genuine expression.)
As the child advances in age a richer concept of trust is applicable to it.
Speaking of toddlers as trustful may refer to the fact that they tend to believe
what they are told and go along with what an authoritative adult suggests to
them. They are blissfully ignorant of the dangers that may befall them. Calling
them trustful may be a way of admonishing the adult who speaks ironically to
children or manipulates them. The fact that a child cannot be suspicious imposes
on us a duty not to let it down. To call it trustful is to say something about the
moral weight that should be given to the fact that it is so strongly dependent on
others.
Thus while I think it makes a certain sense to speak of infants as trustful this
is not because I am willing to give them more credit than Baier's critics do. The
question just has nothing to do with cognitive psychology. As argued in Chapter
2, to use the word 'trust' in one's characterisation of a person is not primarily to
attribute to her a mental state or operation. Thus we can take Baier's point that
what primarily needs explanation is the development of distrust, without having
to make sentimental, psychological assumptions about an innate ability to trust.
The ability to keep one's balance and the ability to reason ripen in the course
of infant development. However, the same cannot be said of one's ability to be
included in relations in which the word 'trust' is applicable. The child trusts, as
it were, by default: the relation exists from the start, the baby does not need to
do anything in order to establish the relation. By virtue of being a
child-someone's child-it is, from the very start, woven into a fabric of moral
relations. It is a member, or a prospective member, of the moral order to which
we belong.
In the end, then, it is rather uninteresting to ask whether babies trust their
parents or simply do not distrust them. The two expressions are more or less
equivalent. In neither of the cases are we attributing complex mental operations
to the baby-as we sometimes do in the case of adults who trust us.
A similar point applies to the question whether children (say, two-year-olds)
really accept the authority of their parents. From their own point of view, it just
102 CHAPTER 6

is the case that certain things are forbidden; and that the parents frequently make
them do things in spite of their protests. But if we saw our children as devoid of
a notion of authority we could never relate to them as members of the moral
order to which we belong. For instance, they might annoy us but we would never
get angry at them in the way we do with their elders. This means that they in
fact would not be members of the moral order. We would make it impossible for
them to enter it-a bit like what would happen if we decided not to talk to
babies until we know that they understand speech.
In conclusion, the possibility of being included in relations to which the word
'trust' is applicable is not a faculty in the way the ability to keep one's balance
is a faculty. It is true that if we attribute trust to a person we must normally think
of her as capable, or potentially capable, of participating in relationships in which
fairly complex intellectual operations take place. So in this general sense trusting
is related to our intellectual faculties; but 'the ability to trust' is not itself a
faculty any more than, say, 'the ability to hold a bank account'. Hence it will not
make sense to ask whether the possibility of being included in these relations is
learned or innate.

6.5. Conclusion

To sum up: the exercise of reason will, explicitly or implicitly, involve

dependence on others. To put it non-temporally: the particular ways in which we
take facts as indicating the existence of other facts are aspects of our ways of
depending on other people. To put it temporally: if we are to learn to make
judgments we must start by relying on others, and in doing so we cannot
question their trustworthiness.
It might be asked if our unquestioning attitude will not in itself require a
justification; or if it cannot be justified, whether it must be taken as a datum,
perhaps a biological fact about us (e.g., a 'primitive reaction'). But it is
misleading to evoke these two possibilities as the alternatives. It is not the case
that an activity or practice of not questioning must furnish the foundations for
our other activities. This is again related to the argument in Chapter 2. Not
asking a question could be said to be something we undertake to do if a question
arose but we refused to address it. But in the absence of distrust, certain
questions do not arise. We just are involved in various human relationships; this
is the normal context of our practices but in itself it is not something we
undertake to do. There is no practice of 'trusting' or 'not questioning' here calling
for explanation or justification.
 LEARNING FROM OTHERS 103

Sometimes our involvement with others does give rise to questions and make
people use the word 'trust' in their characterisations of us. Trust now becomes an
issue. You may ask me what grounds I have for believing a friend when she
denies a charge brought up against her. My reply may be that I just do not think
it likely that she is lying to me; I may tell you about my earlier experience with
her and give you her version of the relevant events. Both you and I are, then,
making judgments on the basis of what we know and either of us may later be
shown to be mistaken. Both my way of drawing my conclusions and your way
of drawing yours will, in different ways, reflect our relations to other people.
Thus my trust in a friend is not a judgment about her. It is not something
additional over and above my other judgments. It is an aspect of the way in
which I judge, part of my judging?9

2YSee Wittgenstein, OC, S 105.

 7
LEGITIMACY

I said: 'Must I love my country very much?'

-'Yes', said my mother. 'More than the people
you love, more than yourself. More than your
home and everything you own. More than all your
earthly fortune, indeed more than your life. But
not more than your God, your honour and your
conscience.' - Topelius. 1

7.1. Introduction

The individual lives with others; it was argued that, for a great many important
purposes, the epistemic situation of the individual cannot be adequately described
in abstraction from this fact. Clearly, considerations of this kind open up
questions about the nature of social life. Many political philosophers have
described life in society, roughly, as a technique employed by individuals in
order to satisfy their rational preferences. This general approach implies some
version of the idea discussed in Chapters 1, 4, and 5: that one may intelligibly
require a rational justification for any form of human association. That is: all
human associations can be seen as something one could intelligibly decide to
engage In.
Peter Winch's work in political philosophy was, in various ways, directed
against this way of thinking. His contribution to the existing critical tradition
consists mainly in connecting it to an analysis of the notion of rationality in the
light of Wittgenstein's later philosophy. The present chapter will reformulate
some of Winch's points and work out some of their implications. The argument
consists in two main contentions. First, there are forms of legitimate authority
that cannot, even for theoretical purposes, be portrayed as being based on rational
choice. Second, our relation to politics-the way politics matters io us-involves
concepts which cannot be spelled out in terms of individual rational choice alone.
Our relation to political authority involves a feature that may be called a
sense of political legitimacy. Here I will not be looking for guidelines for legiti-
mate political arrangements but trying to describe the role of that notion. I will

ITopelius 1982, 14. My translation, emphasis added.

 LEGITIMACY 105

suggest that our sense of political legitimacy is something both analogous to, and
derived from, intimate personal relations involving trust.
This connection is something that political philosophy has generally failed to
consider. Philosophers who analyse the role of trust in political life-such as
Locke-tend to derive its importance from instrumental concerns. 2 Yet the
question seems at least worth looking at: consider the fact that relations between
the citizen and the nation are, in popular imagery, frequently shrouded in a
language that suggests a personal, human relation. 3 People take to the streets and
go to prison, or let themselves be run over by tanks as if they were protecting
their own children or lovers. We should not think they are prepared to face death
just for the sake of a convenient order of things.

7.2. Legitimacy and Expediency

First of all: one may support a political arrangement for many different reasons,
but not all such support could be taken to involve recognition of legitimacy. To
expect profit from a military takeover and hope for one for that reason is not to
recognise the undertaking as legitimate. To treat a political arrangement as
legitimate is not the same as thinking that it is in harmony with one's (selfish or
unselfish) preferences. It is to recognise that the arrangement has-at least to
some extent-a claim to one's allegiance independently of what one wants.
Similarly, concern for legitimacy must be kept apart from concern for the
'interests' of one's country as a whole, its influence in international politics or
what the strong euphemistically call their legitimate interests abroad. A citizen
may object to a regime as illegitimate despite his recognition that its policies
have strengthened the country in terms of economy and worldwide influence. The

2John Locke (1980) analyses the relation between the Sovereign and the citizens as a case of
trust. For Locke, however, the role of trust is instrumental, reminiscent of a legal transaction. People
entrust their rulers with political power on the condition that 'it shall be imployed for [the people's]
good, and the preservation of their Property' (11 § 171). That is, 'for the publick Good and Safety' (II
§ 110); for Locke, this is the same as the citizens' 'Peace, Quiet, and Property' (I1 § 136). Rulers
forfeit their trust by unequal implementation of laws, by designing laws for other ends than the good
of the people, by raising taxes without the people's consent, or by unauthorised transfer of powers
to others (II § 142; §§ 221-222). Thus the legitimacy of a government is essentially a function of its
ability to protect the citizens' interests. Locke, in line with this, holds that a sovereign is permitted
to overstep his legal powers if it serves this general goal (§§ 164-166). -Also see Laslett 1980, 112-
117; Dunn 1984.
lSee Anderson 1983, passim.
106 CHAPTER 7

exiled government of an oppressed country may continue to be regarded as

legitimate despite the fact that it (ipso facto) lacks the power of protecting the
people against their enemies. 4
If (note: if) the idea of legitimacy has a role--explicit or implicit-in how
people think about their society, then they cannot see politics simply as a matter
of expediency. For them, that would be a suspension of the real issues. This is
not to deny that a prevailing political discourse may falsely construe questions
of legitimacy and justice in terms of expediency. That would be a failure to
articulate the concerns that lie implicit behind people's political views. Arguably,
this is exactly what has happened in mainstream political philosophy.
Here we may think, e.g., of John Rawls and his idea of the just society, first
and foremost, as 'a fair system of cooperation' within which individual citizens
pursue their personal conceptions of the good-roughly, conceptions of personal
happiness as expressed in individual life plans. s The personal 'good' pursued by
the Rawlsian individuals need not be taken to be self-interest. Yet in any case,
this description would leave no room for a concern for legitimacy for its own
sake. Supposedly, everyone really prefers that things are run in a way that
maximises their good; unable to achieve that, they opt for a fair system of
cooperation as a second choice. Ex hypothesi, the individual's only reason for
supporting a Rawlsian just society is the fact that it is likely to enhance some
other good to which social justice (as defined by Rawls) can only be in-
strumentally related. In fact, Rawls himself today concedes that what he has put
forward is only one particular conception of justice, suited (as he thinks) for con-
temporary liberal societies. 6
Probably, in some societies, politics comes close to simply being a matter of
striking a balance between competing preferences. But it would be misleading
to see that as the only way in which the notion of justice enters politics. Indeed

4A related point was made by Hume (1904) against Locke. -Also see a discussion by Peter
Winch (1991, p. 227). -If the foreign occupation lasts long enough there will certainly be a lot of
ambiguity as to who the legitimate authorities are. For instance, the occupying power will shoulder
the responsibility for law enforcement: you don't caJl the government in exile to retrieve a stolen bike.
Similarly, certain legal transactions such as marriages will have to count as valid. The legitimate
authority, upon return, wiJl have to face the question what to do about transfers of property during
the occupation. These questions are now faced by Eastern and Central European governments
emerging from Soviet occupation.
5Rawls 1992, 198. Cf. Sandel 1992.
"Rawls 1993, 14. No attempt will be made here at an overall assessment of Raw1s's work or its
changes over time. For a discussion by a feJlow Liberal of his, see Ackerrnan 1994. Here I am chiefly
drawing on Ackerrnan's presentation of Rawls 1993.
 LEGITIMACY 107

we might say that such a conception leaves no real room for the notion of
justice. Bargaining only reproduces the existing inequalities since the outcome
depends on the original power balance. Justice, on the other hand, sometimes
means that a party must relinquish all their claims. We need justice exactly when
voluntary agreements cannot produce any satisfactory resolution of a conflict.
The issue of legitimacy must also be kept apart from another question-that
of what people in general might reasonably agree upon. Liberal theorists such
as Rawls take it to be their task to find this 'overlapping consensus,.7 Thus for
Bruce Ackerman, '[p]olitical liberalism will live or die in an effort to construct
a constitutive form of public reason-one that allows very different sorts of
people to reason together on fundamental questions of social justice'.s 'It is', he
adds, 'only when citizens can come to terms about the appropriate models of
public argument-using the veil of ignorance, the neutrality constraint, or other
to-be-invented constructs-that they can proceed to the business of social
justice,.9
But it seems to me that the exact opposite is the case: public political
discourse is created in, and through, the fact that we express our sense of
legitimacy and social justice. The discourse itself consists of our attempts to
voice conflicting views on such issues. Any true agreement, too-where
possible--can only be the result of the meeting of such genuine voices.
In a modern civil society, citizens and political groups typically have views
of their own, not only about their interests but about social justice. Those are
positive views, not only anticipations of a palatable compromise. In fact, by re-
presenting liberal society as a compromise between different wills, Ackerman
himself fails to appreciate the appeal of civic freedom as a positive idea1. 1o The
reason why many of us defend civil society and its liberties is not just the fact
(if it is a fact) that civil society is the best compromise we can hope for. Civil
society may be the object of our genuine allegiance.
Thus the question to be addressed here is not what we (who? Everyone?) can
agree upon-which, anyway, may be considerably less than Ackerman realises.
Rather, the idea of legitimacy has to do with what I can intelligibly live and die
doing.

7Rawls 1993, 145-146; 11-15,29-35; Ackerman 1994,365-375.

xAckerman 1994. 368. However, Ackerman, unlike Rawls, also wants to extend liberal rule to
countries where it has little support (hence imposing it on people whom it does not meet on a
common ground: 375-385). And he nowhere tells us who is fo define what will count as 'fundamental
questions of social justice'.
yOp. cit., 386. Cr. Rhees 1969, 73-74.
IIICompare this with Rhees, op.cif., 84-85.
108 CHAPTER 7

7.3. Political Consent

It may perhaps be said that a political arrangement is legitimate when recognised

as such by the relevant population. But this tells us next to nothing: for-apart
from problems about defining 'the relevant population' in a way that does not beg
the question-we have said nothing as yet about what such a recognition consists
in. The problem is shown by the fact that the word 'legitimacy' is used in the
definition. It is no answer to a person who does not already know what it is to
recognise political legitimacy.
Nor is popular support, as such, a sufficient criterion of a regime's being
recognised as legitimate. One must consider the way in which concern for legiti-
macy, justice, or the like, enters the reasoning of those who support the regime.
On the other hand, whether I can intelligibly take popular support to express a
genuine sense of legitimacy will, in part, be dependent on my own views about
the policies of the government in question.
Obviously, recognising the legitimacy of a regime is not synonymous to
saying that one recognises it. We can both imagine a tacit recognition-the
normal case-and a forced verbal recognition; and even when the words are
uttered voluntarily they may mean different things. Nor is it sufficient to say that
the recognition consists in thinking or believing that the regime is legitimate, or
in believing that the relevant population think SO.II Having a certain string of
words in one's mind may mean more or less anything depending on when one
has it, how, and who one is. What 'legitimacy' means to the relevant population
is itself conditioned by how they act towards authorities and how they think and
talk of their relation to political authority.
When do questions about legitimacy arise? Consider this (by John Dunn):

[T]here can be little doubt that if most of the past population of the world were to be transported into
many countries in the present, they would (once they had recovered from the shock of arrival) be
extremely clear that the governments of these countries had gained markedly in legitimacy over their
historical predecessors. 12

Exactly what is it to 'recover from the shock of arrival'? How do we know

recovery is complete? Our imaginary time traveller must grow acquainted with
the new society. He must be given an idea of the terms in which he is to

IISee, e.g., E. Lagerspetz 1995.

12 0unn 1988, 82.
 LEGITIMACY 109

compare it with his original society. But this means that he must be taught a new
way of discussing and thinking about political institutions; all of which comes
suspiciously close to saying that he must agree with John Dunn about the
appropriate criteria for a legitimate government. The exercise could just as well
be a way of testing him rather than of assessing the countries in question. (This,
as a matter of fact, seems to be the principal use of such exercises today; an
American politician's views on Iran or Libya have come to pass as a test of his
patriotic credentials.)
Historically, the criteria of political legitimacy have often been-rather than
universalisable as Dunn takes for granted-untransferrable (even if there is no
sharp dividing line). They cannot, without loss of meaning, be transferred from
one society to another-even if analogous criteria often apply in many societies.
As an extreme example, consider the role of the Dalai Lama as a Tibetan
political leader. It is based on complex religious and symbolic notions specific
to the Tibetan culture. There can be only one Dalai Lama 'as' there can only be
one Pope. There was only supposed to be one Son of Heaven, Holy Roman
Emperor, Sublime Porte, Inca, or Great House (,Pharaoh'). Hence, the notion of
comparing these various forms of legitimacy is, in itself, problematic.
That aside, consider the nature of what the newcomer will be asked to do.
There is an obvious difference between asking him to produce a ranking list of
different countries in terms of legitimacy and, on the other hand, his determining
the appropriate relation between himself and his own country. Dunn nowhere
suggests that the newcomer needs to follow up his judgment in any way.
But a judgment of the legitimacy of the government that rules one's own
country will obviously make a difference to one's life. If you come to see the
government of your country as lacking in legitimacy you will have to decide
what to do about it. You may emigrate, join an armed rebellion, or just try to
manage. In any case, the judgment will colour your life in various ways.
Thus I do not think the principal importance of questions about legitimacy
lies in our understandable tendencies to classify diverse overseas governments as
good or bad ones and to devise blueprints for imaginary ideal societies.
Questions about legitimacy should primarily be seen as something a citizen is
trying to address for her own part; they have to do with her relation to her own
political community. Primarily, they are of the form: What should I do? Quite
undramatically, I will ask myself what I shall teach my children; how
conscientious I should be about obeying the law, about my tax returns, and so
on.
I may be genuinely concerned about the policies of a foreign government,
too. We can think of different cases here. I may oppose a policy without
110 CHAPTER 7

questioning the legitimacy of the government which has adopted it. Or I may
think that the government of a country lacks legitimacy altogether. To
substantiate my claim, I might cite widespread opposition movements, and take
censorship to indicate the possibility of widespread opposition as soon as the
restrictions are lifted. I may cite political apathy and cynicism as indications that
the citizens no longer see the government as their representative. The validity of
my judgment here is conditional on how the citizens of that country think. In that
way, my statements concerning the legitimacy of the foreign government will be
'second-hand'. Analogously, the word 'oppression' always implies lack of genuine
consent on the part of those subjected to it. Questions about legitimacy primarily
focus on relations between a citizen and her own government.
The central question will be: What can I recognise as a justified claim on my
allegiance? While the views of other people may carry some weight with me the
question will, in the end, have to be addressed by me, in person.
To recognise that a political body has legitimate authority over me is to agree
not only that the body acts in my name but also that it acts-genuinely-on my
behalf. What it requires of me is ultimately, somehow, expressive of me-of who
I am. But how is this to be understood? How is it possible that someone else's
decisions can express my will?
Suppose I say that a political decision can only be expressive of my will
insofar as I have consented to it. But most political decisions are made regardless
of whether I consent to those particular decisions. This holds both for elected and
non-elected governments. Any government will, in all likelihood, adopt measures
that go against my views. To claim that those decisions cannot be expressive of
my will is to dispose of the notion of legitimacy: unless someone forces me to
comply I would only 'recognise' political decisions as binding me when I like
them. Which is not to recognise them as binding. The conclusion would have to
be that no exercise of political authority can ever be justified.
Usually we rather think that, by voting in a general election, I authorise a
government to act on my behalf. -But suppose I have voted for the opposition?
How can the fact that others make a certain choice in the election commit me to
abiding by it? -Yet all democracy rests on the assumption that it can. By part-
icipating in an election I, by that very fact, accept the resulting regime as
legitimate.
And as a matter of fact, I do. That is, I (who am now writing this) do. But
I can only do this against a particular background of political thought and
practice. By looking at my participation in an election as an act by which I
recognise the outcome as authoritative I am already expressing my sense of
legitimacy. Voting is not, for me, just a way of making the State work for me.
 LEGITIMACY III

I see myself as part of 'the electorate'-a group of people for whom the election
is something like a common cause. Lapsing to the terms of social contract
theory: I recognise that I am bound by my contract with the others." Yet of
course there has never been a contract: this 'common cause' is typically not one
I have chosen. I may make it mine or refuse to do so. My ability to share this
'common cause' with others depends on the fact that I already share another
'cause' with them that I do not have to choose (and cannot choose). I recognise
that I am member of a 'society'.
On the other hand: an election is an empty gesture unless the citizens think
of their everyday life in a certain way. A sense of legitimacy must be present to
them now, in the ways they think and talk about political life. 14 They have not
simply delegated the care of some of their interests to the State-as they might
buy private security services. The decisions of the State are, in a sense, their own
whether they have agreed to them or not; this is shown in the fact that they feel
responsibility for what their government does.
There is, then, no principal reason why a sense of allegiance could not just
as much inform a citizen's attitude towards a non-elected government-since in
any case it will involve the acceptance of a political culture that is not of her
own making. (It may nevertheless be true, for cultural reasons, that only re-
presentative democracy has the chance of acquiring true legitimacy in many
present societies. I)) A citizen may in any case perceive her own (!) government
as acting on her behalf. She may be proud of it, or assume responsibility for
what it does in her name. Or, what is a different demonstration of allegiance: she

IJRousseau understood this. This is why he needed the notion of a 'general will'. The point of
organising a vote is not to arbitrate between the wills of individual voters but rather to find the right
expression for the general will of a society held together by it. The citizen (once Rousseau's ideal
society is in place) 'consents' to all the laws including those against which he has voted. -Rousseau
1987b, Bk IV, Ch 11, p. 206. -The need of a common ground is undoubtedly the reason why peoples
'fit for legislation' must be ones already 'bound by some union of origin, interest or convention' (Bk
11, Ch X, p. 169).
14This point was made by Peter Winch in his Seminar on Political Authority, The University of
Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, Spring 1991. As he pointed out, Rousseau expressed basically the same
point when he said that the citizens' will 'cannot be represented' (Rousseau, 1987b, Bk Ill, Ch. XV).
Also see, in the same place: 'Sitot que quelqu'un dit, des Affaires de l'Etat: que m'importe? on doit
compter que I'Etat est perdu' CAs soon as someone says, concerning the affairs of the State, What is
that to me?, one may consider the State to be lost'; Rousseau 1871, 128). -Also see Locke: 'And
thus the Community perpetually retains a Supream Power' of dismissing the ruler who breaks their
trust (1980, " § 149, my emphasis).
"Weil 1987,88.
112 CHAPTER 7

may find it her duty to protest exactly because her country and, by extension, she
is being involved in something terrible.

7.4. Rawls on the Authority of Parents

These last points go against the grain of what is frequently taken to be an axiom
of political thought. Others, it is often said, may legitimately exercise power over
me only insofar as I have freely consented to it-or at least can be construed as
implicitly having done so, or as having had a reason to do SO.16 This is a central
aspect of the social contract tradition. But a philosophical claim is shown to be
wrong as a general thesis as soon as a counter-example is produced. This is the
first reason why I now wish to consider the relation between parents and
children.
Hobbes, all in tune with his general approach, derived the dominion of
parents over children from the child's consent-'either expresse, or by other
sufficient arguments declared'. That is, '[n]ot by Generation, but by Contract'.17
Filmer already replies: 'How a child can express consent, or by other sufficient
arguments declare it before it comes to the age of discretion I understand not; yet
all men grant it is due before consent can be given,.'8
Nevertheless, Hobbes's position is actually echoed by Rawls in A Theory of
Justice. 19 Rawls gives an account of the growth of love and trust between a child
and its parents. At this early stage of development, trust and obedience amount
to more or less the same thing: both mean that the child goes along with what
the parents suggest to it. Rawls suggests a basis in reciprocity: the child realises
that the parents love it and so returns their love. The child accepts their authority
because it realises that they are concerned about its well-being.

I"See Winch 1991.

17Hobbes 1985, Ch. 20, 102. -This is in fact of crucial importance to Hobbes's theory. As Filmer
(1991, 187) observes, Hobbes's central doctrine of 'the natural right of every man to every thing' '...
can [not) be conceived without imagining a company of men at the very first to have been all created
together without any dependence one of another, or as "mushrooms (jungorum more) they all on a
sudden were sprung out of the earth without any obligation one to another" [... But] the Scripture
teacheth us otherwise, that all men came by succession and generation from one man.' It may be
added that biology here essentially agrees with the Scriptures.
'XFilmer 1991, 192.
'YRawls 1971,463.
 LEGITIMACY 113

The parents, we may suppose, love the child and in time the child comes to love and to trust his
parents. How does this change in the child come about? To answer this question I assume the
following psychological principle: the child comes to love the parents only if they manifestly first
love him. Thus the child's actions are motivated initially by certain instincts and desires, and his aims
are regulated (if at all) by rational self-interest (in a suitably restricted sense). Although the child has
a potentiality for love, his love of the parents is a new desire brought about by his recognizing their
evident love of him and his benefiting from the actions in which their love is expressed. 2D

Rawls does not present his account as an argument to justify the parents'
authority; he proposes to describe the psychological regularities which simply
lead to a situation where the child does trust and obey its parents. The child
'connects [his parents] with the success and enjoyment that he has in sustaining
his world, and with his sense of his own worth. And this brings about his love
for them'.21 The question of justification, then, is simply left aside.
Rawls makes a similar move when he considers the question whether
individuals in his theoretical 'original position' have duties towards their
immediate descendants:

To say that they do would be one way of handling questions of justice between generations. However,
the aim of [Rawls's reconstruction oil justice as fairness is to derive all duties and obligations from
other conditiol1S; so this way out should be avoided. n

Instead, Rawls makes the 'motivational assumption' that the agents have an
interest in the well-being of the next generation. Again he ducks the question of
duties by turning the issue into a psychological one.
But a psychological description still leaves room, it seems, for the question
whether parents are justified in exercising authority. A normal child will not
always obey its parents; one might then ask why it ought to do so. The answer
cannot be that the child has rationally accepted the parents' authority: Rawls
recognises that a child is not in a position to judge rationally about such issues.
The problem is that Rawls nevertheless wants to speak of the relation
between the child and its parents as if it could intelligibly result from rational
choice. It is in the child's long-term interest to obey its parents and trust them;
so if the child understood the choice it would consent. '[T]he unusual demands
of the practice in question [i.e., child-rearing] make it essential to give certain
individuals [i.e., the parents] the prerogatives of leadership and command'.23

2D/bid ., 463.
21/bid .. 464.
22/bid .• 128: emphasis added.
)J/bid .• 467.
114 CHAPTER 7

That may all be true; however, it is no answer-for the child does not know
it! Thus we cannot say that such facts (if they are facts) provide the child with
a reason to do anything. Speaking of the 'demands of the practice' of child-
rearing implies agreement about adopting the practice. But what is at issue is the
justification of the practice. The child has not been asked how, if at all, it wants
to be reared. An appeal to the child's long-term interests will not do here because
the child has no conception of them. The child's interests are defined by adults.
But to grant the parents the position to judge on the child's behalf is already to
grant them authority.
Normally-say, when the mother lifts the child from the floor to carry it
where it does not want to go-no question ever arises about her right to do so.
The child, perhaps, protests against being carried but that could not count as a
challenge to the principle of authority. When other adults challenge the
mother-say, advocating custody by someone else-that will be done in terms
of portraying her as a bad mother, not in terms of defending the child's
autonomy.
Thus I take it that the authority of parents is a case of legitimate authority.
Yet it cannot, even for theoretical purposes, be represented as an outcome of
rational choice in a Rawlsian 'original position'. Instead, it seems that Rawls must
include the authority of parents in the premisses of the available choices (perhaps
in 'the basis of social organization and the laws of human psychology' about
which the agents are taken to be well-informed 24 ). While the authority of parents
may be compatible with an argument that derives other types of authority from
rational choice in an 'original position', it is still a counter-example to the general
thesis that the exercise of authority is not justified unless it can be supported by
arguments of that kind.

7.5. The Compelling Force of Logic and Parents

In 'Certainty and Authority',25 Winch connects the authority of parents and

teachers to points made in Wittgenstein's On Certainty. The latter work was
discussed in the previous chapter. For the present purpose, we may sum up: if
a child is to learn anything, at first he will necessarily take the authority of his
parents and teachers as given.

137.
24 Ibid .,

2'Winch 1991.
 LEGITIMACY 115

What is the force of the 'necessity' here? -There are things in life that we,
in different ways, 'cannot' carry out on our own?6 This is true for several reasons.
First of all: there are a number of activities which it is impossible for one person
to carry out for practical reasons-such as playing the piano with four hands. We
could, however, say, imagine a trained chimpanzee doing it. Second, there are
activities that we can perform alone now but which we must originally learn in
the company of others-such as fishing. At some point in our lives we must have
been taught to fish by others. This 'necessity' derives from contingent facts about
the human condition. But there are also activities whose social character is
internal to what those activities are. It must take at least two people to play hide-
and-seek.
More importantly: a person can do certain things physically alone-and yet
doing them presupposes a culture, a social context. Wittgenstein's account of
language presents us with the most celebrated example. Reasoning belongs to this
category. On Certainty, then, is not simply highlighting contingent, psycho-
logical facts about infant development. The question is: under what kinds of
condition could we imagine human rationality?
The rule of contradiction -(p . -p), on a slip of paper, could be mistaken for
a design for wall-paper decoration. 27 To 'have' the rule, whether written down or
uttered, is not enough. It is not even enough that one should be able to use the
rule to generate new formulae. So far, there is nothing here to make the rule an
element of logic rather than part of an arbitrary computing system. Logic must
be alive to us-we must see what following or ignoring it implies in our own
lives. Let me spell this out: if someone had learnt to 'master' the rules of logical
inference but never seemed to grasp their role in his relations with others we
would not count that as real understanding. A logical inference is an instance of
reasoning. Our grasp of logic is shown in our practical exercise of reason.
Think of how we come to understand the idea of logical contradiction. A
child is made to see the requirements of a particular situation. From particular
cases, it learns what it is to give reasons, make judgments, and criticise others
for contradictions. The child learns by hearing adults argue about things with
him. We learn, among other things, that arguments offered by someone else
ought to make us act in certain ways (even when coercion is out of the question);
this is what is meant by the power of reason. Often, perhaps, we learn about

2"This is taken up by Annette Baier in Baier 1997b.

27Peter Winch, Lectures in Moral Philosophy, the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign,
Autumn 1990. The following argument will develop points made partly by Winch, partly by
Hertzberg (Hertzberg 1988 and personal communication).
116 CHAPTER 7

consistency by being held to our words by others-to promises, expressions of

intention, wishes, value judgments, and so on. We realise that reason 'compels'
us; that an appeal to consistency may be a way of motivating or justifying action,
or of discouraging from action.
These facts about how we learn are not simply contingent. Ultimately, a
'compulsion' like this can only come from a power that is independent of
ourselves as individuals. Otherwise, the 'rules' would lack the normativity that
characterises rules instituted by humans; at most they would amount to a
statistical regularity in our de facto behaviour. 28 In this way, the authority of
reason is a continuation of, and a substitute for, the authority of other people
over us. The very expressions we use when we discuss logic seem to hint at this
conclusion. We speak of propositions 'contradicting' each other or 'compelling'
us to accept certain conclusions; these terms, of course, originally refer to
dealings between people. A child learns the 'compelling force of logic' initially
by coming up against the compelling force of his parents.
I am not saying that the child ought to do this. I need not, since this is what
he does anyway. It is also, in a sense, what we do. A readiness to depend on
others-to trust and to obey (Yes, what outrageous words e9)-is an aspect of ra-
tionality.

7.6. Rootedness

The first reason why I took up the relation between parents and children was to
produce a counter-example to the general thesis that legitimate authority must
spring from some form of authorisation by those that are subject to it. The
second reason is its relevance to our understanding of what it is to belong to a
society and recognise obligations towards it.
The modem nation-state answers the question of why we should respect
decisions made in its name in terms of national belonging. We 'belong' to the
political community whose government we are expected to obey. To refuse to go
along with the collective decision is, in the circumstances, to part company with
one's nation.
However, the question remains of how our membership in a socially defined
group could, as such, create obligations. The fact that I belong to the group of,

2X, take this to be a paraphrase of Wittgenstein's argument against private languages, language

being a special case of rule-governed activities. See Winch 1958/1990.

2~Cf. Baier 1994, 192.
 LEGITIMACY 117

say, people wearing spectacles does not imply that I ought to be loyal to
decisions made in the name of that group. The answer must, it seems to me, be
offered along the following lines.
Political decisions made by the collective are articulations of concerns that
are, in some sense, shared by the individual citizen; my sense of political
obligation is, somehow, an expression of my understanding of who I am, rather
than simply the acceptance of decisions imposed on me from the outside. Thus
the assumption is that my national or communal identity is an aspect of my
selfhood in some deeper sense than is the fact that I wear spectacles. The crucial
difference seems to lie in the fact that 'nationality' is not simply a quality I have:
it consists of my practice of treating certain issues as something I share with a
particular group of others.
To understand this, we should see that there is a continuum between
belonging to a family and, on the other hand, having a relationship to a place,
a society, and to social institutions. 3D
A normal child is sooner or later initiated into a society and its various
institutions. This will take place under the guidance of adults whom the child
trusts. Of course, the society into which the child is introduced will always be
a particular society (or some particular societies)-never simply 'Society'.
Particular features of the cultural environment will, for the child, necessarily
come to count as the paradigmatic ways of doing things. His understanding of
communal life will be bound up with innumerable details: this is what people
say-and how they speak; this is how public transportation works-and what the
buses look like.
A child's grasp of the idea of a public transportation system will at first be
inseparable from such things as the particular colour of the buses. The colour is
not, for him, a contingency merely added to an existing idea of public transit. His
first acquaintance with a bus will be quite different from what it will be like for
him later to figure out how public transportation is run in a foreign city. The
point is really the same as the one made above about logic. We simply would not
count anyone's abstract understanding of society as genuine if it was only
abstract. It must be an articulation of what informs the person's life in concrete
ways when he participates in social practices.
This, incidentally, shows the problematic character of the 'veil of ignorance'
assumed by Rawls. The rational agents in the 'original position' are ignorant of
the position they will personally occupy in the society in which they will choose

,OThe following argument is a development of the argument in Hertzberg 1988. I have presented
it earlier in Lagerspetz 1992a.
118 CHAPTER 7

to live. They do not even know the conception of the good that they are going
to embrace in that future condition. However, they are presumed to know 'the
general facts about human society'." But the present discussion suggests that if
Rawls's rational agents are to have such abstract knowledge they must already
be acquainted with a particular society. This is something Rawls's 'original
position' would not allow for. So in the end, we do not even know what it would
be like for someone to be in the 'original position'.
Certain aspects of the life to which a child is introduced are expressed in
what may be called a symbolic language. 32 The attitudes of adults, expressed in
their relations to symbols, will shape the child's understanding of what is
meaningful in life-and what it is for something to be meaningful in the first
place. 33 The child will learn that certain things can count as 'important'. But again
he will not initially learn this in abstracto. The Rawlsian agent who understands
what it is to 'pursue the good' while ignorant of his good, is out of place here.
The child's understanding of the notion of something being 'important' comes
through the particular beliefs, attitudes, and practices the child is taught to
respect. The importance of a symbol or celebration for us stems from the fact
that we are introduced to it by someone. This is not only a factual point: the
notion of importance gets its force from how it enters our relations with people.
Not only in the sense that others have originally taught us to use the word; our
understanding of the notion is bound up with the fact that we see it enter their
relation to particular concerns. Things are 'important' for us, rather than just
something we need or want, because people are important.
A birthday marks a child's progression from one age category to another and
teaches him to be proud of it. It reflects the parents' concern for him-their joy
and pride in the fact that he is growing up fully to be one of 'them'. The fact that
adults have birthdays reminds the child that they, too, are going through life in
a similar progression and that he will later reach the point where others are now.
Birth, maturity, old age, death.
Public holidays like Christmas connect the family to a larger society where
everyone's routines are interrupted-and disturbed-in the same way.34 Such
simultaneity, in Benedict Anderson's terms, realises an imagined community

3IRawls 1971, 137. This was originally pointed out to me by Peter Winch.
)~his is an expression of Weil 1987, 88.
BSee Hertzberg 1994, 13-14.
)4 At the same time, the holiday-i.e., the relation to outside society shaped by the
holiday--defines the family as a family. 'The family', too, of course is a social institution. If there
were no organised social life, the existing clusters of people would not be 'families' as we understand
the notion. See Rousseau 1987a, 49 and Note 12.
 LEGITIMACY 119

between the child and others. Imagined-not because unreal or faked but
because, in imagination, a sense of togetherness extends to people that one is not
actually acquainted with ..1) We also see that not everyone treats the same things
as important, or important in the same way. Hearing adults criticise
commercialism and obsession with Christmas gifts, we learn that the holiday
should stand for something in the lives of those who celebrate it.
The culture in which I grow up is not just one way among others to get along
with the people among whom nature has placed me. My mother tongue is not
simply the language I speak best. When I learn my first language I am not
simply acquiring one way of expressing my thoughts. [learn to live and to think;
and it is in the nature of things that what I learn will be some particular ways of
living and thinking. They are informed by historical accident and bear marks of
earlier times. Therefore, the fact that I am brought up within a particular
tradition, in a historical situation, is just as much part of me as the fact that I can
think. Through symbols, I become aware at the same time of my selfhood and
of my belonging to a group larger than myself. Therefore,

110 man lives for hill1sl'lf alolll'; he is knit illto the texture of the whole: he is only one link in the
chain of generations, 0111' cipher ill the cumulative progression of his species.)"

We may, to a greater or lesser degree, belong to particular societies. Our degree

of belonging shows in the fact that we employ certain distinctions: we can tell
good work from bad, say, in the literature, cookery, or architecture of the
community to which we belong. We also know where disagreement makes sense.
Or consider our relations to foreigners. To various degrees, we recognise
individuality 'behind' their Russianness, Tibetanness, Swedishness, and so on. But
when we meet people of our own culture we cannot even say that we need to go
'behind' it. Now culture is not an obstacle but precisely the form in which we
recognise the other person's individuality.
In a culture to which I wholly belong, I can use its symbolic resources to
express my deepest feelings and convictions. This is not just because I am fluent
in the use of the relevant symbols. They have made my feelings and convictions
what they are. Certain symbols and landscapes, certain kinds of people, make me

1SAnderson 1983. See esp. Chs. 2, 3, 8, 9, and p. 132.

'"Herder, The Origin of Language', Part 11. In Herder 1969, 163-164 and 163; emphasis in the
original. -Let me note in passing that R.G. Collingwood's (1946, 91-92) account of Herder as racist
and a precursor of the Nazis is not only mistaken but blatantly at variance with what anyone writing
on him must know ahout his views.
120 CHAPTER 7

feel at home. I am prepared to make sacrifices for the sake of certain things but
not others. The effect of a familiar song, or the feeling of the sound of my native
tongue, are significant for an understanding of rootedness. But this can even be
said about the different ways in which certain accents in my language sound
irritating or comical.
(And so perhaps this connection between accent and sense of identity, rather
than any facts about neural development, might explain why we find it so
difficult, at a mature age, to learn the native pronounciation of a new language.
To make a new accent one's own is, as it were, to give up part of one's earlier
self.)
The symbolic language that matters to a person is usually the one that he has
learnt as a child. That of another community might, however, get an almost equal
significance, for example, for an immigrant in a new country. But it is not
something he could simply choose to pick up. He must grow into it-he must
change.
A brief comment on what I am not saying here. My point is not that we have
a 'need of community' hitherto neglected by most political philosophers. 3? I am
not so sure of that-the expression itself seems to be a gloss over a number of
quite disparate points. Nor am I saying that people ought to identify their own
interests with those of a community. Those suggestions by the way do not seem
particularly 'communitarian' to me despite the fact that they have been presented
as such. 38 Those are political questions, i.e., they lie within the range of
imaginable choice. The issues involved in such suggestions are neutral vis-a.-vis
the dispute between philosophical individualism and communitarianism. The
philosophical disagreement, instead, is about how one is to understand the fact
that individuals have needs and attitudes-whatever those may be.
'Belonging' is not simply a matter of psychology. Its significance lies in the
particularity of any culture into which any of us is introduced. 'Individualism' in
political philosophy must be accused precisely of ignoring the individual in her
concrete particularity. If we are to take the individual seriously we must
understand her in relation to a culture. The social relations and practices that
make it up provide us with the terms in which we describe her. This is
sometimes put by saying that the individual's relations to others 'define' her. This
is not to say that they define the extension of what we mean by a given

37 See e.g. Walzer 1992; Dworkin 1992.

]X A vineri & de-Shalit 1992.
 LEGITIMACY 121

individual. 39 The terms in which we make sense of her individuality depend on

those relations for their meaning.

7.7. Nationality

I have quoted Herder, known as the father of modern nationalism. Our

rootedness in a culture creates the basis of 'collective identity' when contrasted
with other ways of life that strike us as foreign in some way. The idea of
nationality is one-I repeat: one-form that such contrasts may take.
The meaning of citizenship will be mediated to us by the fact that we either
do, or do not, belong to 'the same nation' as do the bulk of our fellow citizens
(for instance, members of a national minority may see themselves as part of a
nation to which most of their fellow citizens do not belong). And vice versa: our
belonging to 'the same nation' is partly constituted by the fact that we treat
certain concerns as shared. In part, my 'rootedness in a culture' consists in my
loyalty to others who belong to it-of an imagined community between myself
and certain others. (This point is nicely brought out by Benedict Anderson's
discussion of the role of a newspaper-and-novel-reading public in the creation of
national consciousnesses. 4o )
In literature, a distinction is often made between 'civic' and 'ethnic'
nationalism. The former, it is argued, characterises Western Europe and North
America, the latter Germany and Central Europe. 41 Civic nationalism consists in
allegiance to certain political institutions and values-such as the Monarchy or
the Constitution and the values represented by them. The nation is defined as
consisting of those who share the relevant political loyalties. In ethnic nation-
alism, instead, a cultural feature (such as a language) provides the focal point and

"ICf. Luban 1994, 145: 'If "A" is analyzed as "the mother of B" while "B" is analyzed as "the
daughter of A", we get isomorphism with other mother/daughter pairs but no genuine individuation.
Including additional relations in the analysis may permit individuation, but it may not; assuming that
it does amounts to whistling in the dark'. -It seems to me, however, that exactly similar objections
would apply to defining individuals in terms of intrinsic (non-relational) qualities unless one resorts
to some quite arbitrary quality like the number of hairs in one's head or, tautologously, to numerical
identity. -Cr. Taylor 1992.
41lAnderson 1983, passim. -It seems to follow that, for instance, the European Union will never
acquire a popular legitimacy comparable to that of the constituent nation-states, even if its 'democratic
deficit' is remedied in some way. That would require a widely shared European public political
discourse, which seems impossible in any foreseeable future.
4I E.g., Bauhn 1995; Ignatieff 1993; Greenfeld & Chi rot 1994; Hayry & Hayry 1993. For a
criticism see Dahlstedt & Liedman 1996, Miller 1995: 8-9.
122 CHAPTER 7

the nation is defined as the people who, independently of citizenship, share the
feature in question. 42
The current liberal, English-speaking consensus is that only civic nation-
alism-assumed to be typical of liberal, English-speaking societies-is morally
acceptable. This is, supposedly, because the criteria for membership in a nation
defined in civic terms are universalistic. Membership is open to everyone who
subscribes to a political creed. Ethnic characteristics, in contrast, are not normally
acquired by free choice. 43 Hence, (!) ethnic nationalisms are typically col-
lectivistic,44 and hence (!) inherently authoritarian. 45 By excluding other ethnic
groups 'the nation is, from the start, united in common hatred'.46 Ethnic nation-
alism requires that you should 'only trust those of your own blood,.47 Greenfeld
and Chirot add the empirical thesis that 'individualistic and civic' nationalisms are
less likely to engage in aggressive warfare than 'collectivistic and ethnic'
nationalisms, and also less prone to brutality against enemy populations.
However, their use of historical data is very selective and high-handed. 48
The discussion has puzzling features. The condemnation of 'ethnic' na-
tionalism in fact implies that no form of nationalism is permissible for minority
populations who cannot identify with the political institutions of their State's core
culture;49 for obviously the nationalism of any group will necessarily come out

421n a sense, however, the idea that the nation is defined by a common language may involve
circularity. First, what counts as one language is, in itself, an expression of community in other
senses as well; second, the definition of an ethnic group is typically made in terms of the notion of
a 'mother tongue' which implies that one has, by birth, been included in a cultural community. -This
was pointed out to me by Lars Hertzberg.
43Bauhn presents this as one of his chief objections against ethnic nationalism but puzzlingly
asserts elsewhere that ethnic nationalism is confused because ethnic identity is a matter of choice
(Bauhn 1995, 73).
44Greenfeld & Chirot 1994,83; Bauhn 1995, 17.
45Greenfe1d & Chirot 1994, 82; Ignatieff 1993, 5.
46Greenfeld & Chirot 1994, 87.
471gnatieff 1993, 6.
4xGreenfeld & Chi rot 1994. Cromwell's conduct in Ireland is downplayed as 'uncharacteristic of
England's behaviour' (91). The statement of an English admiral is cited as authoritative evidence of
'the exceptional [... ] humanity of the English conduct towards prisoners of war' (91). Colonial
genocides in the name of 'civilisation' are not mentioned, nor is the present Western demonisation
of Arabs and Islam. Stalinism is summarily described as Russian ethnic nationalism (104, 123) and
Communism is, puzzlingly, equated with ethnic nationalism. A suggested explanation in terms of 'the
enigmatic Slavic soul' (97) does not add credibility. -Dahlstedt and Liedman (1996), analysing 19th
to early 20th century nationalism, argue that the classification of German nationalism as 'ethnic' and
the English and French nationalisms as 'civic' is an oversimplification.
4YBauhn 1995, 114.
 LEGITIMACY 123

as 'ethnic' if it does not (yet) have access to political institutions of its own. This
discouraging conclusion might be acceptable for minorities if the existing
political institutions were ethnically neutral; but usually they are not, if only
because they will employ specific working languages to the exclusion of others.
Hence, the genuinely multicultural society is more difficult to realise than many
of its advocates think. 50 -Of course, the question of what is ethnically neutral
is, in itself, likely to be a central point of contention between minority and
majority populations.
Some accusations against ethnic nationalism actually stem from the confusion
of shared culture with shared ancestry-the very mistake that ethnic nationalisms
are being accused Of.5! But even if it were granted that one's ethnicity is largely
determined at one's birth, this will depend on the fact that one is born into a
community rather than on one's lineage. We typically cannot demonstrate or even
assume blood ties to most of our fellow nationals-and even if we could, we
would be likely to have similar ties to members of neighbouring communities as
well. On the other hand, the ethnicity of adoptive children or second generation
immigrants is determined on cultural rather than genetic grounds.
Furthermore, if a nation is defined culturally-e.g., in terms of a national
language-membership is, to some extent at least, open to anyone who learns the
language and shows loyalty to it. Historically, many prominent members of
nationalist movements have only acquired the relevant language in their adult
life. 52 It is true that membership through choice must be the exception in an
ethnically defined nation, but the same holds for any nation.
This brings in another problem. A consistent application of 'civic' criteria of
membership would, it seems, mark out an international charity, not a nation. The
constitutions of most liberal democracies resemble each other closely. Sub-
scribing to the principles embodied in them is a political position but does not
explain why your allegiance should be to one national community rather than
another. Adding a territorial criterion would be purely ad hoc because 'civic'

50For a different criticism see Miller 1995, 186-187.

51Greenfeld 1992, 11; Bauhn 1995, 16; Ignatieff 1993,5,6, ID. -This is not to say that some
ethnic nationalists do not succumb to this confusion as well. But even in those cases, the assertion
of shared ancestry is made concerning a group that has already been identified on other grounds.
52 E.g., in Wales, Finland, Eire, Brittany, and the Hebrew language movement. -However,
perhaps it is important that we are here speaking of active nationalists whose very enthusiasm will
exclude questions about their national belonging. Furthermore, these leaders typically had, by birth,
some connection to the country or national community in question.
124 CHAPTER 7

criteria do not explain why your solidarity should fall short at a state boundary.53
As a matter of fact, it would be misleading to see, say, a citizen's allegiance to
the U.S. Constitution simply as commitment to certain political principles. The
significance of the Constitution in U.S. national consciousness is closely tied to
its historical role in the nation's formative events. 54
On the other hand, if we take seriously the idea that nationality, defined in
'civic' terms, only consists of loyalty to a political creed, it follows that national
solidarity is only to extend to those who in fact subscribe to the creed. Civic
nationalism would now either seem to justify withholding and withdrawing
citizenship on political grounds, or to assume an ideological homogeneity which
must be rare in today's societies. The question is not only academic. At home,
McCarthyism, Jacobinism, and 'Soviet Patriotism' are examples of how civic
nationalisms can be oppressive. Overseas, the perception of the home national
creed as 'universalistic' becomes a rationale for the 'civilising mission' of
colonialism. 55
To some extent, then, the philosophical contrast between civic and ethnic
nationalism may be a red herring. The dichotomy is not a matter of universality
v. particularity but it distinguishes between different forms of particularity.
Different types of symbolism may serve as the focal point of nationalism; some
nationalists emphasise their nation's institutional, and others its cultural
uniqueness. These differences, of course, will largely reflect each nation's
historical experience. Thus 'civic' nationalism is more plausible in the case of
nations showing a long institutional continuity (such as Scotland, France, or
Hungary) or nations whose ethnic composition is not sharply distinct from that
of their neighbours (such as Austria, Canada, or Bosnia) while ethnicity is more
crucial in defining nations whose aspirations to statehood were, historically,
delayed or thwarted (such as Wales, Germany, or the Ukraine).56

"Miller 1995, 163. -A State's functions are, by definition, exercised in relation to a particular
territory. But the limits of that territory are a matter of historical coincidence. From the point of view
of the argument presented here, the fact that the area where one lives falls within that territory will
limit one's solidarity in a way that is just as arbitrary as are the ethnic criteria.
54 Ibid ., 141.
"E.g., Dahlstedt & Liedman 1996, 111-113; Hayry & Hayry 1993, 148-152.
"'Thus, in a way, the idea that only civic nationalism is acceptable parallels the late 19th-Century
doctrine according to which 'nations with an historic personality' were entitled to a favoured status
within the Austro-Hungarian empire. 'Nations with an historic personality' had indigenous political
institutions and nobility; they included the Germans, Hungarians, Poles and possibly the Czechs but
not the other nationalities making up perhaps half of the empire's total population.
 LEGITIMACY 125

By this (perhaps polemical) discussion I have not wished to advocate

particular political views. I have been trying to redress a balance that seems to
be lost in philosophical discussions of nationalism. Our belonging to a
community takes different forms, and we should not summarily dismiss any of
them as irrational or morally dubious.
It seems that all nationalisms, by definition, must be particularist in the
following sense. As a nationalist, I believe that my membership in a nation-in
whatever way defined-is essential to my personal identity. I believe that I
cannot fully express this identity unless I have access to political institutions
which reflect the particularity of the nation to which I belong. (And the idea of
'having access to a political institution' suggests, in itself, popular participation
in government; hence the historical coincidence of nationalism and democracy
does not seem to be merely contingent.) My membership in a nation entails
certain rights and duties. In sum, I assume a relation which, like friendship or
kinship, by definition includes some people to the exclusion of others.
The particularistic character of one's national belonging cannot, as such, make
it unacceptable as a ground for obligations unless we are prepared to assert the
same about friendship and kinship. Universalist and particularist concerns just are
different concerns. Both have their confusions, their irrational and corrupt forms.
Nor can it be said that the importance of national belonging is illusory; for there
obviously are persons for whom it is important.
The 'principle of the self-determination of nations'-as in President Wilson's
fourteen points-is a universalisation of such particularist concerns. 57 Today,
however, international organisations such as the UN, when considering the
cultural rights of national minorities, prefer to speak of them as the rights of
individuals belonging to those groups.58 This may be connected with the hold of
the kind of picture I have been criticising; but here it coincides with power
politics. Many, if not all, UN member states are anxious to prevent the admission
of 'their' national minorities as subjects of international law.
It may seem natural next to ask how one is to strike a balance between uni-
versalist and particularist concerns-such as ethnic loyalty v. concern for human
rights. 59 It would then also seem that if a method of arbitration can be devised

j7Tomas Masaryk. the father of the Czechoslovak State. aptly called his memoirs SvetoVQ revoluce
(World Revolution), implying that he was fighting for the universal cause of national self-
determination.
jX'Declaration of the Rights .. .' (1993).
j'!See, e.g., Luban 1994. 144-145.
126 CHAPTER 7

it will be universalisable-which, it seems, would mean that particularist

concerns are shown really to be local applications of universalist notions.
However, the contrast dissolves in actual moral reasoning. Even 'universalist'
moral concerns sooner or later surface in the form of concrete choices. That is,
we face choices in our dealings with particular others. But what we can make of
each choice will be internally connected to our relations to the people, etc., in
question.
Suppose I lend money to a friend rather than to a friend's friend who, as
someone tells me, needs money even more. Is this a case of a particularist
concern (loyalty) conflicting with a universalist principle (that of universal bene-
volence)? And would not impartiality require me to attend to the stranger's needs
before my friend's? -To be impartial is to give the same weight to all relevantly
similar cases. But these two cases are not relevantly similar. I am not choosing
between doing the same thing either to a friend or to a stranger. My failure to
help a stranger mayor may not show callousness. But if I fail my friend,
whatever else I may be doing I am also letting him down. This is not to be
reduced to the fact that I fail to meet his expectations: the stranger may also have
expectations from me. The fact that we have certain duties towards friends is part
of what we mean by friendship.
Loyalty has been represented as a 'particularist' notion. But to see an action
as expressive of loyalty is precisely to view it as the manifestation of a universal
ideal. It is to construe what may look like partiality in terms of something
universal. By showing loyalty I recognise the requirements of justice in the
context of this particular friendship. Thus my decision does not spring from an
inherent 'particularist' feature of my motives but from the fact that the lives of
different people impinge on my life in different ways.
Does not the argument risk blinding us to the fact that we do have duties
towards strangers? -There mayor may not be a risk here. But the possibility
of certain types of corruption does not preclude the existence of noncorrupt
cases. It is very easy to think of situations where helping a friend rather than a
stranger does not involve partiality in any interesting sense. My impartiality will
show in my realisation that my friend is not generally more deserving of help
than others. Nevertheless it is my duty to help him.
Hence a person who works for a 'particularist' cause-say, a Chechen
working for freedom for Chechnia-need not be partial at all (e.g., thinking of
Chechens as superior to other ethnic groups). Chechnia just is his country and
consequently a natural object of his allegiance. What makes his cause a 'parti-
cularist' one is the fact that it is related to his life in a way it cannot be related
to ours. He is facing choices that would not be within our intelligible reach.
 LEGITIMACY 127

For instance, he might feel that giving up on the issue of independence would
be a betrayal of the memories of Imam Shamyl, lokhar Dudaev, and other
freedom fighters. Even if I may know who those people were, and admire them
for their staunchness and love of freedom, nothing I might do could conceivably
count as such a betrayal.
Suppose a Chechen is sceptical of the odds of Russia's ever developing into
a truly multinational state. For support, he may cite more than a century of
persecution, racism, and cultural discrimination. 60 No dignified role will be
available for the Chechen language and culture. That is to say, there will be no
use in Russia for him, as a Chechen. For a Chechen who thinks of himself as
non-Russian, the government of Mr Yeltsin will therefore lack authority for the
simple reason that it is the government of Russia (in August, 1997).
Yet another word of caution. What he will do about this fact will depend on
what he makes of his identity as a Chechen as opposed to his identity as a father,
pacifist, citizen of lokharghala (Grozny), member of the working class. We
naturally have a particular relation to the culture within which we are brought up.
This is a fact; but acknowledging a fact is compatible with reflecting on it and
drawing various conclusions from it. 6 ! It does not, e.g., imply that a sense of
national unity and belonging ought to (or ought not to) be promoted by govern-
ments or private citizens. 62

7.8. Rootedness and Shame

Consider what it would mean for different people to deny the legitimacy of the
present Russian policies in Chechnia. First think of the predicament of a
Chechen. The issue concerns him whatever he does. Even to profess neutrality
would be to take a stand. And supposing he supports independence for Chechnia:
he will have to consider his role in the struggle. He will also have to ask himself
if, say, a new war, with all the suffering, would be worth it.
My position-as a foreigner-will be fundamentally different. I may refrain
from taking a stand at all. Suppose I find I must protest against Mr Yeltsin's
policies; this will be required of me particularly if my own country is implicated

('OFor an amazing chronicle of this, see A vtorkhanov 1992.

"'Miller 1995,43-47.
h2Cf. Scruton 1984. Scruton seems to commend a sense of national belonging, on the one hand,
as intrinsically valuable and, on the other hand,-cynically, it seems-as a way of reconciling the
lower orders of society with their situation.
128 CHAPTER 7

in some way. (As world trade expands it is increasingly less plausible to say
one's country is not implicated.) And yet: even if I condemn those policies they
do not directly affect me. This is why there would be an air of arrogance if I told
the Chechens to give up.
The predicament of a Russian citizen will again be different. One may
legitimately require him to define his position. Even indifference will count as
a position-which it need not in my case. Perhaps he disagrees with Mr Yeltsin.
Yet the Yeltsin government acts in the name of the Russians including him. He
cannot-insofar as he sees himself as a Russian-think of the Chechnian war as
a mere spectacle that was acted out by others. And if he thinks that crimes are
being committed in his name his only way to distance himself is to protest.
Different ways of protesting will be available to him depending on his ethnic
affiliation. Insofar as Russia is defined as the State of ethnic Russians, a Russian
citizen from, say, Bashkortostan may intelligibly withdraw his support by
asserting his non-Russianness. That option is not open to an ethnic Russian.
Again suppose he sees the war as genocidal. His only way both to assert his
identity as a Russian and to condemn the present Russian policies towards
Chechnia is through expressing shame. His shame will not be something he feels
in spite of his loyalty to Russia. On the contrary, it will indicate a sense of
allegiance. I may be ashamed of my country, my friends, family, and so on, but
it does not make sense for me to be ashamed on account of something from
which I am completely cut off. Thus I cannot normally be ashamed (or proud)
of the sky or the sea: whatever my psychological state may be it cannot
intelligibly be described as shame (or pride) unless a very special kind of story
is produced. 63
It is doubtful whether we can speak of genuine loyalty at all in the case of
someone who, against his better knowledge, defends injustices committed in the
name of his nation. Insofar as I see legitimacy as something good I will show my
loyalty towards my nation by condemning its government if I perceive it as il-
legitimate. This is not to say it may not be difficult for me to know what loyalty
requires of me in each case-and difficult to stick to it.

7.9. Authenticity

The question, 'why should I obey?', and its implication, 'should I obey at all?' are
not only questions about politics but also about oneself. What can I honestly give

6}See Foot 1967, 86.

 LEGITIMACY 129

allegiance to? The question is one about authenticity-about my ability to be

'myself. This once more highlights the fact that the issue is not chiefly about
expediency or prudence: in that case, the notion of honesty could not enter the
deliberation at all.
My rootedness provides me with the framework within which I judge my
relations to different social institutions. A natural community of people (a
community that I can see as natural) can legitimately lay claim to my loyalty
because I am one of its members. The extent to which I recognise the traditions
and values of a nation as my own, gives content to my judgment of the
legitimacy of the decisions passed in its name.
However-what it is possible for me to identify myself by cannot be decided
in advance. I can genuinely treat the values and concerns that inform a nation as
identifying me only if I really think they do so. When the question arises, I must
see if I can honestly see them that way. It follows that the question of legitimacy
is one I have to settle by myself, by means of genuine self-examination. It is,
then, also clear that different people will draw different conclusions. Supposing
that I am not deluded about the facts: now making a mistake would consist in
drawing an insincere conclusion-rather than drawing one that differs from
yours.
Socrates, before his execution, decided not to escape from prison and the city
of Athens. 64 This was a decision he made for his own part; we need not take him
as subscribing to a general thesis about what others should do in his place. He
realised that it was impossible for him to leave Athens and go on with philo-
sophy-the pursuit that gave his life meaning and himself a sense of self-respect.
Against his own will, he had drifted into a conflict with his government. The
conflict was not his aim: it was just the result of his decision not to do anything
that would run against his own conscience. Faced with the death penalty,
Socrates still refused to give an outward show of repentance. 65 To the end, he
wanted to maintain a truthful relationship between himself and his city. This was
concern for, not defiance of, the Athenian State.

7.10. Loss of Roots

I may be in doubt about the legitimacy of a certain political decision, or of a

regime, or of a legal or economic order. Here I am working from the inside of

MPlato, 'Crito' (I 964b).

MPlato, 'Apology' (1964a).
130 CHAPTER 7

my community. My criticism of the prevailing order takes the form of a denial

of its role as a genuine expression of the values cherished by the community. My
very criticism is a sign of my belonging.
This is not a conservative denial of the possibility of radical criticism. It is
just to point out that all criticism has to start somewhere. It must profess to start
from a concern shared by the critic and those he is addressing. Thus, for
instance, Karl Marx's moral condemnation of bourgeois society (e.g., in The
Communist Manifesto and Alienated Labour) was to the effect that Capitalism
distorted and threatened the moral relations and concerns that people, in some
sense, already had.
But might I not also have radical doubts about the legitimacy of my society
as a whole? This is different. If I 'dispute the legitimacy' of my entire society the
statement I am making is, essentially, that I do not belong there. Its pursuits and
concerns are alien to me. That is the attitude that Wittgenstein expressed in his
'foreword to a book' included in Culture and Value.

This book is written for those who are in sympathy with the spirit in which it is written. This is not,
I believe, the spirit of the main current of European and American civilization. The spirit of this
civilization [oo.] is alien and uncongenial to the author. This is not a value judgment. [oo.] [Y]et the
fact remains that I have no sympathy for the current of European civilization and do not understand
its goals, if it has any. So I am really writing for friends who are scattered throughout the corners
of the globe. fifi

There is no standard argument to get someone into that position or to make him
give it up-that, I think, can be seen from the radical nature of the protest. We
would not know where the argument would start.
But not even this is alienation from society more than in a relative sense. It
is doubtful whether 'absolute alienation from society' is an intelligible possibility
at all. A recluse living in the forest would still voice his protest in terms of
concerns that we share with him; in this way, he would demonstrate his
community with us. Or, supposing he refuses to communicate: we can see his
way of life as a protest only insofar as we take him to view his actions in terms
of concerns that he shares with us. If he just refuses to meet anyone, the meaning
of his actions is indeterminate: we cannot tell if he is alienated from society, or
seclusive, or mad. It is not just that we lack the information. The question itself
has no definite answer.
Various reasons might estrange a person from her community. Emigration
followed by a competing allegiance is perhaps the most obvious example. But

"'Wittgenstein, C&V, 6.
 LEGITIMACY 131

the original community may also change, both physically and morally. There are
changes in every society, but some of them may go in directions that we will not
want to take. For instance, alien domination and the flooding in of mainstream
culture erodes the cultural environment of small peoples all over the globe.
And societies may develop in ways that make them feel as if they were
suffering an alien occupation. This happens, undramatically though it may seem,
when characteristic buildings and landmarks in my city are demolished. The sites
as such need not be of general interest, but they unify us-like an old relative
tying together people who would otherwise be strangers. The rapid demolishing
of familiar environments is an assertion of the essentially disposable nature of the
community itself. Abstract, standardised relations mediated by money are
substituted for unique bonds of solidarity.
As long as the disrupting force seems to come from the outside I need not
doubt my fundamental belonging to my community. When the disruption starts
looking like an inherent feature of its culture-and if I still see it as disruption-I
will be doubting the very grounds of the community to which I have been
attached. Undoubtedly, the history of the last few centuries has led many to
perceive the spirit of Western civilisation as inherently destructive. Their position
must be one of detachment, reminiscent of the one Wittgenstein takes in Culture
and Value. However, their protest is also a form of Western culture.
A political body that fails to address a person in a language that expresses
her sense of justice and truth lacks legitimacy for her. No matter whether she
puts it into words-or is in fact working ardently for a nationalist cause. Its il-
legitimacy is shown in her life, in her lack of concern for legitimacy. To put it
in another way: it is shown in her shamelessness.
 8

THE IDEA OF BASIC TRUST

8.1. The Normal Attitude

I have observed that our lives necessarily involve some dependence on

others-forms of dependence for which we cannot, for reasons internal to what
is involved in rationality, ask for a rational justification. A certain preparedness
to trust others is constitutive of rationality. One might perhaps draw a general
conclusion: that a form of basic trust is an elementary aspect of all human life.
Think of our everyday dealings with people. We tend to take their utterances,
gestures, and facial expressions at face value. We do not normally start off by
assuming that people-including those we meet for the first time-are trying to
deceive us or steal from us. This is not simply hasty but excusable in the
circumstances: it is part of what we mean by rationality and sanity. Such is the
atmosphere in which we live and breathe.

Normally, if we ask someone their name and they tell us, then we believe them, but not because it
is reasonable to believe them. It would not be unreasonable not to believe them: it would be insane.
No doubt we believe them because people normally tell the truth in such circumstance[s], but that
is not the inductive basis for our believing that it is highly probable that they are telling us the truth
when they tell us their name. Indeed, if we think it is merely highly probable that they are telling us
the truth, then we already have one foot in the asylum and we cannot get it out by raising the
probabilities, which would, anyhow, be an idle exercise since we have no idea what they are. I

It is true that people sometimes lie to us when we ask them who they are; yet it
does not follow that there is room for meaningful suspicion each time someone
tells us her name. Assessing a probability-say, the probability that she is telling
us the truth-belongs to a situation where one already considers an alternative.
But here the normal case is characterised by the fact that no alternative is
considered. There must be some particular reason, good or bad, for suspicion.
This is not an empirical observation, nor is it a recommendation. The absence
of suspicion is part of what we mean by the circumstances being normal. An
expression has a 'face value' because there is a normal way of taking it.
In a posthumous manuscript, Wittgenstein makes a related point. He invites
the reader to imagine a mother who never takes her child's expression of pain

IOaita 1991,314.
 THE IDEA OF BASIC TRUST 133

(toothache) at face value. Instead of comforting him, she shrugs her shoulders
and looks inquiringly at him. Sometimes she makes vague attempts to comfort
and nurse him but soon gives up. Such behaviour could not be called suspicious
or sceptical: it would rather strike us as 'queer and crazy'. -"'The game can't
begin with doubting" means: we shouldn't call it 'doubting', if the game began
with it'.2
Imagining another example: suppose we try to teach a child the ascription of
pains to others by first accustoming it to sentences like, 'He is shamming pain'.
This would be said in a dismissive way, something like, 'He is being lazy'. Next,
we introduce phrases like 'perhaps he is shamming, or perhaps he really is in
pain'; that would serve to soften down the earlier reaction. By this method, the
child would never come to understand the characteristic role that the notion of
pain has for us. He would not even understand the role of shamming pain: the
intelligibility of dissimulation is dependent on one's grasp of genuine expressions.
This obviously connects to the points about learning made in Chapter 6.
Doubt and suspicion must be secondary modifications of our practices: our
practices cannot intelligibly start with doubt. Our lives involve activities
characterised by the fact that there are certain things we do not check; that itself
makes it possible for us to check other things.
Several authors make similar or related observations. Many of them take a
further step: a form of basic trust is essential to all social life.
On the other hand, I have also made observations which should point to the
opposite direction. The presence of trust cannot be established 'objectively',
regardless of the speaker's own position (see Chapter 2). Characterising a human
relationship as one of trust makes sense as a response to a certain kind of
situation. Speaking of trust implies an 'outside' perspective from which one can
imaginably suggest a risk of betrayal. Thus we get the question: what is the
perspective implied here-is it intelligible to look at social life as a whole from
an outside perspective?
It seems to me that everything will depend on why one wants to speak of
social life as involving basic trust. These last two chapters will discuss different
ways of understanding that idea. My impression is that the suggestion can be
understood in at least three ways.
Such suggestions have been put forward as empirical points, as explanatory
claims about the psychological preconditions of social life. Social life, on this
interpretation, is made possible by basic trust. On the other hand, the claim can

2Wittgenstein, C&E, 383; emphasis in the original. The passage is discussed in Hertzberg 1988,
317-318.
134 CHAPTER 8

be read conceptually, as part of an analysis of what is meant by 'social life': to

live a social life is to trust. That reading will, in turn, have a different import
depending on the type of discussion in which it occurs. The point may simply
amount to a tautology. But finally, the idea of basic trust may also be understood
ethically: as suggesting a certain way of seeing how moral concerns enter human
life. I will start by discussing the first reading and showing how it collapses into
the second. In the next chapter, I will discuss the third, 'ethical' reading.

8.2. Is Society Based on Trust?

The role of mutual expectations in social life was already discussed by Hume.
Life, he says, will almost inevitably involve dependence on others:

The mutual dependence of men is so great in all societies that scarce any human action is entirely
complete in itself, or is performed without some reference to the actions of others, which are requisite
to make it answer fully to the intention of the agent. The poorest artificer, who labours alone, expects
at least the protection of the magistrate, to ensure him the enjoyment of the fruits of his labour. He
also expects that, when he carries his goods to the market, and offers them at a reasonable price, he
shall find purchasers, and shall be able, by the money he acquires, to engage others to supply him
with those commodities which are requisite for his subsistence.'

The thrust of the argument is this: our relations to each other are characterised
by mutual expectations. These very expectations, at the same time, make possible
the cooperative relations that they are expectations of. Our expectation that
society 'works' is what makes it possible for it to 'work'.
It is clear that such mutual expectations are indispensable; at the same time,
it seems that we can never fully appreciate the range of the tacit expectations that
we have about each other. Think, for example, of what is involved in our
reliance on banking and the social institutions that go together with it. Suppose
we lose trust in cheques and insist on receiving all payments in cash; we will at
least be trustful that the banknotes we are given are not false. Suppose we are
suspicious here as well, checking each note carefully. First of all, this will

3 Hume (1748/1902), Enquiry... , Section VIII, Part I, § 69. Also see Baier 1986, 236; Baker 1987,
8; Luhmann 1979, 88-89: 'Completely new types of action, above all such as are not immediately
satisfying and hence have to be artificially motivated, become possible in a system which can activate
trust. [oo.] The satisfying of needs can be delayed, and nevertheless guaranteed. Instrumental action,
oriented toward distant effects, can become institutionalized if the temporal horizon of a system is
suitably extended by means of trust'. Also see ibid., p. 24.
 THE IDEA OF BASIC TRUST l35

presuppose that we take at least one note to be genuine (the one against which
we make the comparison); and besides, we will still trust shops to accept money.
Furthermore-we will expect what we take to be a shop really to be one rather
than a trap set up by a murderer. And so on. In extreme conditions like a war,
we could reasonably question some of these assumptions and many more. But
the thought-experiment can easily be continued to show that any human life that
is normal at all will involve an unquestioning reliance on other people on some
occasions---even if it would be impossible to specify once and for all which
occasions these must be.
The upshot may seem to be the following. Trust is the constant, but usually
unnoticed, accompaniment of more or less everything we do. As Baier puts it,
'[ w]e inhabit a climate of trust as we inhabit an atmosphere and notice it as we
notice air, only when it becomes scarce or polluted'.4 Thus for instance, we trust
our fellow library users to be looking for books and not victims. 5 Other authors
fill in: 'One who goes unarmed among his fellow men puts trust in them'.6 Trust
is 'a social good [ ... ]. When it is destroyed, societies falter and collapse'.7 Society
would 'simply fall apart'.8
But wait. When I use the library I simply follow a routine. In given
circumstances (say, in a neighbourhood known to be extremely crime infested)
this might already be identified as naiVete, bravery, or trust; but that is not to
imply that there is room for characterising my attitude as trustful every time I use
a library, regardless of the circumstances. The circumstances which make it
intelligible to invoke a risk also make it intelligible to speak of trust here. But
supposing there is no risk?

4Baier 1986, 234. Also see Luhmann 1988; Luhmann 1979, 20-21. Luhmann uses 'trust'
exclusively for cases where one is aware of the fact that one is trusting, preferring 'confidence' or
'familiarity' for cases where we do not seriously consider alternatives. This, of course, is a technical
choice of his own.
5Baier 1986, lac. cit .. -Baier (1994, 159) also writes: 'Up to a certain age, sometimes all too
young an age, we trust relatives such as uncles not to make what we later learn to call sexual
advances'. She also suggests (Ioc.cit.) that I go to bed trusting that a brain disease has not
unexpectedly turned my spouse into a mad aggressor. We shudder at the thought that such things
really have happened; however, one should not think that this fact alone makes it meaningful to speak
of trust in all cases regardless of the circumstances. Besides, the second example seems problematic.
I am not trusting my spouse; rather, I am trusting that she has not succumbed to a disease. The risk
implied is not betrayal by her but that of an unexpected calamity befalling her. Also see pp. 176, 197.
6Luhmann 1979,25.
7Bok 1978, 26; DuBose 1995, 43.
8Code 1987, 377. Also see Govier 1992; Luhmann 1979, 93-94; Baier 1985, 294-295.
136 CHAPTER 8

-Someone might say here, 'But after all, we never know what may happen.
It is all in God's hands'.9 By that token, anything I do or fail to do will be an
expression of trust. It may be wrong to deny that this way of speaking can ever
be meaningful, if only as a reminder of the fragility of all life. But it is not
plausible to present this as an informative discovery about the nature of social
life.
We are still left with the question of what kinds of risk could give substance
to the suggestion that all social life involves trust. The risk of the dissolution of
social life might be proposed. But do we need to explain why this is not
happening? Would it otherwise be unintelligible that we 'go unarmed among
[our] fellow men'? That is not a question we normally take seriously unless a
very special context is produced. This is either the context of political unrest, or
that of a philosophical tradition broadly characterised as Hobbesian.
There is an intelligible sense in which social institutions do collapse. Buses
stop running, telephone lines close down, and so on. There are total collapses
like that of Rwanda in 1994. In a milieu of that kind, it makes sense to say that
the remaining vestiges of normal life are dependent on mutual trust. But it would
be odd to suggest that dissolution is the normal course of events for all societies.
For the most part, the problematic character of social life stems from the very
fact that its existing forms-legal institutions, friendships, marriages,
enmities--do not collapse but demand our attention and press choices on us.
Besides, not even the collapse of Rwanda involved the severing of all social ties.
The problem was that there was organised fighting.
In sociological reflection, 'the disintegration of the moral fabric of society'
and 'trust in social institutions' are relative notions: they get their sense in
comparisons between two or more historical situations. To call a political
phenomenon such as Nazism a sign of cultural dissolution may be a way of
claiming that Nazism does not represent the host culture as it 'really' is: it is not
a genuine stage of a cultural development but the end of it. Such expressions
imply a certain position from which the comparison is made: what looks like dis-
integration to one observer may look like a new beginning to another.
Indeed, are we sure that society has not disintegrated? For if it had, would we
necessarily know it-or would we still perceive an order amidst the fragments?
Would we not simply adjust to the altered conditions? This may sound like a
strange suggestion. But to people living in the stable societies of the past, the
present Western civilization--characterised by crime, compulsive total war on the
outskirts, and anonymity-would probably look like a culture in dissolution.

9A suggestion by David Cockburn.

 THE IDEA OF BASIC TRUST 137

There certainly have been interesting and illuminating descriptions of our age in
such terms-whether or not they strike a chord with everyone. However, these
notions are unfit to bear the theoretical weight placed on them by many political
philosophers.
The Hobbesian tradition speaks of the dissolution of society as a return to the
state of nature. That is to suggest that what needs explanation is not anarchy but
the fact that societies hold together at all. It looks as if some force must be in
operation to keep the natural, disintegrating tendencies in check. The idea of trust
as the cement of society arises from an attempt to address such questions.
Utilitarian and contractarian solutions are rejected but the space they leave empty
is filled by a notion of trust. It is doubtful, however, if switching from a contract
theory to a 'trust theory' of society would be an improvement. The social contract
is, at least, avowedly a theoretical construct with no explanatory ambition.
A related idea is that since social order is essentially conventional, its
dissolution reveals human nature as it 'really' is. This is, e.g., the tenor of Colin
Turnbull's reflections in The Mountain People. 10 (There is also a connection to
the idea that people are more 'themselves' alone than in company). Obviously,
Turnbull's disquieting description of the Ik shows us a form that human life may
take. However-insofar as it is meaningful to speak of human nature-the
'nature' of each animal species, including humans, is expressed in what those
beings do. Our behaviour in exceptional conditions shows what we are like in
those conditions; that is all. Cows feed on animal protein in factory farms; yet
this does not demonstrate that they are really carnivorous.
Anyway, Turnbull's description is not an example of the sort of social
collapse that would interest political philosophers of a Hobbesian bent. It is not
a case of a society left untended, or an example of the consequences of the
disappearance of mutual trust. The disintegration of the Icien culture resulted
from a governmental resettlement scheme designed to put an end to the Ik's old
way of life but failing to provide them with adequate means of alternative
livelihood. The massive disappearance of trust among the Ik was an aspect,
perhaps a consequence, of their cultural and economic disintegration; it was not
what caused it. As with stories from concentration camps, the problem is not
primarily that something-say, trust or respect for life-is missing; rather, there
is something new and alien imposing itself on the Ik.
Yet-suppose someone accepts that social life seems to be natural but still
says it is a wonder that we are able to live in society?" And suppose he asks for

10Turnbull 1972.
II A suggestion by David Cock burn.
138 CHAPTER 8

an explanation. So what kind of a claim am I making when I deny that there is

room for talking of trust here? -The explanation would, probably, be given in
terms of general facts about how children are brought up, the maturation of their
intelligence, and so on. Of course, that might strike the questioner as equally
wonderful; and perhaps it is typical of this kind of wonder that an explanation
cannot dispel it. In any case, trust and distrust, as well as selflessness and frailty,
are, in themselves, aspects of social life rather than its explanation. -There is,
perhaps, room for talking of basic trust here, but only as an expression of this
very wonder. The next chapter, I hope, will clarify this point... .
So what has been established so far? -Only that social practices, by
definition, involve reciprocity. The division of labour presupposes that each con-
tributor can, and does, expect the others to perform their share (otherwise we
would not speak of 'division of labour'). A related point is that a culture-insofar
as it is a culture-involves, as it were, an epistemic division of labour: what we
know--or believe we know-will, to some extent, be based on what others tell
us. 'Trust', in this context, boils down to our unreflective sharing of social
practices. But since such 'trust' now consists in participation in social practices
it cannot have the explanatory role assigned to it. It seems more correct to say
that the notions of trust and distrust only have an application where a number of
social practices are an unproblematic part of everyday life.
For the same reason, it is misleading to say that we are 'sociable
beings'-unless that just means that we live in societies. Many of us are not
particularly sociable, i.e., habitually preferring company as opposed to being left
alone. If, on the other hand, 'sociability' and 'living in a society' are simply taken
to be synonymous it will not make sense to say that we live in society, or ought
to do so, because we are sociable.

8.3. Romanticised Hobbesianism

Mutual expectations, Harold Garfinkel suggests, lend everyday scenes their

familiar, 'life-as-usual' character. 12 Garfinkel would object to the classical
contractarian and conventionalist idea that the moral and social order are simply
our ways of cooperating for safety, or for solutions to preexistent problems. On
the contrary, he says, life itself as it normally appears to us comes already
filtered through the everyday practices we share with others.

120arfinkel 1984, 37.

 THE IDEA OF BASIC TRUST 139

A society's members encounter and know the moral order as perceivedly normal courses of
action-familiar scenes of everyday affairs, the world of daily life known in common with others and
with others taken for granted. I]

Exactly because of the perceived commonplace character of our daily life, the
way it is based on seen but unnoticed common understandings is obscured from
US. 14 It is only on rare occasions-as when someone challenges normalcy-that
these common understandings come into view. The existence of such background
expectations, Garfinkel thinks, can be demonstrated experimentally by suddenly
challenging their 'life as usual' character in interaction. ls
Anthony Giddens, expanding on Garfinkel and others, sums up our normal
attitude as one of basic trust. It is the basis of 'the feelings of ontological security
characteristic of large segments of human activity in all cultures'. 16 Such security
pertains not only to social relations but also to our ideas of the identity of
objects, other persons, and the self; the coherence and intelligibility of everyday
life. It is shown in the taken-for-granted character of much of what we do. We
seldom stop to think about risks 'implied in the very business of living'; this,
according to Giddens, is an expression of, or derives from, our sense of basic
trust. 17 Trust is a 'protective cocoon' keeping the thought of risks at bay.18

On the other side of what might appear to be quite trivial aspects of day-to-day action and discourse,
chaos lurks. And this chaos is not just disorganisation, but the loss of a sense of the very reality of
things and other persons. IY

As an illustration, Giddens cites Garfinkel's celebrated experiments?O Garfinkel

made his students engage in what would usually have been trivial, everyday
conversations. However, by constantly asking their interlocutors to explain and
justify themselves the students soon drove them very mad indeed. 21 Apparently,

I3 Ibid., 35. Emphasis added.

14 Ibid .,44.
ISIbid., 37. That is, they can supposedly be challenged by doing silly things (Tony Palmer, in
discussion).
16Giddens 1991,36; emphasis in the original. Also see Erikson 1977. As to the problematic role
of the idea of 'feelings' in contexts like this, see my argument in Ch 2.
17Giddens 1991,40. Also see pp. 38-42.
18 Ibid., 40.
19 Lo c. cit ..
20Garfinkel 1963. Also see Garfinkel 1984, 42-75.
21Garfinkel 1984. 42-44.
140 CHAPTER 8

[t]o answer even the simplest everyday query, or respond to the most cursory remark, demands the
bracketing out of a potentially almost infinite range of possibilities open to the individual. What
makes a given response 'appropriate' or 'acceptable' necessitates a shared-but unproven and
unprovable-framework of reality.22

The fragility of the natural attitude is evident to anyone who studies the protocols of Garfinkel's
work. What happens is a flooding in of anxiety which the ordinary conventions of day-to-day life
usually keep successfully at bay.23

This flooding in of anxiety-Giddens goes on-is analogous to what happens in

philosophy when sceptical questions are brought up. Our knowledge, he thinks,
is shown to be ungrounded, hence groundless. The metaphor of 'flooding in'
suggests the idea of a constant but usually suppressed feature of our existence
suddenly revealing itself. The experiment shows that much of what we take to
be the nature of things is, instead, an expression of our shared practice of just
not addressing certain questions.
But what, then, is happening in the experiments quoted by Giddens for
support? A student engages in an apparently trivial conversation and professes
to ask for clarifications of what her interlocutor says. But now she is not really
asking for clarifications. Whatever the other says will be met with a demand for
further clarification. The student is systematically refusing to take the other
seriously. And the fact that this is a sure way to ruin any conversation does not
show there is something inherently fragile or complex about a conversation that
proceeds normally-any more than does the fact that one can interrupt a con-
versation by just leaving.
Garfinkel suggests that normal interaction involves particular, implicit
expectations. However, it would be more correct to say that it is characterised by
lack of expectations: that is what makes the interaction normal. We do not, e.g.,
expect the other not to tape-record our discussion. 24 Which is not to say we
expect her to do it. The question does not arise. The same argument was put
forward in Chapter 6. 'Not questioning' cannot here be construed as a practice
that we undertake.
-But supposing an observer, e.g., Garfinkel, does wonder what is involved
in interaction? Doesn't the question of implicit expectations arise for him? And
couldn't he then say, 'They expect the other to ... 7'25 -It would be dogmatic to

22Giddens 1991, 36.

23 Ibid., 37. My emphasis.
24Cf. Garfinkel 1984, 75. Also see Chapters 2 and 5 above.
25 A question raised by David Cockbum.
 THE IDEA OF BASIC TRUST 141

deny that one might speak of expectations here. The question is if it is

illuminating. All 'the expectation' here amounts to is the fact that there is
interaction.
So what 'floods in' in the experiment is not existential anxiety lurking behind
the fac;ade of things-as Giddens suggests26-but the new threat of not being
taken seriously. To conclude: Garfinkel's experiments do demonstrate the role of
trust in interaction-but not in the way Giddens thinks. They illustrate how trust
becomes an issue when normal interaction is disturbed.
The metaphor of 'flooding in' also highlights another problematic feature of
Giddens's approach. He stresses the subjective or socially constructed nature of
what we call reality and would be sceptical of scientists' claims to unmediated
access to the real nature of things. But what is it that now floods in? Reality.
Thus Giddens's position not only involves the tacit assumption of a perspective
that is independent of subjectivity-the thesis officially denied by the social
constructionists-but also a suggestion that the subjective view is, a priori,
untrue. For Giddens, 'existential anxiety' is not just another human attitude
created in the course of our social practices. It is the revelation of a reality
behind all practices.
Paradoxically, Giddens's insistence on the 'subjective' and thus problematic
character of reality is based exactly on the fact that he is not taking subjectivity
seriously enough. Taking the subjective character of experience seriously would
involve the denial of any metaphysical distinction between the subjective and the
objective. This would not be to endorse scepticism but an invitation to look at
the roles that the distinction does play in the context of our practices.
The problems are further illustrated in the work of Niklas Luhmann; he
develops ideas related to Giddens's view on trust as a 'protective cocoon'.

Trust, in the broadest sense of confidence in one's expectations, is a basic fact of social life. In many
situations, of course, man can choose in certain respects whether or not to bestow trust. But a
complete absence of trust would prevent him even from getting up in the morning. He would be prey
to a vague sense of dread, to paralyzing fears. He would not even be capable of formulating distrust
and making that a basis for precautionary measures, since this would presuppose trust in other
directions. Anything and everything would be possible. Such abrupt confrontation with the complexity
of the world at its most extreme is beyond human endurance. 27

26Giddens 1991, 37 and passim.

27Luhmann 1979, 4. Also quoted in Barber 1983, 10.
142 CHAPTER 8

In this passage, Luhmann joins hands with a number of social theorists?8

However, the status of what he says must be examined. As very often in
sociological theory, there is an uneasy wavering between the empirical and the
conceptual. In what sense is it true that universal distrust is 'beyond human
endurance'? Luhmann might seem to be making empirical claims, as indeed he
may think he is. But in fact, his argument is reminiscent of the conceptual point
by Wittgenstein cited in the beginning of this chapter. Luhmann is not describing
a psychological impossibility. The reason why the state described by Luhmann
is an impossible form of distrust is not our limited endurance but the fact that it
would no longer count as distrust but as a form of disorientation.
According to Luhmann, trust involves a subjective reduction of the 'com-
plexity' of life. Social life is unmanageably complex; and trust is our way of
coping with this fact. Luhmann, like Giddens and Garfinkel, is drawing on a
distinction between life as it appears to us and as it really, somehow, is:

[Bly introducing trust, certain possibilities of action can be excluded from consideration. Certain
dangers which cannot be removed but which should not disrupt action are neutralized. 29

[Tlrust is associated with reduction of complexity, and, more specifically, of that complexity which
enters the world in consequence of the freedom of other human beings. Trust functions so as to
comprehend and reduce this complexity.30

But something must now be said about the notion of complexity. 'Complexity'
is not an independent quality residing in phenomena Ca related point was made
about the notion of possibility in Chapter 3). The ideas of complexity and
simplicity are functions of the kinds of distinction we see as demanding our
attention. A microbiologist will find complexity in a bowl of porridge. To assess
the complexity of a phenomenon is to judge it in relation to something that
someone is trying to do or find out. We must ask: from whose point of view,
then, is life unmanageably complex? Life 'in general' is no one's life as yet.
Life will obviously not need to be unmanageably complex for someone quite
unmoved by the sorts of question Luhmann takes up. It makes no sense to say
of such a person that her life 'really' is very complex even if she fails to realise

28 por a list of references, see Luhmann, op. cit., notes I and 2, p. 8. Also see Giddens 1990,
1991; Garfinkel 1963, 1984; Erikson 1977. -Baier (1994, 159) remarks: 'We take many appearances
on trust, and we would go mad if we did not'.
29 Lac. cit.. -Also see, e.g., p. 19: 'Since the constitution of meaning and the world is consistently
anonymous and latent, the full range of the experiential possibilities which it allows-the extreme
com~lexity of the world-will be excluded from consciousness' .
. oIbid., 30.
 THE IDEA OF BASIC TRUST 143

it. True, we could suggest to her that she is running certain risks. And if our
forebodings came true her life might turn complex. But the fact that things
'might' get difficult does not imply that they have already done so.
The work I have discussed in this section is, at the first glance, very different
from Hobbesian social theory . Yet some common features can be discerned.
There is the idea that living with others involves constant risks. We can cope
with other people either by constantly monitoring them or by, at least implicitly,
placing our trust in them; we cannot just live with them. In this sense, social life
is something alien, something requiring an effort from us.
The general approach discussed in this section can be seen as a
romanticisation of society. We are constantly surrounded by dangers. Most
ordinary people refuse to face the facts and so fall into self-deception. The social
theorist in contrast, in courageously facing the fragility of society, leads a life of
authentic existence. -But in reality, all that has been established is again the
tautologous point that interaction involves interaction.
The general problem with the writers discussed, both here and in the previous
section, may be put like this. In advancing the idea of trust as the basis of social
life they imply the presence of risks which, in the normal case, cannot be
recognised as real by those involved in the practices in question. When we speak
of trust we imply a 'third-person' perspective from which it makes sense to speak
of risks. Thus the intelligibility of the description requires here that one should
look at social life 'objectively', from the point of view of someone who is not
herself part of it. The question is whether it is intelligible to look at social life
as a whole from the outside. (Thus, the difficulty parallels the problem of
assessing the 'usefulness' of living in society, discussed in 4.6 .. ) While we should
not dogmatically deny the possibility of such a perspective, what exactly is
involved remains to be clarified. A suggestion will be offered in the next chapter.

8.4. Our Idea of Order in Nature

In epistemology, there is a parallel to the idea of trust as the cement of

society-sometimes explicitly associated with it. Here, too, regularities of our
everyday behaviour are accounted for as expressions of tacit assumptions. This
is the Humean account of our idea of uniformity in nature. Nothing logically
excludes that the regularities we have previously observed in nature might change
drastically. And since we can imagine local changes we can also, as Hume
144 CHAPTER 8

thinks, imagine that the natural order as a whole might suddenly break down. 31
Yet our entire lives revolve around the tacit belief that the laws of nature will
remain unchanged.
The parallel between natural and social order is made explicit by Bernard
Barber. He refers to our trust that 'the natural order-both physical and
biological-and the moral social order will persist and be more or less realized'.32
As an example of the former, he cites the expectation that a suspension bridge
will retain its shape for years to come-'while metal and granite retain their
coherence' .
Two things may be at issue. On the one hand, there is the straightforward
point that we consider certain disaster scenarios to be unlikely. But disaster
scenarios rely on laws of nature as we know them. Taking certain regularities as
given is necessary in order for us to have scenarios-i.e., reasoned judgments
about genuine possibilities. We may well be sceptical of the prospects of a stone-
and-metal structure's surviving wars, earthquakes, or urban planning, and yet not
succumb to general scepticism about the persistence of the natural order. Indeed,
we are typically expected to substantiate our scepticism by an appeal to some
regularity. The intelligibility of our scepticism is dependent on the fact that the
surroundings which make scepticism plausible are not expected to change.
On the other hand, one may think that the fact that we expect these
regularities to obtain in the future is, in itself, remarkable. While it is true that
individual laws of nature have often been discovered by means of induction, our
general expectation of uniformity in nature cannot be inductively based. As
Hume noted, the principle of induction is, in itself, an expression of our very
expectation of uniformity. Hume could only call this a 'custom', i.e., a fact about
human psychology. All we can say is that this is how we think.
However, it can be argued that Hume represents our relations to our physical
surroundings as much more straightforward than they really are. In fact, our
surroundings frequently disappoint us in various ways. Thus experience alone (in
the sense Hume understands it) would not seem to furnish a sufficient foundation
for the 'custom'.33

31 Hume (174811902), Enquiry... , Section IV, Pt. n. -Hume seems aware of the parallel noted
here; see, e.g., his essay 'Of the Original Contract' (Hume 1904), 456: 'Obedience or [political]
subjection becomes so familiar that most men never make any inquiry about its origin or cause, more
than about the principle of gravity, resistance, or the most universal laws of nature'.
32Barber 1983,9.
33Hume does not mean that this custom is justified by the uniformity of our experience (op. cit.,
V:II); but he does think that the uniformity of experience gives rise to the custom.
 THE IDEA OF BASIC TRUST 145

For instance, I leave a book on my desk in the evening and expect to find it
there upon return. The next morning, the book is gone. I might imaginably draw
the conclusion that things sometimes simply disappear. For support, I could cite
numerous similar occurrences in the past.
What is important here is that I typically do not give up or revise my beliefs
about the natural order. I try to find an explanation: someone has pinched the
book or my memory fails me. I will look for the missing object; and I will do
this in particular ways depending on the kind of object it is. I would dismiss
certain methods (say, checking the ceiling above my desk) by an appeal to earlier
experience. The character of the 'uniformity' that I am expecting shows in what
kinds of earlier experience I see as relevant: the kinds of experience I refer to
show what I mean by 'uniformity' in the case at hand. And even if no satisfactory
explanation is produced I will not give up my belief that a 'natural' explanation
exists. In this way, numerous occurrences which might be described as falsifying
instances are neutralised on the assumption that there simply must be a 'natural'
explanation.
Thus the uniformity that I identify in my surroundings is not given to me
from the outset, regardless of my own reactions; hence my 'custom' of expecting
uniformity is not produced by my experience of uniformity. My expectation of
uniformity (and hence, my ability to find it) is constituted by my practice of
looking for an explanation-that is: of not accepting the book's disappearance.
Now suppose that unexplained events of this kind became much more
common than they are now. I would still be looking for explanations for the
change in terms of regularities. I would see the apparent irregularities as
expressions of underlying regularities yet to be discovered. Thus, contrary to
Hume's argument, the fact that I can imagine individual types of apparent
irregularity does not take me any closer to imagining that there might be no
regularity at all.
In general, there is no logical bar against treating any situation as falling
under some ordering principle-even if the exact nature of the order might be
beyond our grasp.34 Consider, for instance, the constitutional indeterminacy often
ascribed to the movements of subatomary particles. Some scientists see this inde-
terminacy as irreducible while others think that there is a system to it, even if we
do not (and perhaps cannot) know what it is like. It is in the nature of the
question that one will never be able to show conclusively that the latter are
wrong.

34Goodman 1972.
146 CHAPTER 8

The notion of disorder belongs to human pursuits. A room may be in

disorder; this implies possible comparison with some (perhaps unspecified)
organising scheme. 35 Nature, on the other hand, cannot be in disorder or lack
order in the usual sense of the world. From the point of view of a natural
scientist, what we call 'disorder' and 'lack of order' are also kinds of order. 36 This
reflects the fact that he does not study nature with an ideal organising scheme in
mind. The scientist simply accepts anything he finds as the way nature is
ordered. Of course, it is possible for him to be mistaken about the kind of order
it is-i.e., about how it extends beyond what has been observed.
In brief, it is impossible to show, concerning a given configuration of things,
that it does not conform to any ordering principle at all. Or rather: There is no
such thing as showing it. Things being either 'ordered' or 'in disorder' is not a
quality residing in them independently of ourselves. It is a function of our
preparedness to see things as falling under a rule.
This is really a Kantian point. The description of nature as 'ordered' and
'uniform' is a description of our relation to nature. These notions are internally
related to the fact that we make plans and informed assumptions that go beyond
what is within our immediate reach. There is order in our world as long as our
lives in it can be described in terms of expectations; as long as what happens
may surprise us.
This highlights a feature of On Certainty. Wittgenstein tries to make sense
of the fact that certain kinds of proposition about how the world 'works' are not
open to serious doubt. These remarks, it seems to me, are not motivated by a
wish to fight scepticism: Wittgenstein describes, as it were, the 'form' that the
world has for US. 37 Our lives show patterns which are not based on anything.
These patterns can be expressed in the form of propositions. One might say, for
instance, that we are certain of the constancy of material objects. This is the
expression of a pattern in our relations to objects; for instance, of the fact that
we look for things we have lost.
However, once our certainty is given the form of a proposition about the
nature of material objects it seems open to sceptical challenge. The only way to

35Disorder can be defined as failure to conform to a specifiable organising scheme. 'Disorder'

implies that it might be someone's business to implement order. Lack of order, on the other hand,
implies the absence of an organising scheme. A bookshelf seems to be in disorder; but the owner
informs us that the books are not meant to be in a particular order. On his authority, we accept that
there is no organising scheme. A natural scientist, on the other hand, cannot make a corresponding
appeal to an authority.
36 Also see Bergson 1928, 245-248.
37 Thus his project can be broadly described as Kantian.
 THE IDEA OF BASIC TRUST 147

meet the challenge would, then, seem to be by saying, 'We just cannot help
entertaining these beliefs'. And this seems unsatisfactory as a proof of their truth.
However-Wittgenstein might, instead, be read as suggesting that propositions
of this kind are not really knowledge claims at all and, hence, not susceptible to
proof or refutation. Possibly, Kant's synthetic a priori statements might be
interpreted in a similar way.
Here speaking of certainty, or of an expectation of uniformity, is a way of
describing a pattern in my relations to objects. Thus, the criterion of 'uniformity
in nature' is my own ability to act in uniform ways. Conversely, the practices
discussed here cannot themselves be described as 'uniform' save in connection
with given ideas about uniformity in nature.
This point can be carried one step further. It also applies to human conduct
itself-including our own conduct. To see human conduct as displaying some
uniformity is to make sense of it by deducing it under a rule. That is, insofar as
one can make sense of it. It is, roughly, to propose a heading under which to
make sense of what someone is doing. Thus my description of human behaviour
as displaying uniformities is, in itself, an expression of my expectations.
Now we can ask in what ways it is illuminating to call these patterns of
human life a form of trust,38 or confident expectation, that the nature will behave
in regular ways.
To some extent, we clearly do show such confidence: for instance, we do not
typically prepare for very drastic weather changes. To some extent, again, we do
not-e.g., we do not trust the weather to be entirely predictable. -But what
about trusting that the natural order as a whole will not suddenly break down?
Now the alternative would not be another type of order, but no order at all.
Some pages ago I asked what a complete collapse of society would be like.
Here let me similarly ask what it would be like to find oneself in a situation
where there is no uniformity in nature. In such a state of affairs there would be
no place for the idea of having expectations. Reflection will show that it is
impossible to describe or imagine such a state of affairs at all, except in this
negative sense: it is a state where we would not know what to think.
To trust that the natural order will not break down is, then, to trust that the
unimaginable will not happen. But I have argued that speaking of trust normally
implies an imaginable possibility of disappointment. Hence it may be misleading
to speak of trust in this context.

38'Trust' here, of course, will not have the moral implications discussed in Chapter 5.
148 CHAPTER 8

8.5. Conclusion

Both 'trust as the basis of social life' and 'trust in the natural order' are, then, at
least potentially misleading notions. It is so for the same reason in both cases.
Both notions have to do with our conduct. But they are not explanations of
why our lives exhibit certain kinds of pattern; they restate the fact that patterns
have been discerned.
To say that we trust these patterns to reflect a general order is to try to
invoke possibilities of a general disappointment which we cannot recognise as
genuine. To speak of trusting is, normally, to imply that it will be intelligible for
us to take an outside perspective from which a disappointment seems possible.
But when we use the word 'trust' in the general way involved here we are still
left with the task of defining the 'outside perspective' from which speaking of
trust makes sense. What would it be like, for us, to be 'outside' human life?
In a sense, the attempt to take up such a perspective is an attempt to get
beyond one's own thought. That is, perhaps, not illegitimate. But in that case it
is a way of trying to stake out the limits of all intelligible thought and action. To
speak of 'basic trust', in this sense, is not to describe a psychological fact about
us.
 9

THE ETHICAL DEMAND

9.1. The Demand

The previous chapter gave us some reasons for caution about speaking of trust
as a pervasive aspect of all social life. However, I wish now to turn to what I see
as a legitimate use of such expressions. K. E. L!2Igstrup writes in his work on
theological ethics:

Trust, in an elementary sense, belongs to every exchange of words. [... )[B]y addressing someone-no
matter the weight of what is being said-one takes up a certain tone in which the speaker, as it were,
goes outside himself so as now to exist in the relationship of the speech to the other. This is why the
demand-tacitly-is to the effect that one be received oneself when one's tone of voice is received.
When someone fails or refuses to hear the tone it therefore means that the speaker himself is being
ignored, insofar as what has exposed itself is the speaker himself.
The fact that all speech takes place in the midst of such an elementary trust is shown by the fact
that the most trivial of remarks will ring false if one does not believe it will be taken as it is meant. I

This is an elucidation of what is involved in saying something. It would be

misleading simply to see speech as something produced by one individual and
contingently directed to another. It is essential, in order for the speaker to say
what he says, that he does so in the context of a relation between agents. The
meaning and flavour of what is being said are constituted in its relation to the
listener.
What is it for a remark to ring false? Obviously, that cannot be pinned down
by a physical description of a tone of voice-say, in terms of wave lengths. It
is not a quality of the voice at all independently of the situation. Nor is it simply
a matter of the psychological states of those engaged in the discussion. As argued
in Chapter 2, the psychological states themselves cannot be adequately described
in abstraction from the situation in which they occur. A tone of voice is false
because the situation is 'false'. To perceive a tone of voice as false is to see the
relation between the speakers as awkward in some way.
L!2Igstrup describes the relation between the two interlocutors as one of trust.
This is not to say that we trust in order to make encounter possible; this just is
what constitutes the encounter as the encounter it is. The mere fact of being ad-

'L0gstruP 1957, 24. My translation.

150 CHAPTER 9

dressed by another means that he is exposed to us; it is in our power either to

accept him or to reject him. We may ignore him or ridicule him. We may be
obtuse or question his motives. In all these cases, we are of course reacting to
a certain string of words. Yet they involve a rejection not just of the words but
of the person who utters them. There is an internal relation between rejecting the
words and rejecting him-in so far as he is 'present' in his words. In our
encounter with the other, the other is 'delivered into our hands'.
LjZlgstrup's description is open to criticism. It has similarities with some views
criticised earlier-in particular, with those of Garfinkel and Giddens. They focus
on the normally unproblematic character of most human encounters. It is exactly
this feature that LjZlgstrup describes as trust. But at the same time, the
un problematic character of the encounter also makes using the word 'trust'
problematic: normally, the situation is unproblematic not only from the point of
view of the speakers themselves but of anyone looking at it. We would not
normally characterise, say, two superficial acquaintances discussing the weather
as displaying trust. We would not call it distrust, of course. Questions about the
trustworthiness of others simply would not emerge. Again we need a plausible
context-a contrast between trust and a reasonable case for distrust.
The crucial difference between LjZlgstrup and the others is the point, the
significance, of speaking of 'trust' in these situations. In this case, 'trust' is not
primarily introduced for the sake of the explanatory role assigned to it by the
other writers. More importantly, LjZlgstrup is not proposing to give a purely de-
scriptive account. The aspects of human interaction that he focusses on are not
there to be seen independently of one's own position. Rather, seeing interaction
in the way he suggests is expressive of a certain ethical perspective. LjZlgstrup is
investigating the demands that our life with others creates on us if we go along
with looking at interaction in that way. All human interaction implies a demand
of attention-la tacit demand' as LjZlgstrup calls it. 2

9.2. Human Beings and Objects

By describing human relations in terms of trust and expectations, LjZlgstrup really

says that in the most elementary of human relations, there is something that sets
them apart from the relations we have with objects that we use. We can call this
reciprocity: the relation obtains between two subjects, not a subject and an object.
Simone Weil makes a closely related point:

2Ibid., 17 and passim. Cf. Baker 1987, 8-10.

 THE ETHICAL DEMAND 151

Anybody who is in our vicinity exercises a certain power over us by his very presence, and a power
that belongs to him alone, that is, the power of halting, repressing, modifying each movement that
our body sketches out. If we step aside for a passer-by on the road, it is not the same thing as
stepping aside to avoid a billboard; alone in our rooms, we get up, walk about, sit down again quite
differently from the way we do when we have a visitor. 1

A human being exerts a power over us 'by his very presence', whereas the power
of a physical obstacle is mechanical. To put it in another way: we see a human
being as something with 'a life of its own'. We recognise him as a 'limit to our
will'.
A tree, too, is a limit to our will, and it has a life of its own-for who else's
life would it be? But these expressions have a different meaning when we speak
about humans. I am not just referring to a human being's lack of predictability.
What is important is that, while we can either circumvent or remove a physical
obstacle, we do not 'remove' a human being while ourselves remaining the same.
We recognise him as the proper object of a certain kind of attention.
Someone might take this to be an empirical point about our usual reactions.
True, the fact that we generally behave in these ways is itself of importance. But
reading the point as simply empirical would invite us, at once, to imagine people
who in fact move about in rooms untouched by the presence of others. And it
will be hard to maintain that it can never happen. Arguably, this kind of absent-
mindedness often occurs in family life. 4 Weil herself goes on to describe
Achilles's demeanour in the Iliad as the behaviour of someone for whom the
conquered enemy is simply a thing. (Analogously, in the quoted passage,
Lpgstrup brings up the possibility of someone's utterance not being taken
seriously. )
Weil's point is, it seems, a conceptual one. I never step aside in front of a
street sign 'in the same way' as I do in front of a person. I am doing two things
since in one case the cause of my movement is a street sign and in the other, I
meet a person.
At first sight, that would look like saying nothing at all. In the same way, it
might be said, it is trivially true that I never do the same things bare-headed and
with a hat on. The difference consists in the fact that in the second case I am
wearing a hat. However, something more is being said here. To move about in
a room in someone else's presence is not the same thing as doing it alone: it
would not count as the same thing. In a multitude of situations, wearing a hat

'Weil 1986b, 187. Also see the discussions by Winch (1989,105-113; 1987, 147) and Cockburn
(1990,5-12).
41 owe this point to Elizabeth Wolgast.
152 CHAPTER 9

does not make an essential difference. But the presence or absence of others
nearly always matters to how our behaviour is to be described. The presence of
a person in the room will define my attitude, e.g., as one of absent-mindedness
or arrogance.
The fact that I am having to do with a human being invokes distinctions that
are not naturally present in my relations to objects. The same kinds of statement
will not count as genuine descriptions of the two situations. When I remove a
chair from a room (and no one else is present) you will not be asking whether
I did it in a friendly or unfriendly, polite or impolite manner. However, if I
'remove' a human being, there is room for such questions. No definite sense
could be given to the assertion that I 'simply' moved her away in the same way
as the chair-neither friendly nor unfriendly, neither polite nor impolite. If I did
not think about her at all I certainly did not 'remove her' in a neutral way!
We are familiar with the idea that the things we do require an explanation
while doing nothing does not. 5 This is undoubtedly connected with a causalist
view of action, though I do not think it originates there: it is more deeply
embedded in the verbs we use to describe action. -My friend and I are standing
in a forest. Suddenly, he is hit on the head by a falling branch and falls down,
moaning. It would be natural of me to rush to see if my friend is all right. But
suppose instead I 'do nothing at all', i.e., stay where I am. Surely this would
require an explanation. Another way of putting the point would be this: in this
example, there is no such thing for me as 'doing nothing', there is no such thing
as taking the situation in a neutral way. Even just standing there would count as
doing something while it would not if what was hit had just been another branch
(at a safe distance). We may say I 'remain standing', 'freeze', or 'ignore what
happens'. What is crucial here is that a human being is hit.
Or think of the ambiguity of the idea of treating a human being 'like a thing'.
In one sense, we understand what it means; in another, it is impossible ever to
treat human beings and things in the same way. Whatever we might do would
not count as 'the same way'. We do not e.g. treat things 'like things' unless a very
special context is presupposed. (Similarly, it is unclear whether we can treat a
dog 'like a dog'). To treat a man 'like a thing' is to deny his human worth-i.e.,
quite different from what could ever be done to things.
Here is a possible but mistaken way of seeing the distinction. On the level of
pure description, there is no difference in principle between how I remove a chair
from a room and how I remove a person. Both could be described in terms of
the physical movements I make. But-as one might go on-different attitudes

5See Gaita 1991, 178-179.

 THE ETHICAL DEMAND 153

towards the facts are appropriate. The fact that a being is a homo sapiens gives
me a reason to treat it in particular ways. And now of course I would have to
address the question how a biological fact can give rise to such differences. (This
might invite a discussion of ,species ism'.)
Subscribing to that view would be presupposing that a description of
behaviour in terms of physical movements is more basic (a 'purer' description)
than a description involving notions like friendliness. To call a description basic
in this sense would be to suggest that such a description is necessary for an
adequate account of what has happened; i.e., that my ability to describe what
happened in any other way is dependent on my ability to give a description of
that kind. But in this example, my friendliness may be both a more essential and
a more accessible element of the situation than are my physical movements. 6 For
instance, leaving it out of the description might be a falsehood.
In general: to give an adequate description of whatever I do is to give
answers to the questions that reasonably come up in connection with it.
Deliberately to leave some questions on one side is an act of abstraction. But on
the face of it, there is no reason to suppose that the same kind of
abstraction-say, describing everything in a 'physicalist' language-is appropriate
to all descriptions. 'Purely physical descriptions', too, belong to the particular
context of physics. In fact, descriptions in terms of post-Galilean physics might
prove to be equally much at odds with many physicaL descriptions we apply to
familiar objects in our surroundings (such as furniture, buildings, or crockery).
Similarly, a movement may be described as 'sudden' or 'violent'; this, too, is a
physical description even if it employs notions ousted from modem physical
SCIence.
In different situations, different questions naturally arise as genuine issues.
This is shown, e.g., in the fact that the notion of forcing enters into a description
of what it is like to 'remove' a person from a room. The notion of a human being
stakes out a certain logical room for possible descriptions of behaviour.
Thus the difference in what counts as an adequate description in the two
cases is not just due to the fact that human beings belong to an exceptional class
of objects. The adequate descriptions will differ-e.g., different verbs will be
used. One important reason for this is the fact that what I do when I 'remove' a
human being cannot, in the last analysis, be described just as something I do. It
will be a description of a situation with two agents-be it that the other is
resisting, acquiescing, or perhaps lying unconscious on the floor (chairs do lie on

6For an analogous point, see Cockburn 1994, 141-142.

154 CHAPTER 9

the floor; but they cannot be described as 'unconscious' unless we somehow

imagine them as living beings with a will of their own).
In philosophical discussions of psychological concepts, hopes are sometimes
voiced that a unified language could one day be employed in the description of
both the physical world and human agency.7 From that perspective, the analysis
above may seem to be driving an unacceptable wedge between these two types
of description.
But of course, this has been an analysis of our actual way of speaking and
thinking rather than a recommendation. So if a 'wedge' exists the analysis should
show it.
Besides, this is just one contrast that exists between different ways of
describing things. The fact that there may be different descriptions of things
depending on the aspects one is considering is only to be expected. Not even all
our descriptions of physical objects are 'commensurable'. An antique dealer, an
engineer and a microbiologist would describe the same dining-table in very
different ways. Those are, again, different from the way I may see an old table
that belongs to my home and has grown into an intimate part of my life. The
point that the distinction between persons and objects has a crucial significance
for us may obscure the fact that our relations with objects-such as a table, a
flower, a house-are by no means all of a piece.
The fact that there are irreducibly different ways of describing reality does
not imply lack of conceptual clarity. And it does not have to impede
communication. So in a sense, a 'unified language' exists already-a living unity
of various ways of offering descriptions and carrying on discussions. Or rather,
there are a host of 'unified languages'-such as English, Welsh, Burmese, Arabic,
and so on.

9.3. Blindness

What is it like systematically not to treat human beings with the attention Weil
and L\2Igstrup see as constitutive of our normal relations to others? Weil's essay
has been discussed several times by moral philosophers inspired by the later
work of Wittgenstein. 8 Weil herself cites slavery as a way of reducing the other
to a tool, a thing. Understandably enough, then, e.g., Gaita's subsequent
discussion largely centres around (racially based) slavery. Slavery is to deny the

7For an extreme example, see Churchland 1990.

8Winch 1989; Gaita 1991; Cockbum 1990.
 THE ETHICAL DEMAND 155

'othemess' of the other; to deny that he has his own life to live as the rest of us
do. It is a denial of an aspect of the humanity of the other.
I will not directly engage with this discussion, however. The slave-owner
denying the humanity of his slaves has a curiously indefinite quality; this perhaps
stems from the fact that we never meet such people in real life and can,
consequently, hardly imagine how to address them. But the idea of someone
denying the humanity of others is not accessible to us except in a context that
makes it tangible. 9 What is crucial in our relations to other human beings must
therefore be elucidated through a discussion of reactions and attitudes that we are
familiar with.
Consider the way we often think of outcasts of society such as tramps or bag
ladies.lO We may certainly find it tragic that there are people living in such
circumstances; however, the troubles and concerns of an individual tramp's
present life seldom strike us as something to be taken seriously, let alone as
tragic. We read of the police pulling down a tramp's hut; yet we are not outraged
at the fact that those who should administer justice are destroying a home. At
least, our reaction is usually tempered by the fact that we do not see the hut as
a 'real' home. We perhaps say that the man will soon find another place; that
there are authorities to take care of his sort of people if 'they' just bother to
contact them. All of which mayor may not be true; as it might also hold for us
the day we are forced out of our own homes. Yet it is difficult for many of us
to comprehend that someone could grieve for a hut as we would grieve the
wanton destruction of our homes.
Or we may tend to smile at the thought of a tramp falling in love with
another. We perhaps see it just as a natural outcome of their shared living
conditions. Sure, they have 'their' social and sexual 'needs' as the rest of us do.
Yet it is as if there was something funny about the idea that a tramp's
unreciprocated love could amount to anything resembling a tragedy. This is not
just due to the fact that we do not know the tramp personally: we will not
normally see a person's life as comical just because we do not happen to know
her. The tramp perhaps sleeps outside my door but he does not touch my life as
'ordinary people' do.
It is not any implied quality in him that prevents me from taking him
seriously. People do not typically think that the homeless belong to a particular
breed of people; most of us would vehemently object to anyone saying that the
biological or mental constitution of tramps sets them radically apart from other

9
Cavell 1979, 370-380.
10
An example suggested by Lars Hertzberg.
156 CHAPTER 9

people. It is not that I believe that a tramp cannot be truly sad about a mis-
fortune. It is his life, the sort of framing it gives to his troubles and concerns,
that makes it difficult for me to take them seriously-just as we do not take the
loves of a twelve-year-old in the way we take an adult's.
This is another form of the traditional idea that only the grievances of
princely persons (or white men) can furnish material for a tragedy while
comedies may be written about peasants (or Negroes). A peasant's life is just too
insignificant in order for anything worth calling a tragedy to take place in it. This
may, but need not, be complemented by an implication of differences of
sensibility. It is probably unfortunate that the recent discussion has so largely
been focussed on racially based slavery: focussing on a racial difference gives
an accentuated role to the slave-owner's view of the slaves as constitutionally
different from him and obscures the way that a mere difference in living
conditions may distort our view. The slavery originally discussed by Weil was
not specifically based on race; so by introducing his example Gaita in fact
changes the subject.
We tend to be rather clear about who the tramp's 'sort of people' are. Yet this
does not usually imply theoretical consciousness about appropriate grounds for
classification. Nor are we usually clear about what makes it appropriate to treat
'them' as outsiders. What is primary here is the lack of a number of reactions that
typically belong to our relations with 'ordinary' people.
Some readers might feel that my description does no justice to their acute
social consciousness; they would never think of the homeless in the ways I have
described. I hope they are right. Nevertheless, I am rather sure that a large
number of us act in analogous ways at least on some occasions; and that we
recognise such attitudes as intelligible. In fact, the ease with which I can use the
expression 'social consciousness' here without the fear of incomprehension shows
how much we take it for granted that it should take some special effort to treat
this particular group of people with decency.
But what is important here is that most of us also tend to think that there is
something gone wrong here. We feel this, too; but we will not be able to give
theoretical grounds for it.
Perhaps we say that the outcasts of society are human beings just like us and
should be treated with consideration. To treat someone with consideration is to
give his concerns the sort of attention they deserve. But we still need a
description of what kinds of concerns informing a human life ought to be taken
seriously. What are we to say of a tramp's concern for a cardboard-and-plastic
dwelling? There is no neutral way to describe the concern it is. To treat a tramp's
hut as if it were on a par with a 'respectable' home is already to take a position.
 THE ETHICAL DEMAND 157

It is not just the neutral preliminary of an argument to establish that the pulling
down of his hut should outrage us.
What will it be like for me to try to make someone recognise a tramp's right
to be taken seriously; or how shall I struggle in order not to forget his right
myself? My starting point will lie in the fact that our lives are informed by other
human relations that are not like this. The most cynical of people at least
remembers a time when she took someone else's troubles and concerns seriously.
If there was a person who started off life by taking no one seriously she would
strike us as radically alien (if we assume the thought experiment is viable at all).
She would be a stranger to many of the crucial notions that inform human life.
Thus, nothing could intelligibly count as 'important' for her: even her own
strivings would merely be about something she needs or wants. I I
Thus I already have some ground under my feet. I will be trying to make my
interlocutor, or myself, see the tramp's life in the same light in which we see the
lives of those we know and care about. This is the force of the idea of a
universal brotherhood of men. Trying to be friends with the whole world is pious
nonsense; but the idea of brotherhood (or sisterhood) invokes the idea that there
are people to whom I stand in a relation of obligation whether I want it or not.
Someone might take our attitudes towards outsiders such as tramps as
counter-examples to the point Weil and Ly;gstrup make. Those attitudes exclude
the sort of attention described by them as the essence of our encounter with
another person. Empirically, it is true that we often ignore the demands that the
humanity of others makes on us-and at least Weil was acutely aware of that.
What is important is that there is room here for seeing such attitudes as a sort of
blindness. To entertain them is to miss something.

9.4. The Reality 0/ the Other

So what are we blind to when we are oblivious of a tramp's right to be taken

seriously? It will not be enough to say that we fail to recognise his humanity.
'Being blind to someone's humanity' could mean many things. In another context,
it means that we fail to see the faults of a great man.
We might also say that we are blind to the tramp's particular individuality.
We have the feeling that a human being requires respect as the individual he is.
But of course it is not just a person's qualitative or numerical individuality that
is at issue. No two apples in a supermarket look exactly the same; yet that is no

11 See my argument in 7.6.

158 CHAPTER 9

reason for us to treat them as irreplaceable individuals in the sense implied

hereY We have an idea of the individual human being as someone with a life
of his own. He is an independent centre of the world with his own perspective
on it. As Otto Weininger puts it:

Only the one who feels that the other human being is also an I. a monad, a centre of the world in
his own right, with a particular way of thinking and feeling, and a particular past, will by himself be
protected against using his fellow human beings merely as means to an end; he will, in accordance
with Kantian ethics, discern personality in his fellow human beings (recognise them as part of the
intelligible world), fathom it and therefore honour it, not merely be vexed with it. 13

It would probably be easy to make fun of Kant's idea that we owe the other
person unconditional respect because her practical reason, which we recognise,
commands respect. 14 It is not, primarily, rationality that we respect in her. But
at least this seems right: to respect a person is to recognise her as the centre of
her practical reason, the centre of what, for her, appears as right, valuable,
imperative. This does not simply mean that we should give her interests the same
weight as we give our own; that mayor may not be true. Rather it means, for
instance, that her views on justice, or the fact that she cannot bring herself to do
something that goes against her convictions, have a claim to be viewed on a par
with our own convictions.
We do not simply pay attention to the other's needs, pity him, and offer our
help-thus penetrating the barrier that lies between his life and ours. We also
respect him by honouring that barrier. IS Think of what it is like for an old female
patient to know she has no choice but to undress in front of a young male
nurse-to stand the critical gaze that tells her she is no longer as young as his
girlfriend. 16 And think of the different ways the nurse can bathe her. For he may
also bathe her in a way that shows respect for her predicament. Or say I give a

12 An example by Joel Backstrtim. The point is perhaps the same as Weil's when she asserts that
the other's personality is not what makes it wrong to harm him. -Also see Cockburn 1990, 148-158.
13Aber nur wer fiihlt, dafJ der andere Mensch auch ein [ch, eine Monade, ein eigenes Zentrum
der Welt ist, mit besonderer Gefiihlsweise und Denkart, und besonderer Vergangenheit, der wird von
selbst davor gefeit sein, den Mitmenschen blofJ als Mittel zum Zweck zu beniitzen, er wird der
Kantischen Ethik gemaB auch im Mitmenschen die Personlichkeit (als Teil der intelligiblen Welt)
spiiren, ahnen und darum ehren, und nicht blofJ an ihm sich iirgern. -Weininger 1905,232. My
translation; some emphases omitted. Also see 229-238.
14 Kant, GMS, 428.
ISWeininger 1905,229-230.
16 An example from Riickert 1994.
 THE ETHICAL DEMAND 159

friend a shirt I have chosen rather than one he wished fOL I7 It may well be that
I know what looks good on him while he does not. Yet the fact remains that I
may be insulting him. We recognise that the wishes of another must be given
weight--even if they wish for something we cannot recognise as valuable.
Similar ideas are expressed by Emmanuel Levinas in Totality and Infinity.ls
The world presents itself to me as a 'totality'-roughly, as a limited whole whose
boundaries are set by my possible experience. It is my world. Its value and intel-
ligibility are contingent on how it impinges on my life. Other people present
themselves as settings for my life, to be understood in analogy with me. So far,
we are moving within the view traditionally described as Cartesian;19 my own
argument here has in fact, to a large extent, consisted of different objections
against related views. However, as Levinas continues, another human being-the
Other-is equally an independent centre of a world which is irreducible to mine.
In my encounter with the Other, I get a glimpse of Infinity: of something
completely beyond my reach. In seeing this I recognise that the value of the
Other is absolute; i.e. that it cannot be reduced to any role he has in my life.
Levinas does not give many examples, but something like the following may
be meant. The other is someone we may want to know-not just in the capacity
of an interesting setting for our lives, but because his perspective on the world
has a value just because it is his perspective. 20 The other may also be a mystery
to me. This would not only be because I cannot guess what goes on in his mind
(when I really cannot)-for there are many things I cannot guess but which do
not strike me as mysterious. We may say that the other-he himself, with a past
and future, with a particular outlook on life-is never completely represented by
his empirical presence. His person cannot be adequately captured in a 'snapshot'
description of the present moment. Even when he is reduced to a vegetative
existence-as in advanced senile dementia-I may be affected by his presence
rather than just regarding him as a heap in the corner of a room.
It may also be worthwhile to remember that our 'recognition of the reality of
the Other' need not be anything dramatic or mysterious. It may be shown in the
simple fact that we wait for someone, ask for their opinion, hope that they agree
with us.

17 An example by Joel Backstrom.

ISUvinas 1994.
19Uvinas, however, challenges this reading of Descartes by pointing out the role Cartesian
epistemology assigns to the meditating soul's 'idea of infinity'.
20Weininger 1905, 230.
160 CHAPTER 9

One way to pin down the way the other's individuality impresses itself on us
is to say that every human being has a soul. 21 At this juncture, of course,
objections will be voiced by those who think that something 'metaphysical' is
meant. Metaphysics, as often understood, is the examination of a 'super-reality'
to be discovered by reason and to be described in the terms of materialism,
dualism, or some other theory of that type?2 According to that reading, the
metaphysical reality of the 'soul' would be something given in an absolute sense,
independently of what it has to do with us and whether we have an idea of its
existence. Ideas about personal immortality might also be evoked.
Parapsychologists and others sometimes think of the soul as something like
smoke escaping through a person's mouth at death.
However: here let us leave aside those aspects of the question. The fact that
the word 'soul' also has these particular connotations is perhaps a matter of
historical coincidence. The fact (if it were a fact) that there will be smoke
coming out of a person's mouth at death should, on the face of it, neither make
her more nor less worthy of our unconditional respect. Besides, even a human
corpse has a particular way of impressing itself upon us-which of course runs
counter to conventional dualist metaphysics. For instance, we do not normally
consider eating our dead or depositing them in landfills even if we could imagine
an argument to the effect that it would be the most rational course to take.23
It seems to me that what an assertion or denial of the existence of the 'soul'
means can only show itself in its relation to how we live. 24 Our idea of a soul is
shown in our respect for others and in our sense of irreparable loss when we lose
them. Our sense that animals do not have souls is shown in the fact that our
relations to them are of a different kind. Thus the idea of a soul is an articula-
tion-not a justification or an explanation-of our ways of relating to others. To
speak of the soul in this sense is not to appeal to a fact that we can recognise
independently of our attitudes.

21See Wittgenstein, PI, II:iv. This theme has been explored i.a. by Cavell (1979), Winch (1987),
Cockburn (1990), Gaita (1991), and Phillips (1995).
22 Here it is helpful to make a distinction between descriptive and revisionary metaphysics
(Strawson 1963, xiii-xv). Descriptive metaphysics is a study of the existing structure of our thinking
while revisionary metaphysics is concerned to 'produce a better structure' supposed more adequately
to correspond to reality (xiii). Thus, e.g., Collingwood (1979) described metaphysics as the
(descriptive) study of the absolute presuppositions of our thought; Kant, similarly, saw the principles
of pure reason as containing nothing but the schema of possible experience (KrV, A235-260).
23See Diamond 1991.
24See Winch 1987.
 THE ETHICAL DEMAND 161

What I have said here might seem to suggest that talk of 'the soul' is simply
a metaphor. What I am 'really' doing-one might think-is recommending an
attitude of unconditional respect towards other human beings. This would reduce
the question to a matter of psychology or choice. But the point of speaking of
the reality of the soul is precisely that no choice is left to us as to what our
attitude towards other people should be. -What would, then, be a proof that
people have souls? -For 'proof, we only need to show that the corresponding
attitude strikes a chord with us. -How is that done? -Not by citing evidence
but by drawing one's attention to persuasive samples that inspire this way of
seeing people.

9.5. Why the Demand is Tacit

In the last two chapters, I have argued that there are two ways of understanding
the idea that trust is a pervasive element of all human life.
On the one hand, a basic trust has been represented as an explanation of the
fact that certain regularities are possible in human life; this has the appearance
of a thesis about our psychological makeup. I argued that this way of speaking
of trust must be tautologous. It cannot perform the explanatory task expected
from it. However, the tautology may, perhaps, be read as an attempt to highlight
the limits of meaningful action and thought.
On the other hand, the idea of a basic trust may be a way of articulating the
demands that the presence of others make on us. I suggest that the idea should
be read analogously with the idea of a soul as spelled out in the previous section.
Throughout the present work, I have stressed that calling someone's attitude
'trust' is never just making a neutral, empirical point about her mental states,
behaviour, or the like. It is to claim that we must respect the expectations she has
on us. No doubt her mental states and behaviour are important since, in given
contexts, they provide us with criteria establishing that she has expectations; but
to call these expectations 'trust' is not to make an additional empirical point about
her mental life.
Thus the recognition of a demand of respect cannot be separated from the
recognition that other people trust us. Or: to recognise trust is to respect the
demand that is made. -To say, then, that all human encounters involve trust is
to assert that the mutual dependence which, by definition, is involved in these
162 CHAPTER 9

encounters ought not to be abused. Which is one way of formulating the fact that
the demand of respect is universa1. 25
Philosophers addressing the topic have usually acknowledged that trust is
connected with moral concerns in some way. Generally, however, they have seen
the connection as external: it is somehow superimposed rather than constitutive
of what 'trust' means. 26 Their favoured examples could be assimilated to prudence
tempered by moral 'evaluation'.
But trust is not a phenomenon whose existence we establish 'neutrally': we
do not simply discover it independently of our own position. To 'discover' it is
to see a human relation in a light that requires a moral response. Conversely, it
can be argued that the fact that we have moral concerns is, in the last analysis,
intelligible only because we live in human relations-such as friendship-that
involve trust. 27
A certain reading of LlZIgstrup gives the impression that a demand of respect
for the other is a new conclusion that follows from the fact that every personal
encounter includes an element of trust. It may seem as if this fact had first been
(perhaps empirically) discovered independently of the perception of a demand.
(A similar ambiguity pertains to LlZIgstruP's suggestion that I always 'take up a
certain tone' in addressing the other: which tone is it? How does he know I
always take it up?) LlZIgstruP himself sometimes leaves room for such an
interpretation. 28 However, that would be to squander the philosophical point
which does not depend on facts but consists in an elucidation of what is meant
by moral concerns. We must remember where L0gstrup's interests lie: he is
writing theological ethics, not empirical psychology.
The reader is urged to view human interaction in a certain light. And to see
what life looks like once the reader sees where she is. I realise that the man I see
before me trusts me, that I hold his life in my hand. I recognise a demand for

25 What about insects, trees, or stones which cannot, in the normal sense, be said to have
expectations from us? Do they have a claim to our respect? (A question by David Cockburn.) -On
the one hand, one might argue for such respect in ways that do not involve a claim about trust. On
the other hand, I can imagine that someone (perhaps in the Indian Chipko movement?) might
meaningfully say that trees trust us. This would make sense in the context of certain views about the
relation between man and the universe. However, this is not something that I could bring myself to
say.
26 See, e.g., Baier: 'Only if we had reason to believe that the most familiar types of trust
relationship were morally sound would breaking trust be any more prima facie wrong than breaking
silence'. -Baier 1986,253.
27 Also see Baker 1987, 8-10.
28
See, e.g., L~gstrup 1957, 24-25.
 THE ETHICAL DEMAND 163

respect. The demand is normally not uttered by this fellow human being of
mine-he may not even think about it; he may explicitly deny any such
demands. 29 Yet it is there.
The 'tacitness' of the demand consists in the fact that we cannot be made
aware of it independently of our own attitude:

The demand that lies in each human encounter, then, is never voiced but remains tacit. The individual
to whom it is directed must himself judge from situation to situation what the demand is about.")

Yet again it would be wrong to think that the demand is something that we
simply read into the other's behaviour: if it were up to us to choose how to take
it there would not be a demand. -Weil makes a related point in 'Human
Personality':

At the bottom of the heart of every human being, from earliest infancy until the tomb, there is
something that goes on indomitably expecting, in the teeth of all experience of crimes committed,
suffered, and witnessed, that good and not evil will be done to him. It is this above all that is sacred
in every human being.'1

Other human beings' expectation of goodness from us-their trust in us--com-

mands our respect. Again the point looks empirical. It is not. Weil also writes
that the cry of the unhappy is 'silent'. It can only be perceived through a
particular kind of attention which is love.
These points are not empirical discoveries of psychology. Empirical dis-
coveries would not do anyway: even if there were such discoveries, the question
what to do would be left open. After all, an expectation of goodness may exist
alongside contrary expectations. We would still have to decide which expectation,
if any, to meet.
Nor is the conclusion deduced from logic, if what we mean by 'logic' is a
discipline dealing with the formal qualities of statements, and the results of
which must be acceptable to all independently of perspective. -How, then, are
this trust and this demand discovered? -It is not a discovery, what we have here
is a way of looking at things. No Logic compels us to adopt it. But what
philosophy can do is show that even thoughts like this can be thought. After an

29/hid., 31-32
30/hid., 32. My translation. Cf. Gaita 1991, 182: 'In the absence of an attitude towards a soul,
behaviour proves nothing, just as the tlie[']s wriggling proves nothing if the question arises whether
it feels pain.'
31Weil 1986a, 71.
164 CHAPTER 9

analysis of how concepts are used in everyday life, something meaningful still
remains to be said-about what these concepts mean to someone who cares. 32

32See Winch 1972, 204.

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 INDEX

Ackennan, B. 107 Evidence 50, 51, 86-92

Anderson, B. 118, 121 definition 87
Attachment 99, 100 Expressibility 21, 22
Austria 124 Filmer, R. 112
Authority, of parents 101, 102, 112-114, 116 France 124
Axelrod, R. 53, 54, Freud, S. 25
Baier, A. 18, 19,21,22,29,30,38-42,45, Fukuyama, F. 53
50, 58, 60, 61, 67, 83, 84, 96-98, 10 I, Gaita, R. 154, 156
135 Gambetta, D. 54, 68
Baker, 1. 87 Game theory 7, 52, 54, 58, 72, 73, 75
Barber, B. 144 Garfinkel, H. 138-142, 150
Bashkortostan 128 Genuine duration 16, 17, 18, 19,27
'Basic trust' 4, 96, 132-134, 139, 148 Germany 121, 124
Belief 14, 35, 37, 38, 49, 50, 55, 65-68, 73- Giddens, A. 139-142, 150
76, 78, 82, 85, 96 Greenfeld, L. 122
mutual 65, 66 God 10, 82-84
Bosnia 124 Godwin, W. 35
Bowlby, J. 99 Ca/eh Williams 35-37
Brotherhood 157 Govier, T. 15, 55
Canada 124 Gustafsson, M. 94, 95
Certainty 32, 33, 94, 95, 146, 147 Herder, 1. G. von 121
Chechnia 126-128 Hertzberg, L. 10, 48, 96
China 94,95 Hobbes, T., Hobbesian, Hobbist 7-9, 49, 50,
Chirot, D. 122 62,97, 136-138, 143
Christ 6 Hume, D., Humean 6, 43, 95, 134, 144, 145
'Cognitive science' 26 Hungary 124
Cognitively based relations 76, 80, 84, 85 Ik 72, 137
Complexity 142 Individual, individuality 1-3,7,9, 15,26,61-
Contract 38, 39, 58 64, 70, 73-76, 85, 104, 120, 121, 157,
Cooperation 49, 50, 53, 54, 61, 65 158, 160
Cwmrhydyceirw 24 Individualism, v. communitarianism 9, 120
Dalai Lama 109 methodological 72-76, 84
Dawkins, R. 72 Induction 78, 79, 144
Deciding 34, 35, 104 Innocence 30, 31, 96
Dennett, D. 26 Iran 109
Descartes, R., Cartesian 9, 10, 93, 159 Jokharghala 127
Oilman, i. 78 Justice 32,106,107,131
Dreyfus Affair 90 Justification, the idea of 56, 57, 62, 63
Dudaev, J. 127 of social life 60-64
Dunn, 1. 108, 109 of trust 3, 55-62, 102
EIster, J. 52, 73 of not questioning 102
Entrusting 4, 38-40 global 55, 58, 59, 61
Epistemology I, 7. 93 local 55, 58
Erikson, E. H. 23 Kant, I., Kantian 31, 32, 62, 146, 147, 158
176 TRUST: THE TACIT DEMAND

KGB 92 Reflection 20, 28, 29, 46

Knowing 33, 76-78 Reliance 4, 48, 49, 58, 59, 76
Legitimacy 104-111, 128-131 Religious faith 82-84
Levinas, E. 159 Respect 81, 158, 160-163
Liberal, Liberalism 107, 122, 123 Risk taking 2, 40, 43, 52, 56, 58
Libya 109 Rootedness 116, 128
Locke, J. 105 Rousseau, J-1. 64, 65
L0gstrup, K. E. 149-151, 154, 157, 162 Russia 126-128
London 77 Rwanda 136
Luhmann, N. 141-143 Scepticism 9, 10, 33, 94, 95, 140, 144, 146
Luther, M., Lutheran 82, 83 Scotland 124
MacIntyre, A. 7 Shame 127, 128
Maicolm, N. 32 Shamyl 127
Mann, T. II Sharpe, R. A. 34, 37
Marriage 14,40,41,74 Singer, P. 6
Marx, K. 130 Slaves, slavery 68, 154-156
Melanchthon, P. 82 Social constructionists 141
Moore, G. E. 32 Social contract 111, 112, 137
Moral relations 11, 12, 76, 80, 84 Social life 4, 5, 7, 60-64, 72, 74, 75, 104,
Nationalism 4, 121-125, 131 133, 134, 136, 138, 142, 143, 148, 149
Nationality 117, 121, 124 justifiability of 60-64
Nature, natural 4, 8, 10, 99, 100, 129, 143- Socrates 129
148, 152 Solipsism 9, 93, 94
human 11, 137 Soul 160, 161
Nazism 136 State 17, 20, 23, 26, 27
Neurology 27 mental, of mind 7,15,17-19,23-27,46,
'Original position' 114, 118 101
Pascal's wager 55, 56 of nature 7, 64, 71, 137
Perception 10, 93, 94 of trust 21
Perspective 2, 3, 28, 30-33, 39, 45, 46, 56, psychological 2, 5, 45, 149
57, 89, 133, 141, 143, 148, 150, 159 unconscious 15, 22-26, 28
Philosophical anthropology 9 State (nation-state) 110, 116, 128
Philosophy 13 Swansea 24
analytical 1 Symbols 118-120
moral I, 11, 12 Taylor, C. 7
of mind I, 7, 14 Topelius, Z. 104
political I, 104, 105 Turnbull, C. 72, 137
Physics 153 Ukraine 124
Possibility 42-45, 142 UN 125
Prediction 49, 76 Uniformity 145-147
Preferences 62-64, 70-72, 75, 76, 85, 106 Universality v. particularity 122, 124-126
Prisoners' Dilemma 52, 53, 54, 68-72 U.S., American 53, 109, 124
Rational, rationality 1-3, 5-7, 33, 48, 49, 51, Wales 124
59, 62, 64, 84-86, 95, 96, 115, 132 Watkins, J. W. N. 74
Rational choice 52, 113, 114 Weil, S. 150, 151, 154, 157, 163
Rawls, J. 106, 107,112-114,117,118 Weininger, O. 158
Reasoning 31, 56, 60, 63, 87, 93, 115, 116 Wiberg, M. 73
 INDEX 177

Williams, B. 50
WiIson, W. 125
Winch, P. 7, 12, 104. 114
Wittgenstein, L., 10, I I, 14, 16-19,27.32,
33,94,95, 114, I 15.130,131,133.142,
146, 147
Yeltsin. B. 127