M ill   •  Utilitarianism      181
hitherto been put off, and as if, at the moment when
some man feels tempted to meddle with the property
or life of another, he had to begin considering for
the first time whether murder and theft are injurious
to human happiness. Even then I do not think that
he would find the question very puzzling; but, at all
events, the matter is now done to his hand.
It is truly a whimsical supposition that, if man-
kind were agreed in considering utility to be the test
of morality, they would remain without any agree-
ment as to what is useful, and would take no mea-
sures for having their notions on the subject taught
to the young, and enforced by law and opinion.
There is no difficulty in proving any ethical standard
whatever to work ill, if we suppose universal idiocy
to be conjoined with it; but on any hypothesis short
of that, mankind must by this time have acquired
positive beliefs as to the effects of some actions
on their happiness; and the beliefs which have thus
come down are the rules of morality for the multi-
tude, and for the philosopher until he has succeeded
in finding better. That philosophers might easily do
this, even now, on many subjects; that the received
code of ethics is by no means of divine right; and
that mankind have still much to learn as to the ef-
fects of actions on the general happiness, I admit, or
rather, earnestly maintain. The corollaries from the
principle of utility, like the precepts of every practi-
cal art, admit of indefinite improvement, and, in a
progressive state of the human mind, their improve-
ment is perpetually going on.
But to consider the rules of morality as improv-
able, is one thing; to pass over the intermediate
generalisations entirely, and endeavour to test each
individual action directly by the first principle, is an-
other. It is a strange notion that the acknowledgment
of a first principle is inconsistent with the admission
of secondary ones. To inform a traveller respect-
ing the place of his. ultimate destination, is not to
forbid the use of landmarks and direction-posts on
the way. The proposition that happiness is the end
and aim of morality, does not mean that no road
ought to be laid down to that goal, or that persons
going thither should not be advised to take one direc-
tion rather than another. Men really ought to leave
off talking a kind of nonsense on this subject, which
they would neither talk nor listen to on other mat-
ters of practical concernment. Nobody argues that
the art of navigation is not founded on astronomy,
because sailors cannot wait to calculate the Nautical
Almanack. Being rational creatures, they go to sea
with it ready calculated; and all rational creatures go
out upon the sea of life with their minds made up on
the common questions of right and wrong, as well as
on many of the far more difficult questions of wise
and foolish. And this, as long as foresight is a human
quality, it is to be presumed they will continue to do.
Whatever we adopt as the fundamental principle of
morality, we require subordinate principles to apply
it by; the impossibility of doing without them, being
common to all systems, can afford no argument
against any one in particular; but gravely to argue as
if no such secondary principles could be had, and as
if mankind had remained till now, and always must
remain, without drawing any general conclusions
from the experience of human life, is as high a pitch,
I think, as absurdity has ever reached in philosophi-
cal controversy. . . .
CHAPTER 5.
ON THE CONNECTION
BETWEEN JUSTICE AND UTILITY
In all ages of speculation, one of the strongest ob-
stacles to the reception of the doctrine that Utility
or Happiness is the criterion of right and wrong, has
been drawn from the idea of justice. The powerful
sentiment, and apparently clear perception, which
that word recalls with a rapidity and certainty re-
sembling an instinct, have seemed to the majority of
thinkers to point to an inherent quality in things; to
show that the just must have an existence in Nature
as something absolute, generically distinct from
every variety of the Expedient, and, in idea, opposed
to it, though (as is commonly acknowledged) never,
in the long run, disjoined from it in fact.
In the case of this, as of our other moral senti-
ments, there is no necessary connection between the
question of its origin, and that of its binding force.
182    PART V  •  READINGS
That a feeling is bestowed on us by Nature, does not
necessarily legitimate all its promptings. The feeling
of justice might be a peculiar instinct, and might yet
require, like our other instincts, to be controlled and
enlightened by a higher reason. . . .
Now it is known that ethical writers divide moral
duties into two classes, denoted by the ill-chosen
expressions, duties of perfect and of imperfect ob-
ligation; the latter being those in which, though the
act is obligatory, the particular occasions of per-
forming it are left to our choice, as in the case of
charity or beneficence, which we are indeed bound
to practise, but not towards any definite person, nor
at any prescribed time. In the more precise language
of philosophic jurists, duties of perfect obligation
are those duties in virtue of which a correlative
right resides in some person or persons; duties of
imperfect obligation are those moral obligations
which do not give birth to any right. I think it will
be found that this distinction exactly coincides with
that which exists between justice and the other ob-
ligations of morality. In our survey of the various
popular acceptations of justice, the term appeared
generally to involve the idea of a personal right—a
claim on the part of one or more individuals, like
that which the law gives when it confers a pro-
prietary or other legal right. Whether the injustice
consists in depriving a person of a possession, or
in breaking faith with him, or in treating him worse
than he deserves, or worse than other people who
have no greater claims, in each case the supposition
implies two things—a wrong done, and some as-
signable person who is wronged. Injustice may also
be done by treating a person better than others; but
the wrong in this case is to his competitors, who are
also assignable persons.
It seems to me that this feature in the case—a right
in some person, correlative to the moral ­obligation—
constitutes the specific difference between justice,
and generosity or beneficence. Justice implies some-
thing which it is not only right to do, and wrong not
to do, but which some individual person can claim
from us as his moral right. No one has a moral right
to our generosity or beneficence, because we are not
morally bound to practise those virtues towards any
given individual. And it will be found with respect to
this, as to every correct definition, that the instances
which seem to conflict with it are those which most
confirm it. For if a moralist attempts, as some have
done, to make out that mankind generally, though not
any given individual, have a right to all the good we
can do them, he at once, by that thesis, includes gen-
erosity and beneficence within the category of jus-
tice. He is obliged to say, that our utmost exertions
are due to our fellow creatures, thus assimilating
them to a debt; or that nothing less can be a sufficient
return for what society does for us, thus classing the
case as one of gratitute; both of which are acknowl-
edged cases of justice. Wherever there is right, the
case is one of justice, and not of the virtue of be-
neficence: and whoever does not place the distinction
between justice and morality in general, where we
have now placed it, will be found to make no distinc-
tion between them at all, but to merge all morality in
justice. . . .
To have a right, then, is, I conceive, to have
something which society ought to defend me in the
possession of. If the objector goes on to ask, why it
ought? I can give him no other reason than general
utility. If that expression does not seem to convey a
sufficient feeling of the strength of the obligation,
nor to account for the peculiar energy of the feel-
ing, it is because there goes to the composition of
the sentiment, not a rational only, but also an animal
element, the thirst for retaliation; and this thirst de-
rives its intensity, as well as its moral justification,
from the extraordinarily important and impressive
kind of utility which is concerned. The interest in-
volved is that of security, to every one’s feelings the
most vital of all interests. All other earthly benefits
are needed by one person, not needed by another;
and many of them can, if necessary, be cheerfully
foregone, or replaced by something else; but secu-
rity no human being can possibly do without on it
we depend for all our immunity from evil, and for
the whole value of all and every good, beyond the
passing moment; since nothing but the gratification
of the instant could be of any worth to us, if we
could be deprived of anything the next instant by
whoever was momentarily stronger than ourselves.
Now this most indispensable of all necessaries,
after physical nutriment, cannot be had, unless the
 M ill   •  Utilitarianism      183

machinery for providing it is kept unintermittedly
in active play. Our notion, therefore, of the claim
we have on our fellow-creatures to join in making
safe for us the very groundwork of our existence,
gathers feelings around it so much more intense
than those concerned in any of the more common
cases of utility, that the difference in degree (as is
often the case in psychology) becomes a real dif-
ference in kind. The claim assumes that character
of absoluteness, that apparent infinity, and incom-
mensurability with all other considerations, which
constitute the distinction between the feeling of
right and wrong and that of ordinary expediency
and inexpediency. . . .
It appears from what has been said, that justice
is a name for certain moral requirements, which,
regarded collectively, stand higher in the scale of
social utility, and are therefore of more paramount
obligation, than any others; though particular cases
may occur in which some other social duty is so
important, as to overrule any one of the general
maxims of justice. Thus, to save a life, it may not
only be allowable, but a duty, to steal, or take by
force, the necessary food or medicine, or to kidnap,
and compel to officiate, the only qualified medical
practitioner. In such cases, as we do not call any-
thing justice which is not a virtue, we usually say,
not that justice must give way to some other moral
principle, but that what is just in ordinary cases
is, by reason of that other principle, not just in the
particular case. By this useful accommodation of
language, the character of indefeasibility attributed
to justice is kept up, and we are saved from the ne-
cessity of maintaining that there can be laudable
injustice.
The considerations which have now been adduced
resolve, I conceive, the only real difficulty in the util-
itarian theory of morals. It has always been evident
that all cases of justice are also cases of expediency:
the difference is in the peculiar sentiment which at-
taches to the former, as contradistinguished from the
latter. If this characteristic sentiment has been suf-
ficiently accounted for; if there is no necessity to
assume for it any peculiarity of origin; if it is simply
the natural feeling of resentment, moralised by being
made coextensive with the demands of social good;
and if this feeling not only does but ought to exist in
all the classes of cases to which the idea of justice
corresponds; that idea no longer presents itself as a
stumbling-block to the utilitarian ethics.
Justice remains the appropriate name for certain
social utilities which are vastly more important, and
therefore more absolute and imperative, than any
others are as a class (though not more so than others
may be in particular cases); and which, therefore,
ought to be, as well as naturally are, guarded by a
sentiment not only different in degree, but also in
kind; distinguished from the milder feeling which at-
taches to the mere idea of promoting human pleasure
or convenience, at once by the more definite nature
of its commands, and by the sterner character of its
sanctions.

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1.  What philosophical problem is Mill’s distinction between higher and lower pleasures supposed to
solve? Do you think he successfully solves that problem? Why or why not?
2.  Of the various objections to utilitarianism that Mill discusses in Chapter 2, which do you think is
most important? Do you think Mill successfully replies to that objection? Why or why not?
3.  Why, according to Mill, is it wrong to tell a lie to save yourself from momentary embarrassment?
4.  What is the connection between justice and utility, according to Mill? What is his argument for the
claim that they are connected in that way?
184    PART V  •  READINGS

ARISTOTLE (384–322 BCE)

TRANSLATED BY TERENCE IRWIN

Nicomachean Ethics

Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics offers one of the classic accounts of virtue ethics. In the
excerpts presented here, Aristotle explains what he thinks the goal of ethics is, why he thinks
that we should understand ethics in terms of virtue, and how he understands virtue in gen-
eral. He also explains some specific virtues, such as courage and justice. As you read these
excerpts, it may help to know that the translator has used the word happiness to translate
the Greek word eudaimonia, which has a broader meaning in Greek than happiness does in
English (see pp. 122–23 ).

GUIDING QUESTIONS
1.  According to Aristotle, what are we trying to figure out when we do moral philosophy?
2.  What is wrong with the “life of gratification,” the “life of honor,” and the life of the “moneymaker,”
according to Aristotle?
3.  What is Aristotle’s main claim about the best human life? What is his argument for that claim?
4.  What is a virtue, according to Aristotle? How does one become virtuous?
5.  What are some examples of virtues, and how do they illustrate his ideas about virtues and the
“mean” between two extremes?
6.  What are the two kinds of justice?
7.  What is the best kind of life, according to Aristotle? What arguments does he give for this conclusion?

BOOK I one capacity; for instance, bridle making and every

1. Every craft and every line of inquiry  .  .  . seems
to seek some good; that is why some people were
right to describe the good as what everything seeks.
But the ends [that are sought] appear to differ; some
are activities, and others are products apart from the
activities. . . .
Since there are many actions, crafts, and sciences,
the ends turn out to be many as well; for health is the
end of medicine, a boat of boat building, victory of
generalship, and wealth of household management.
But some of these pursuits are subordinate to some
other science producing equipment for horses are
subordinate to horsemanship, while this and every
action in warfare are, in turn, subordinate to gener-
alship.  .  .  . In all such cases, then, the ends of the
ruling sciences are more choiceworthy than all the
ends subordinate to them, since the lower ends are
also pursued for the sake of the higher. . . .
2. Suppose, then, that the things achievable by action
have some end that we wish for because of itself,
and because of which we wish for the other things,
and that we do not choose everything because of
something else—for if we do, it will go on without

Reprinted with permission of Hackett Publishing Company, Inc. All rights reserved.

limit, so that desire will prove to be empty and futile.
Clearly, this end will be . . . the best good.
Then does knowledge of this good carry great
weight for [our] way of life, and would it make us
better able, like archers who have a target to aim at,
to hit the right mark? If so, we should try to grasp, in
outline at any rate, what the good is, and which is its
proper science. . . .
It seems proper to the most controlling science—the
highest ruling science. And this appears characteristic
of political science. For it is the one that prescribes
which of the sciences ought to be studied in cities, and
which ones each class in the city should learn, and
how far; indeed, we see that even the most honored
capacities—generalship, household management,
and rhetoric, for instance—are subordinate to it.
And since it uses the other sciences concerned
with  action, and moreover legislates what must be
done and what avoided, its end will include the ends
of the other sciences, and so this will be the human
good. . . .
3. Our discussion will be adequate if we make things
perspicuous enough to accord with the subject
matter; for we would not seek the same degree of ex-
actness in all sorts of arguments alike, any more than
in the products of different crafts. Now, fine and just
things . . . differ and vary so much as to seem to rest
on convention only, not on nature. But [this is not a
good reason, since] goods also vary in the same way,
because they result in harm to many people—for
some have been destroyed because of their wealth,
others because of their bravery. And so, since this is
our subject and these are our premises, we shall be
satisfied to indicate the truth roughly and in outline;
since our subject and our premises are things that
hold good usually [but not universally], we shall be
satisfied to draw conclusions of the same sort.
Each of our claims, then, ought to be accepted
in the same way [as claiming to hold good usually].
For the educated person seeks exactness in each area
to the extent that the nature of the subject allows;
for apparently it is just as mistaken to demand dem-
onstrations from a rhetorician as to accept [merely]
persuasive arguments from a mathematician. Fur-
ther, each person judges rightly what he knows, and
A ristotle   •   Nicomachean Ethics      185
is a good judge about that; hence the good judge in
a given area is the person educated in that area. . . .
This is why a youth is not a suitable student of
political science; for he lacks experience of the ac-
tions in life. . . . Moreover, since he tends to follow
his feelings, his study will be futile and useless; for
the end [of political science] is action, not knowl-
edge. . . . But for those who accord with reason in
forming their desires and in their actions, knowledge
of political science will be of great benefit. . . .
4. Let us, then, begin again. Since every sort of
knowledge and decision pursues some good, what is
the good that we say political science seeks? What,
[in other words,] is the highest of all the goods
achievable in action?
As far as its name goes, most people virtually
agree; for both the many and the cultivated call it
happiness, and they suppose that living well and
doing well are the same as being happy. But they dis-
agree about what happiness is, and the many do not
give the same answer as the wise.
For the many think it is something obvious and
evident—for instance, pleasure, wealth, or honor.
Some take it to be one thing, others another. Indeed,
the same person often changes his mind. . . .
5. For, it would seem, people quite reasonably reach
their conception of the good, i.e., of happiness, from
the lives [they lead]; for there are roughly three most
favored lives: the lives of gratification, of political
activity, and, third, of study.
The many, the most vulgar, would seem to con-
ceive the good and happiness as pleasure, and hence
they also like the life of gratification. In this they
appear completely slavish, since the life they decide
on is a life for grazing animals. Still, they have some
argument in their defense, since many in positions of
power feel as [the famously pleasure-loving Assyrian
king] Sardanapallus felt, [and also choose this life].
The cultivated people, those active [in politics],
conceive the good as honor, since this is more or
less the end [normally pursued] in the political life.
This, however, appears to be too superficial to be
what we are seeking; for it seems to depend more on
those who honor than on the one honored, whereas
186    PART V  •  READINGS
we intuitively believe that the good is something of
our own and hard to take from us. Further, it would
seem, they pursue honor to convince themselves that
they are good; at any rate, they seek to be honored by
prudent people, among people who know them, and
for virtue. It is clear, then, that—in their view at any
rate—virtue is superior [to honor].
Perhaps, indeed, one might conceive virtue more
than honor to be the end of the political life. How-
ever, this also is apparently too incomplete [to be the
good]. For it seems possible for someone to possess
virtue but be asleep or inactive throughout his life,
and, moreover, to suffer the worst evils and misfor-
tunes. If this is the sort of life he leads, no one would
count him as happy. . . .
The third life is the life of study, which we shall
examine in [Book X].
The moneymaker’s life is in a way forced on him
[not chosen for itself]; and clearly wealth is not the
good we are seeking, since it is [merely] useful,
[choiceworthy only] for some other end. . . .
7. But let us return to the good we are looking for,
and consider just what it could be. . . . Since there are
apparently many ends, and we choose some of them
(for instance, wealth, flutes, and, in general, instru-
ments) because of something else, it is clear that not
all ends are complete. But the best good is apparently
something complete. And so, if only one end is com-
plete, the good we are looking for will be this end; if
more ends than one are complete, it will be the most
complete end of these.
We say that an end pursued in its own right is more
complete than an end pursued because of something
else, and that an end that is never choiceworthy be-
cause of something else is more complete than ends
that are choiceworthy both in their own right and be-
cause of this end. Hence an end that is always choice-
worthy in its own right, never because of something
else, is complete without qualification.
Now happiness, more than anything else, seems
complete without qualification. For we always
choose it because of itself, never because of some-
thing else. Honor, pleasure, understanding, and every
virtue we certainly choose because of themselves,
since we would choose each of them even if it had
no further result; but we also choose them for the
sake of happiness, supposing that through them we
shall be happy. Happiness, by contrast, no one ever
chooses for their sake, or for the sake of anything
else at all.
The same conclusion [that happiness is complete]
also appears to follow from self-sufficiency. For the
complete good seems to be self-sufficient [and] we
regard something as self-sufficient when all by itself
it makes a life choiceworthy and lacking nothing;
and that is what we think happiness does. . . .
Happiness, then, is apparently something com-
plete and self-sufficient, since it is the end of the
things achievable in action.
But presumably the remark that the best good is hap-
piness is apparently something [generally] agreed,
and we still need a clearer statement of what the
best good is. Perhaps, then, we shall find this if we
first grasp the function of a human being. For just as
the good, i.e., [doing] well for a flautist, a sculptor,
and every craftsman, and, in general, for whatever
has a function and [characteristic] action, seems to
depend on its function, the same seems to be true
for a human being, if a human being has some
function.
Then do the carpenter and the leather worker have
their functions and actions, but has a human being
no function? Is he by nature idle, without any func-
tion? Or, just as eye, hand, foot, and, in general,
every [bodily] part apparently has its function, may
we likewise ascribe to a human being some function
apart from all of these?
What, then, could this be? For living is apparently
shared with plants, but what we are looking for is the
special function of a human being; hence we should
set aside the life of nutrition and growth. The life
next in order is some sort of life of sense perception;
but this too is apparently shared with horse, ox, and
every animal.
The remaining possibility, then, is some sort of
life of action of the [part of the soul] that has reason.
One [part] of it has reason as obeying reason; the
other has it as itself having reason and thinking.
Moreover . . . we must take [a human being’s special
function to be] life as activity, since this seems to be

called life more fully. We have found, then, that the
human function is activity of the soul in accord with
reason or requiring reason.
Now we say that the function of a [kind of thing]—
of a harpist, for instance—is the same in kind as the
function of an excellent individual of the kind—of an
excellent harpist, for instance. And the same is true
without qualification in every case, if we add to the
function the superior achievement in accord with the
virtue; for the function of a harpist is to play the harp,
and the function of a good harpist is to play it well.
Moreover, we take the human function to be a certain
kind of life, and take this life to be activity and ac-
tions of the soul that involve reason; hence the func-
tion of the excellent man is to do this well and finely.
Now each function is completed well by being
completed in accord with the virtue proper [to that
kind of thing]. And so the human good proves to be
activity of the soul in accord with virtue, and indeed
with the best and most complete virtue, if there are
more virtues than one. Moreover, in a complete life.
For one swallow does not make a spring, nor does
one day; nor, similarly, does one day or a short time
make us blessed and happy. . . .
8. All the features that people look for in happi-
ness appear to be true of the end described in our
account. . . .
First, our account agrees with those who say hap-
piness is virtue. . . .
Moreover, the life of these [virtuous] people is
also pleasant in itself. . . .Each type of person finds
pleasure in whatever he is called a lover of; a horse,
for instance, pleases the horse-lover. . . .Similarly,
what is just pleases the lover of justice, and in gen-
eral what accords with virtue pleases the lover of
virtue. . . .
Hence these people’s life does not need plea-
sure to be added [to virtuous activity] as some sort
of extra decoration; rather, it has its pleasure within
itself. For besides the reasons already given, some-
one who does not enjoy fine actions is not good; for
no one would call a person just, for instance, if he
did not enjoy doing just actions, or generous if he did
not enjoy generous actions, and similarly for other
virtues. . . .
A ristotle   •   Nicomachean Ethics      187
Nonetheless, happiness evidently also needs exter-
nal goods to be added . . . since we cannot, or cannot
easily, do fine actions if we lack the resources. For,
first of all, in many actions we use friends, wealth,
and political power just as we use instruments.
Further, deprivation of certain [externals]—for in-
stance, good birth, good children, beauty—mars our
blessedness. . . .
BOOK II
1. Virtue  .  .  . is of two sorts, virtue of thought and
virtue of character. Virtue of thought arises and grows
mostly from teaching; that is why it needs experience
and time. Virtue of character results from habit. . . .
Hence it is also clear that none of the virtues of
character arises in us naturally. For if something is
by nature in one condition, habituation cannot bring
it into another condition. . . . And so the virtues arise
in us neither by nature nor against nature. Rather, we
are by nature able to acquire them, and we are com-
pleted through habit.
Further, if something arises in us by nature, we
first have the capacity for it, and later perform the
activity.  .  .  . Virtues, by contrast, we acquire, just
as acquire crafts, by having first activated them.
For we learn a craft by producing the same prod-
uct that we must produce when we have learned it;
we become builders, for instance, by building, and
we become harpists by playing the harp. Similarly,
then, we become just by doing just actions, temper-
ate by doing temperate actions, brave by doing brave
actions. . . .
That is why we must perform the right activities, since
differences in these imply corresponding differences
in the states [of character]. It is not unimportant, then,
to acquire one sort of habit or another, right from our
youth. On the contrary, it is very important, indeed
all-important.
2. Our present discussion does not aim . . . at study;
for the purpose of our examination is not to know
what virtue is, but to become good, since otherwise
188    PART V  •  READINGS
the inquiry would be of no benefit to us. And so we
must examine the right ways of acting; for, as we
have said, the actions also control the sorts of states
we acquire. . . .
But let us take it as agreed in advance that every
account of the actions we must do has to be stated
in outline, not exactly. As we also said at the begin-
ning, the type of accounts we demand should accord
with the subject matter; and questions about action
and expediency, like questions about health, have no
fixed answers. . . .
First, then, we should observe that these sorts
of states [of character] naturally tend to be ruined
by excess and deficiency. We see this happen with
strength and health. . . . For both excessive and de-
ficient exercise ruin bodily strength, and, similarly,
too much or too little eating or drinking ruins health,
whereas the proportionate amount produces, in-
creases, and preserves it.
The same is true, then, of temperance, bravery,
and the other virtues. For if, for instance, someone
avoids and is afraid of everything and stands firm
against nothing, he becomes cowardly; if he is afraid
of nothing at all and goes to face everything, he be-
comes rash. Similarly, if he gratifies himself with
every pleasure and abstains from none, he becomes
intemperate; if he avoids them all, as boors do, he
becomes some sort of insensible person. Temper-
ance and bravery, then, are ruined by excess and de-
ficiency, but preserved by the mean.
But these actions are not only the sources and causes
both of the emergence and growth of virtues and of
their ruin; the activities of the virtues [once we have
acquired them] also consist in these same actions. . . .
For abstaining from pleasure makes us become tem-
perate, and once we have become temperate we are
most capable of abstaining from pleasures. It is simi-
lar with bravery; habituation in disdain for frightening
situations and in standing firm against them makes us
become brave, and once we have become brave we
shall be most capable of standing firm.
3. But we must take someone’s pleasure or pain fol-
lowing on his actions to be a sign of his state. For if
someone who abstains from bodily pleasures enjoys
the abstinence itself, he is temperate; if he is grieved
by it, he is intemperate. Again, if he stands firm
against terrifying situations and enjoys it, or at least
does not find it painful, he is brave; if he finds it pain-
ful, he is cowardly. For virtue of character is about
pleasures and pains. . . .
4. Someone might be puzzled, however, about what
we mean by saying that we become just by doing
just actions and become temperate by doing tem-
perate actions. For [one might suppose] that if we
do grammatical or musical actions, we are gram-
marians or musicians, and, similarly, if we do just
or temperate actions, we are thereby just or tem-
perate. . . .
But for actions in accord with the virtues to be
done temperately or justly it does not suffice that
they themselves have the right qualities. Rather, than
agent must also be in the right state when he does
them. First, he must know [that he is doing virtuous
actions]; second, he must decide on them, and decide
on them for themselves; and, third, he must also do
them from a firm and unchanging state. . . .
Hence actions are called just or temperate when
they are the sort that a just or temperate person would
do. But the just and temperate person is not the one
who [merely] does these actions, but the one who
also does them in the way in which just or temperate
people do them. . . .
6. It should be said . . . that every virtue causes its pos-
sessors to be in a good state and to perform their func-
tion well. . . . The virtue of a human being will . . . be
the state that makes a human being good and makes
him perform his function well. . . .
In everything continuous and divisible we can
take more, less, and equal, and each of them either
in the object itself or relative to us; and the equal
is some intermediate between excess and deficiency.
By the intermediate in the object I mean what is equi-
distant from each extremity; this is one and the same
for all. But relative to us the intermediate is what is
neither superfluous nor deficient; this is not one, and
is not the same for all.
If, for instance, ten are many and two are few, we
take six as intermediate in the object, since it exceeds
[two] and is exceed [by ten] by an equal amount,

[four]. . . . But that is not how we must take the in-
termediate that is relative to us. For if ten pounds [of
food], for instance, are a lot for someone to eat, and
two pounds a little, it does not follow that the trainer
will prescribe six, since this might also be either a
little or a lot for the person who is to take it—for
Milo [the athlete] a little, but for the beginner in
gymnastics a lot. . . .
We can be afraid, for instance, or be confident, or
have appetites, or get angry, or feel pity, and in gen-
eral have pleasure or pain, both too much and too
little, and in both ways not well. But having these
feelings at the right times, about the right things,
toward the right people, for the right end, and in
the right way, is the intermediate and best condi-
tion, and this is proper to virtue. Similarly, actions
also admit of excess, deficiency, and an intermedi-
ate condition.
Now virtue is about feelings and actions, in
which excess and deficiency are in error and incur
blame, whereas the intermediate condition is cor-
rect and wins praise, which are both proper to virtue.
Virtue, then, is a mean, insofar as it aims at what is
intermediate.
Moreover, there are many ways to be in error. . . .
But there is only one way to be correct. That is why
error is easy and correctness is difficult, since it is
easy to miss the target and difficult to hit it. And so
for this reason also excess and deficiency are proper
to vice, the mean to virtue. . . .
Virtue, then, is a state that decides, consisting in a
mean, the mean relative to us, which is defined by
reference to reason, that is to say, to the reason by
reference to which the prudent person would define
it. It is a mean between two vices, one of excess and
one of deficiency. . . .
Now not every action or feeling admits of the
mean. For the names of some automatically include
baseness—for instance, spite, shamelessness, envy
[among feelings], and adultery, theft, murder, among
actions. For all of these and similar things are called
by these names because they themselves, not their ex-
cesses or deficiencies, are base. Hence in doing these
things we can never be correct, but must be invariably
in error. . . .
A ristotle   •   Nicomachean Ethics      189
7. However, we must not only state this general ac-
count but also apply it to the particular cases. . . .
First, then, in feelings of fear and confidence the
mean is bravery. The excessively fearless person is
nameless (indeed many cases are nameless), and the
one who is excessively confident is rash. The one
who is excessive in fear and deficient in confidence
is cowardly.
In pleasures and pains  .  .  . the mean is temper-
ance and the excess intemperance. People deficient
in pleasure are not often found, which is why they
also lack a name; let us call them insensible.
In giving and taking money the mean is generos-
ity, the excess wastefulness and the deficiency un-
generosity. Here the vicious people have contrary
excesses and defects; for the wasteful person is ex-
cessive in spending and deficient in taking, whereas
the ungenerous person is excessive in taking and de-
ficient in spending. . . .
In questions of money there are also other con-
ditions. Another mean is magnificence; for the
magnificent person differs from the generous by
being concerned with large matters, while the gen-
erous person is concerned with small. The excess
is ostentation and vulgarity, and the deficiency is
stinginess. . . .
In honor and dishonor the mean is magnanim-
ity, the excess something called a sort of vanity,
and the deficiency pusillanimity. And just as we
said that generosity differs from magnificence in
its concern with small matters, similarly there is a
virtue concerned with small honors, differing in the
same way from magnanimity, which is concerned
with great honors. For honor can be desired either
in the right way or more or less than is right. If
someone desires it to excess, he is called an honor-
lover, and if his desire is deficient he is called indif-
ferent to honor, but if he is intermediate he has no
name. . . .
Anger also admits of an excess, deficiency, and
mean. These are all practically nameless; but since
we call the intermediate person mild, let us call the
mean mildness. Among the extreme people, let the
excessive person be irascible, and his vice irascibil-
ity, and let the deficient person be a sort of inirascible
person, and his deficiency inirascibility. . . .
190    PART V  •  READINGS
In truth-telling . . . let us call the intermediate person
truthful, and the mean truthfulness; pretense that
overstates will be boastfulness, and the person who
has it boastful; pretense that understates will be self-­
deprecation, and the person who has it self-deprecating.
In sources of pleasure in amusements let us call
the intermediate person witty, and the condition wit;
the excess buffoonery and the person who has it a
buffoon; and the deficient person a sort of boor and
the state boorishness.
In the other sources of pleasure, those in daily life,
let us call the person who is pleasant in the right way
friendly, and the mean state friendliness. If someone
does to excess with no [ulterior] aim, he will be
ingratiating; if he does it for his own advantage, a
flatterer. The deficient person, unpleasant in everything,
will be a sort of quarrelsome and ill-tempered person.
There are also means in feelings and about feel-
ings. Shame, for instance, is not a virtue, but the
person prone to shame . . . receives praise. For here
also one person is called intermediate, and a­ nother—
the person excessively prone to shame, who is
ashamed about everything—is called excessive;
the person who is deficient in shame or never feels
shame at all is said to have no sense of disgrace; and
the intermediate one is called prone to shame.
Proper indignation is the mean between envy and
spite; these conditions are concerned with pleasure
and pain at what happens to our neighbors. For the
properly indignant person feels pain when someone
does well undeservedly; the envious person exceeds
him by feeling pain when anyone does well, while
the spiteful person is so deficient in feeling pain that
he actually enjoys [other people’s misfortunes]. . . .
9. We have said enough, then, to show that virtue of
character is a mean  .  .  . between two vices, one of
excess and one of deficiency; and that it is a mean
because it aims at the intermediate condition in feel-
ings and actions.
That is why is it also hard work to be excellent.
For in each case it is hard work to find the intermedi-
ate; for instance, not everyone, but only one who
knows, finds the midpoint in a circle. So also getting
angry, or giving and spending money, is easy and ev-
eryone can do it; but doing it to the right person, in the
right amount, at the right time, for the right end, and
in the right way is no longer easy, nor can everyone do
it. Hence doing these things well is rare, praiseworthy,
and fine.
That is why anyone who aims at the intermediate
condition must first of all steer clear of the more con-
trary extreme. . . . For one extreme [e.g., cowardice]
is more in error, the other [e.g., rashness] less. Since,
therefore, it is hard to hit the intermediate extremely
accurately, the second-best tack, as they say, is to
take the lesser of the evils.
We must also examine what we ourselves drift
into easily. For different people have different natu-
ral tendencies toward different goals, and we shall
come to know our own tendencies from the plea-
sure or pain that arises in us. We must drag our-
selves off in the contrary direction; for if we pull far
away from error . . . we shall reach the intermediate
condition. . . .
BOOK III
6. First let us discuss bravery. We have already made
it apparent that there is a mean about feelings of
fear and confidence. What we fear, clearly, is what
is frightening, and such things are, speaking without
qualification, bad things; hence people define fear as
expectation of something bad.
Certainly we fear all bad things—for instance,
bad reputation, poverty, sickness, friendlessness,
death—but they do not all seem to concern the brave
person. For fear of some bad things, such as bad
reputation, is actually right and fine, and lack of fear
is shameful; for if someone fears bad reputation, he
is decent and properly prone to shame, and if he has
no fear of it, he has no feeling of disgrace. Some,
however, call this fearless person brave . . . for he has
some similarity to the brave person. . . .
Then what sorts of frightening conditions con-
cern the brave person? Surely the most frightening;
for no one stands firmer against terrifying condi-
tions. Now death is most frightening of all. . . .
Still, not even death in all conditions—on the sea,

for instance, or in sickness—seems to be the brave
person’s concern.
In what conditions, then, is death his concern?
Surely in the finest conditions. Now such deaths
are those in war, since they occur in the greatest
and finest danger. This judgment is endorsed by
the honors given in cities and by monarchs. Hence
someone is called fully brave if he is intrepid in
facing a fine death and the immediate dangers that
bring death. And this is above all true of the dangers
of war. . . .
7. The brave person is unperturbed [by frighten-
ing things], as far as a human being can be. Hence,
though he will fear even the sorts of things that are
not irresistible, he will stand firm against them, in the
right way, as reason prescribes, for the sake of the
fine, since this is the end aimed at by virtue.
It is possible to be more or less afraid of these fright-
ening things, and also possible to be afraid of what is
not frightening as though it were frightening. . . .
Hence whoever stands firm against the right things
and fears the rights things, for the right end, in the
right way, at the right time, and is correspondingly
confident, is the brave person; for the brave person’s
actions and feelings accord with what something is
worth, and follow what reason prescribes.
Every activity aims at actions in accord with the
state of character. Now to the brave person bravery
is fine; hence the end it aims at is also fine, since
each thing is defined by its end. The brave person,
then, aims at the fine when he stands firm and acts in
accord with bravery.
Among those who go to excess the excessively
fearless person has no name. . . . He would be some
sort of madman, or incapable of feelings distress. . . .
The person who is excessively confident about
frightening things is rash. . . . Moreover, rash people
are impetuous, wishing for dangers before they
arrive. . . . Brave people, on the contrary, are eager
when in action, but keep quiet until then.
The person who is excessively afraid is the
coward, since he fears the wrong things, and in
the wrong way, and so on. Certainly, he is also de-
ficient in confidence, but his excessive pain distin-
guishes him more clearly. Hence, since he is afraid of
A ristotle   •   Nicomachean Ethics      191
everything, he is a despairing sort. The brave person,
on the contrary, is hopeful, since [he is confident
and] confidence is proper to a hopeful person.
Hence the coward, the rash person, and the brave
person are all concerned with the same things, but
have different state related to them; the others are
excessive or defective, but the brave person has the
intermediate and right state.
BOOK V
1. Now it would seem that justice and injustice are
both spoken of in more ways than one. . . . Let us, then,
find the number of ways an unjust person is spoken
of. Both the lawless person and the overreaching and
unfair person seem to be unjust; and so, clearly, the
lawful and the fair person will be just. Hence the just
will be both the lawful and what is fair, and the unjust
will be both the lawless and the unfair.
Since the unjust person is an overreacher, he will
be concerned with goods. . . . Now the unjust person
does not choose more in every case; in the case of
what is bad . . . he actually chooses less. . . .
Since, as we saw, the lawless person is unjust and
the lawful person is just, it clearly follows that what-
ever is lawful is in some way just. . . . Now the law
instructs us to do the actions of a brave person—for
instance, not to leave the battle-line, or to flee, or to
throw away out weapons; of a temperate person—not
to commit adultery or wanton aggression; or a mild
person—not to strike or revile another; and similarly
requires actions in accord with the other virtues, and
prohibits actions in accord with the vices. The cor-
rectly established law does this correctly, and the less
carefully framed one does this worse.
This type of justice, then, is complete virtue. . . .
And that is why justice often seems to be supreme
among the other virtues. . . .
2. But we are looking for the type of justice . . . that
consists in a part of virtue [rather than complete
virtue], and correspondingly for the type of injustice
that is a part of vice. . . .
192    PART V  •  READINGS
A sign that there is this type of justice and in-
justice is this: If someone’s activities accord with
the other vices—if, for instance, cowardice made
him throw away his shield, or irritability made him
revile someone, or ungenerosity made him fail to
help someone with money—what he does is unjust,
but not overreaching. But when someone acts from
overreaching, in many cases his action accords with
none of these vices—certainly not all of them; but
it still accords with some type of wickedness, since
we blame him, and [in particular] it accords with
injustice.
Hence there is another type of injustice that is a
part of the whole. . . . Further, if A commits adul-
tery for profit and makes a profit, but B commits
adultery because of his appetite, and spends money
on it to his own loss, B seems intemperate rather
than overreaching, but A seems unjust, not intem-
perate. Clearly, then, this is because A acts to make
a profit.
Further, we can refer every other unjust action to
some vice—to intemperance if someone committed
adultery, to cowardice if he deserted his comrade in
the battle-line, to anger if he struck someone. But if
made an [unjust] profit, we can refer it to no other
vice except injustice.
It is evident, then, that there is another type of
injustice, special injustice, apart from injustice as
a whole, [and which] is concerned with honor or
wealth or safety  . .  . and aims at the pleasure that
results from making a profit, whereas the concern of
injustice as a whole is whatever concerns the excel-
lent person. . . .
BOOK X
7. If happiness is activity in accord with virtue, it is
reasonable for it to accord with the supreme virtue,
which will be the virtue of the best thing. The best
is understanding . . . and to understand what is fine
and divine. . . . Hence complete happiness will be its
activity in accord with its proper virtue; and . . . this
activity is the activity of study. . . .
Besides, we think that pleasure must be mixed
into happiness; and it is agreed that the activity in
accord with wisdom is the most pleasant of the ac-
tivities in accord with virtue. Certainly, philosophy
seems to have remarkably pure and firm pleasures,
and it is reasonable for those who have knowledge
to spend their lives more pleasantly than those who
seek it.
Moreover, the self-sufficiency we spoke of will
be found in study more than in anything else. For
admittedly the wise person, the just person, and the
other virtuous people all need the good things nec-
essary for life. Still, when these are adequately sup-
plied, the just person needs other people as partners
and recipients of his just actions; and the same is
true of the temperate person, the brave person, and
each of the others. But the wise person is able, and
more able the wiser he is, to study even by himself;
and though he presumably does it better with col-
leagues, even so he is more self-sufficient than any
other [virtuous person].
Besides, study seems to be liked because of itself
alone, since it has no result beyond having studied.
But from the virtues concerned with action we try to
a greater or lesser extent to gain something beyond
the action itself.
Besides, happiness seems to be found in leisure;
for we deny ourselves leisure so that we can be at
leisure, and fight wars so that we can be at peace.
Now the virtues concerned with action have their ac-
tivities in politics or war, and actions here seem to
require trouble. This seems completely true for ac-
tions in war, since no one chooses to fight a war, and
no one continues it, for the sake of fighting a war; for
someone would have to be a complete murderer if he
made his friends his enemies so that there could be
battles and killings. But the actions of the politician
also deny us leisure; apart from political activities
themselves, those actions seek positions of power
and honors, or at least they seek happiness for the
politician himself and for his fellow citizens. . . .
Hence among actions in accord with the virtues
those in politics and wars are preeminently fine and
great; but they require trouble, aim at some [fur-
ther] end, and are choiceworthy for something other
than themselves. But the activity of understanding,
 C ollins   •   Care Ethics: The Four Key Claims      193

it seems, is superior in excellence because it is the activity  .  .  . and any other features ascribed to the
activity of study, aims at no end apart from itself, blessed person, are evidently features of this activity.
and has its own proper pleasure, which increases the Hence a human being’s complete happiness will be
activity. Further, self-sufficiency, leisure, unwearied this activity. . . .

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1.  What are the various kinds of lives that Aristotle considers as candidates for the best life? Do you
find his arguments about these lives compelling? Why or why not?
2.  Do you agree with Aristotle’s basic idea about what makes a person’s life as happy (or flourishing)
as possible? Why or why not?
3.  Aristotle famously argues that virtues are a mean between two extremes. Do you think this is always
true? Why or why not?
4.  What arguments does Aristotle give for thinking that the life of study is the best life for a human
being? Do you find these arguments convincing? Why or why not?
5.  Some people claim that because different cultures will understand virtues differently, Aristotle’s ethics
leads to a kind of cultural relativism (see pp. 98–102), according to which morality differs from one
culture to another. Do you think that is true? If so, is it a problem for Aristotle’s view? Why or why not?

STEPHANIE COLLINS

Care Ethics: The Four Key Claims

Stephanie Collins is a Lecturer in Politics at the University of Manchester in England. She

writes about human rights, global justice, and feminist ethics. Collins explains four claims
that form the core of the ethics of care.

GUIDING QUESTIONS
1.  What are the four key claims that form the core of care ethics, according to Collins? (You won’t be
able to answer this question completely until the end of the paper, but keep it in mind as you read.)
2.  What role(s) does Collins think principles should play in ethics? Why?
3.  What kind of relationships are especially important, according to Collins? Why?
4.  What is the difference between caring attitudes and caring actions? What role does each play in
care ethics?

Copyright Stephanie Collins.

194    PART V  •  READINGS
This chapter investigates a somewhat neglected moral
theory: the theory of “care ethics.” This theory can be
traced back to Carol Gilligan, a 1980s psychologist
who studied how women approach real-life moral di-
lemmas. In contrast to findings about men in earlier
studies (Kohlberg 1973), Gilligan found women did
not appeal to general principles or make categorical
assertions about right and wrong. Instead, they fo-
cused “on the limitations of any particular resolution
and describe[d] the conflicts that remain” (Gilligan
1982, 22). This seeming indecisiveness resulted from
their perception of many conflicting responsibilities:
to their family members, to their friends, to them-
selves, and to those more distant. Paradigmatically,
Gilligan described “Amy,” a subject who saw the
world as “a narrative of relationships that extends
over time” in “a world that coheres through human
connection rather than through systems of rules”
(1982, 28–9). This contextually-embedded and
­relationship-oriented approach has driven care ethi-
cists ever since.
But care ethicists are not just concerned with
“what women think.” Instead, they believe their
theory can—indeed, should—guide all of us in
moral decision-making, regardless of our gender and
the particular dilemmas we face. Through reflection
on the lived reality of ethical decision-making, care
ethicists are led to the following ideas: that responsi-
bilities derive from relationships between particular
people, rather than from abstract rules and principles;
that decision-making should be sympathy-based
rather than duty- or principle-based; that personal
relationships have a value that is often overlooked
by other theories; that at least some responsibilities
aim at fulfilling the needs of vulnerable persons (in-
cluding their need for empowerment), rather than the
universal rights of rational agents; and that moral-
ity demands not just one-off acts, but also ongoing
patterns of actions and attitudes. Most importantly,
care ethicists believe morality demands ongoing ac-
tions and attitudes of care, in addition to (or even
in priority to) those of respect, non-interference,
and tit-for-tat reciprocity—which care ethicists see
as over-emphasised in other ethical theories. Impor-
tantly, though, care ethicists do not claim that other
theories get nothing right: care ethics is not a theory
of the whole of ethics or morality, but of important
parts of it that have been inadequately appreciated by
other theories (Engster 2007, 61–2; Held 2004, 65,
68; Tronto 1993, 126).
This chapter aims to crystallise the care ethical
cluster of ideas, by describing, refining, and defend-
ing four key claims that constitute the central pillars
of the theory.
1.  SCEPTICISM ABOUT PRINCIPLES
1.1 Deliberation and Justification
Care ethicists view principles as insufficient at best—
and distortive at worst—for proper ethical delibera-
tion. We can think of principles as conditionals (“if,
then” statements) with an imperative (“do this”) in
the “then” slot. Principles include: “if you’ve made
a promise, then keep it”; “if you can save someone’s
life at low cost, then save their life”; “under all cir-
cumstances, don’t murder.” Care ethicists object that
these generalise too much. The reasons you should
keep a promise, or save someone’s life, or even re-
frain from murder, are always unique to particular
circumstances. We can’t capture all those unique de-
tails in a general “if” or “under these circumstances”
clause.
Care ethicists’ ideas here can be divided into
two camps: those regarding deliberation, and those
regarding justification. Deliberation refers to the
procedures we use when making ethical decisions.
Justification refers to the outside-the-mind reasons
why someone should do this-or-that. For example,
suppose I can easily save a toddler from drowning in a
shallow pond. When it comes to deliberation, I might
just think: “The toddler’s drowning! Act!” This is a
sensible method of deliberation in the circumstances.
But the method of providing a justification for my
action will be quite different: my justification might
refer to the value of human life, the fact that I would
want someone to save me if they easily could, and so
on. These abstract justificatory notions don’t feature
in the deliberation, and rightly so.

When care ethicists deride principles, sometimes
they’re arguing that we shouldn’t use principles in
deliberation. For example, in Selma Sevenhuijsen’s
version of care ethics, “[m]oral deliberation is . . .
looking . . . at an issue from different perspectives
and taking conflicting moral reactions and moral
idioms as sources of morally relevant knowledge”
(Sevenhuijsen 1998, 57; similarly Miller 2005, 139).
At other times, care ethicists want to reject principles
as justifications. Virginia Held gives the example of
honouring one’s parents, suggesting that the (justifi-
catory) reason why a child should honour their father
is because their particular father is worth honouring,
for reasons that can only be spelled out by describ-
ing the details of that relationship over the years,
and that cannot be captured in a general “if” clause
(Held, 2006, 79–80; similarly Noddings 1984, 85;
Ruddick 1980, 348–9; Tronto 1993, 27). In the next
two sub-sections, I will assess care ethicists’ views
on deliberation and justification in turn.
1.2 Deliberation
Care ethicists are surely correct that wholly
principle-based deliberation is not always best.
­ cial . . . but they tend to fix our attention on their own
As Ornaith O’Dowd puts it: if a child is drown-
ing in a river, then “sitting down by the riverbank
to stroke one’s chin and ruminate on a particularly
thought-provoking passage from [Immanuel Kant’s]
the Metaphysics of Morals is hardly justifiable . . .”
(2012, 419). Not only that: if we went through life
with principles always explicitly in mind, we would
miss out on a lot of what’s valuable—human connec-
tion, sympathy, and spontaneity, for example.
This would be irrelevant if there were no alterna-
tive to principle-based deliberation. But care ethics
offers an alternative: sympathy. This involves appre-
ciating someone else’s situation from their perspec-
tive, and being moved to help them because of what
one sees from that perspective. This requires giving
full attention to the person, while attempting to see
the world as they see it from their perspective—not to
see the world as you would see it, if you were in their
situation1 (Kittay 1997, 236; Noddings 2010, ch. 2;
Sevenhuijsen 1998, 62). This allows you to know
C ollins   •   Care Ethics: The Four Key Claims      195
better what they need or want, why they need or want
that thing, and how you might help them get it. It
forces you to remove your self-interested goggles in
approaching life. It is worth quoting Virginia Held at
length on this:
Kant famously argued that benevolent or sympathetic
feelings lack moral worth; only the intention to act in
accord with the moral law required by reason is morally
rather than merely instrumentally of value. . . . Such
theories miss the moral importance of actual, caring re-
lations. They miss the importance of the emotions for
understanding what we ought to do, and for motivat-
ing our morally recommended actions. Without empa-
thetic awareness, one may not be able to meet another’s
needs in the way morality requires. Without feelings of
concern, one may not take responsibility for respond-
ing to those in need. To the ethics of care, morality is
less a matter of rational recognition and more a matter
of taking responsibility for particular other persons in
need. (Held 2014, 109)
Care ethicists often contrast this sympathetic
mode of deliberation with a principle-based mode.
For example, Nel Noddings says “[i]t is not just that
highly mathematicized schemes are inevitably artifi-
gamelike quality. We become absorbed in the intrica-
cies of the game instead of the plight of real people”
(Noddings 2002, 60). Something is clearly lost in
the deliberation Noddings describes. But should we
deliberate with absolutely no regard for principles?
Can’t we have both principles and sympathy in our
deliberation? Indeed, there are at least three reasons
why care ethicists can, should, and sometimes do
preserve some role for principles in deliberation.
First, principles are compatible with sympathy.
Moral philosophers of all stripes give a role to sym-
pathy in deliberation—alongside principles. Most
obviously, virtue ethics give sympathy a central de-
liberative role, though the theory also includes prin-
ciples or “virtue-rules” (Hursthouse 1999, Part II).
Virtue ethics is the mainstream theory most similar
to care ethics—some even see care ethics as a spe-
cies of virtues ethics (Slote 2007), though this is a
minority position. So care ethics can draw on this.
Likewise, sophisticated consequentialists claim that