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i

Desiring the Good

ii
iii

Desiring the Good

Ancient Proposals and
Contemporary Theory

Katja Maria Vogt

1
iv

1
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers
the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education
by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University
Press in the UK and certain other countries.
Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press
198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America.
© Katja Maria Vogt 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the
prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted
by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction
rights organization. Inquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the
above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the
address above.
You must not circulate this work in any other form
and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer.
CIP data is on file at the Library of Congress
ISBN 978–​0–​19–​069247–​6
1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Printed by Sheridan Books, Inc., United States of America
v

Contents

Acknowledgments  vii

Introduction  1
1. A Blueprint for Ethics   13
2. The Good and the Good Human Life   41
3. Disagreement, Value, Measure   68
4. The Long Goodbye from Relativism   92
5. The Guise of the Good   115
6. The Nature of Pursuits   145
7. The Metaphysics of the Sphere of Action   166
Concluding Remarks   190

Bibliography  199
Index  213

v
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vi

Acknowledgments

Much of this book came together on the road. Most of the writing hap-
pened in remote parts of the Dolomites during the past five years. My
deep thanks go to my fellow traveler, mountaineer, and near co-​author
of the book, Jens Haas, for letting me think while hiking, write when
not hiking, for discussing my ideas and contributing his own, and for
combing through countless drafts with an eye for both the forest and the
trees. The book reflects a shared desire for the use of everyday examples,
examining ethical questions without much idealization, and an unclut-
tered style. During the last couple of years Jens and I began to co-​author
papers on ignorance and on love and hatred. The ideas we develop in
joint research are related to my argument here, especially with respect
to the role of thought in a well-​lived human life and with respect to the
motivation of pursuits. While outdoors, we pursued a long-​term photo-
graphic project related to the Alps. It is also this presence of art in my
life that I am grateful for. The two images on the front and back cover
go back to a rainy day on the Lagazuoi, one of my favorite mountains.
I want to thank the hosts and audiences at universities in the United
States, the United Kingdom, Europe, and China where I presented mate-
rial from the book. During its completion in the fall of 2015, I benefited
greatly from a residential fellowship at the Princeton Council of the
Humanities. I am grateful to the Princeton faculty, in particular John
Cooper, Melissa Lane, Hendrik Lorenz, Benjamin Morison, Michael
Smith, and Christian Wildberg for inviting me and for being wonderful
hosts; for the opportunity to teach a graduate seminar on Aristotle’s eth-
ics and to the students in class for stimulating and manifold responses to
much of the material in this book; to Melissa Lane for reading and com-
menting on several chapters; and to Rob Bolton for sitting in on part of
the seminar and discussion of technê in Aristotle’s ethics. In the spring

vii
vi

viii Acknowledgments
of 2016, faculty from UC Berkeley, University of San Francisco, and
UC Irvine invited me to deliver the BayCAP lecture and for a workshop
on my project. My thanks go to Klaus Corcilius, Marjolein Oele, and
Jan Szaif for organizing this, and to Michael Torre, Sebastian Odzuck,
Emily Perry, and Zachary Stout for engaging with the manuscript. In
the summer of 2016, I was a fellow at the princely estate of the Center
for Advanced Studies at Ludwigs-​Maximilians-​Universität in Munich,
which gave me the opportunity to wrap up my project. My thanks go
to Christof Rapp and the Center’s team for being welcoming hosts and
providing many opportunities for discussion.
Chapter 1 develops the framework for the rest of the book. It is based
on ideas from an earlier paper, “Why Pleasure Gains Fifth Rank: Against
the Anti-​Hedonist Interpretation of the Philebus” (2010), initially pre-
sented at a conference in Dublin in 2007; my forthcoming contribu-
tion to the first volume of the Plato Dialogue Project, “Rethinking the
Contest between Pleasure and Wisdom: Philebus 11a–​14b,” presented
at a workshop in Spetses, Greece, in 2015; a paper entitled “Imagining
Good Future States: Hope and Truth in Plato’s Philebus” that I con-
tributed to a conference and Festschrift in honor of Christopher Gill
(2016); and a paper on “Doxa in the Philebus” for a workshop on Plato
on Knowledge and Belief at Humboldt-​Universität zu Berlin in 2015.
I am grateful to Joseph Barnes, Jonathan Beere, Panos Dimas, and John
Wilkins, who organized these conferences, and to the participants for
discussion. In May of 2016, I had the opportunity to present some of
my ideas on perception and value in a Masterclass on Perception and
Perceptual Appearances in Ancient Philosophy, co-​taught with Victor
Caston and James Warren at the University of Cambridge. My thanks go
to the organizers, including Cristóbal Zarzar, as well as all presenters,
and David Sedley.
Chapter 2 originates in a talk I gave at a Kant and Aristotle Reading
Party at Burn House, University of St Andrews, in the summer of 2011.
I recall memorable conversations that influenced the development of
the book, some on the front lawn’s putting green, or later over drinks,
with Sarah Broadie, Jens Haas, Christof Horn, and Jens Timmermann.
I am also grateful to the participants of a seminar I taught in 2012,
“Moore’s Principia Ethica: Responses and Ancestors,” at Columbia
University. In its current form, I presented the chapter at a 2016 confer-
ence on Perfectionism organized by David Brink and Don Rutherford
at UC San Diego. I’m indebted to the group of participants for raising
ix

Acknowledgments ix
considerations that helped me fine-​tune the book right before it entered
production, and to Monte Ransome Johnson for providing me with a
draft of his and D. S. Hutchinson’s translation and edition of Aristotle’s
Protrepticus.
Chapter 3 started out as a Colloquium talk at UCLA in 2012. The
year after, I presented it in the Townsend Working Group in Ancient
Philosophy at UC Berkeley. Questions and comments by Tim Clarke,
Alan Code, Klaus Corcilius, Barbara Herman, David Kaplan, Gavin
Lawrence, and Justin Vlasits greatly helped the book along. I am also
indebted to Marco Maiuro for historical background on the lawsuit that
Euthyphro brings against his father.
Chapter 4 develops ideas that I initially formulated with respect to
the value of human beings, in “Do Human Beings Have Non-​Relative
Value?” presented as a Colloquium talk at Union College in 2009.
Another ancestor of the chapter was my contribution to the 2014 Kline
Workshop on Value Holism at the University of Missouri. I am grate-
ful to Paul Weirich and Peter Vallentyne for inviting me and for dis-
cussion; and to my commentator Ashton Sperry for helpful feedback.
Nandi Theunissen, whose own work is on the distinction between good
and good-​for, and Ian McCready-​Flora, who is writing on Protagoras’s
Measure Doctrine, have been highly valued interlocutors and readers of
an earlier draft.
Chapter 5 emerged from a Colloquium talk I gave at the University of
Pennsylvania in 2009. I presented iterations of the talk at the Ancient and
Moral Philosophy Reading Group at Yale University in 2010; as a keynote
lecture at the 2015 Ancient Philosophy Society Conference, Lexington,
Kentucky; as colloquium talks in 2016 at Stony Brook University and
Brown University 2016; at the University of Oxford Workshop in Ancient
Philosophy in 2016; and, via video, at a conference, Aristotle’s Moral
Psychology, in Beijing in the summer of 2016. I am grateful to have
received these invitations and for engaging conversations, especially to
Susanne Bobzien, Justin Broackes, Timothy Clarke, Mary Louise Gill,
Paul Guyer, Verity Harte, Rolf-​Peter Horstmann, David Kaufman, Wei
Liu, Hendrik Lorenz, Benjamin Morison, Susan Sauvé Meyer, Charles
Kahn, Anna Marmodoro, Christof Rapp, and Mary Rawlinson. An ances-
tor of ­chapter 5, with greater attention to Elizabeth Anscombe’s legacy
in action theory and discussion of well-​known problem cases for the
Guise of the Good, is forthcoming in Analytic Philosophy and Ancient
Philosophy, edited by Catherine Rowett and Alberto Vanzo.
x

x Acknowledgments
An early version of ­chapter 6 was my contribution to a joint project
in New York City and Paris with Dimitri El Murr, Desiring the Good in
Plato, funded by the Alliance Program between Columbia University,
École Polytechnique, Sciences Po, and Université Paris 1-​ Pantheon
Sorbonne in 2009/​10. I presented ancestors and variations at various
occasions, including Samuel Scheffler’s 2010 graduate seminar, Death
and Value, at NYU; a session titled Ancient and Contemporary Theory of
Action at the 2011 APA in Washington, DC; and the 2016 NYU Ancient
Philosophy Conference. My thanks go to the organizers and hosts,
including Dimitri El Murr, Jessica Moss, and Marko Malink. I am grate-
ful to Michael Thompson for lively comments on my paper in a dreary,
windowless room at the APA, to Agnes Callard qua co-​presenter and
interlocutor at the APA session, to Samuel Scheffler for his trademark
scrutiny, and to Malcolm Schofield and David Sedley for challenging me
on what to them seemed too bleak an outlook on human life to bear—​
which I hope to have clarified since.
Chapter 7 and its ancestors go back to a Colloquium talk at Stockholm
University in 2013 and a presentation I gave in David Reeve’s Aristotle
seminar at Chapel Hill in 2013; talks at the Southern Association in
Ancient Philosophy Meeting at the University of Oxford and the Stanford
Ancient Ethics and Politics Workshop in 2013; a Colloquium talk at
Union College 2014; a talk at a conference on Agency and Values in
Paris in the summer of 2014, funded by the Alliance Program; a talk at
the 2016 Workshop on Phronesis and Deliberation at NYU; and a talk
at a conference titled Aristotle’s Ethics in Assos/​Turkey in the summer
of 2016. My thanks go to Akeel Bilgrami, Christopher Bobonich, Amos
Espeland, Michael Ferejohn, Kathrin Glüer-​Pagin, Gösta Grönroos,
Sukaina Hirji, Terence Irwin, Dhananjay Jagannathan, Laurent Jaffro,
Anna Marmodoro, Jessica Moss, Josiah Ober, Örsan Oymen, David
Reeve, Krisanna Scheiter, and Leo Zaibert for organizing these events
and for discussion; to Katherine Meadows for her comments; to work-
shop participants including Joachim Aufderheide, Sarah Broadie, Lesley
Brown, Alan Code, Ursula Coope, Mehmet Erignel, Gail Fine, Mariska
Leunissen, Christiana Olfert, Carol Rovane, Catherine Rowett, David
Sedley, and Christopher Shields for discussion; and to Marko Malink,
for co-​teaching with me a session on contingency in Aristotle’s ethics in
the spring of 2015.
At Columbia University, I have benefited from conversations with
students and advisees, several of whom are by now faculty working in
xi

Acknowledgments xi
ethics and ancient philosophy. I learned from all of them. I’ve been in
conversation with Christiana Olfert about Aristotle’s ethics and action
theory since she practically co-​taught an Aristotle class with me in 2008.
I’m grateful for the thought she put into reading much of the manuscript
and for her insightful notes. Nandi Theunissen has been an interlocutor
for years about shared interests in the notion of good-​for and in Plato’s
outlook in ethics. Conversations with Mark Berger and Ariadna Pop on
value pluralism and disagreement in contemporary ethics and political
philosophy helped me get clear about the position on good human lives
I defend. Avery Archer’s research on the Guise of the Good provided
many occasions for discussion. Graduate Student Reading Groups on
Action Theory in contemporary and ancient philosophy, co-​organized
by Giulia Bonasio, Matthew Heeney, and Thimo Heisenberg, were
more recent opportunities to think through classic contributions and
current debates. Elizabeth Balough was my research assistant for all-​
things-​empirical, helping me in the most succinct and considered way to
learn from empirical research on motivation. Last but not least, a Plato
class I taught in the spring of 2011 brought together a uniquely inspiring
group of people, including many of those mentioned above, as well as
Dorothy Chen, Kay Gabriel, and Elizabeth Lyon.
Finally, my thanks go to the anonymous readers who commented on
this manuscript. There are several dozen places in the book where their
engagement led to clarifications and substantial improvements. Peter
Ohlin, who once again oversaw the processes at Oxford University Press,
offered invaluable support over the years. I am deeply grateful to him
and his team.
xi
1

Introduction

In desiring the good, we aim to have our lives go well. This is the pro-
posal I formulate and defend throughout the book. The desire to have
one’s life go well makes one do something rather than nothing, perform
this or that action, take up one pursuit or another. Agents need—​and
draw on—​conceptions of what constitutes a good life. Conceptions of a
good life locate some concerns at the center: this is what matters to the
agent; these are the pursuits she takes up. Other concerns are located
at the periphery, either because psychological resources are limited and
the agent cannot care as much about them as she otherwise would; or
because she thinks these matters deserve only little attention, though
they need to be dealt with. Much about our conceptions of a good life
is implicit. Much is encoded in affective attitudes or adopted by way of
picking up a way of life shared with others. Typically conceptions of a
good life have areas to which an agent has devoted considerable reflec-
tion—​here we may say she knows what she wants—​and others that are
outlinish or unattended to. Moreover, for most of us our conception of a
good life is work in progress. Perhaps it is even conflicted, say, because
we take up pursuits that are not evidently compatible. We may want,
as it were, more than fits into one life. Such conflicts flag that ordinar-
ily agents do not have full-​fledged and comprehensive conceptions of a
good life. None of these constraints, however, makes the role of wanting
one’s life to go well any less fundamental for human motivation.
On this picture, even small-​ scale actions that look like one-​ off
actions—​choices seemingly made at a given occasion, not as a compo-
nent of a pursuit or part of a routine—​relate to the agent’s desire for a
good life and her substantive conception of what makes a life, and specifi-
cally her life, good. The values that are at issue in a given decision are, by
the lights of the agent, more or less important. The place they have in the
agent’s conception of a good life affects how, and how much, she thinks
about what to do here-​and-​now. When the desire to have one’s life go well
falters, say, in severe depression, an agent may not have the motivational

1
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2 Desiring the Good

resources to do anything at all. She may not get out of bed in the morning,
not because she does not think she should get up, or because she can-
not make up her mind on whether she should, or because she succumbs
to temptation to sleep some more; but because the characteristic human
motivation is missing that ordinarily makes us do something, whatever
it is, that seems conducive, in one way or another, to our life going well.
My approach throughout the book appeals to arguments and ideas
in Plato and Aristotle. And yet it departs from a prominent strand in
ancient-​inspired ethics, which focuses on virtue and happiness. Here
philosophers think about the best kind of life a person may live. They
discuss normative questions about the activities and lives of excel-
lent agents. Their explorations presuppose, I submit, a psychological
claim: any agent, in pursuing this or that, is motivated by a more or
less explicit, and more or less determinate, idea of what it means for
her life to go well. This is a quotidian feature of motivation, and the
case of depression showcases how deeply motivation depends on it.
Concern with one’s life as a whole is, further, widely absent from
Aristotle-​inspired theories of action, which focus on the motivation
of particular, small-​scale actions in isolation. I aim to counteract this
long-​standing trend. This is not because there was not much of philo-
sophical interest in the analysis of small-​scale actions. But there is a
larger and neglected dimension to agency, namely the way in which
our desire to have our lives go well informs and supports all other
motivations. It is this gap in the theory of action and motivation that
I aim to fill.
When philosophers in the theory of action go beyond the analysis of
small-​scale actions, they sometimes discuss long-​term planning. They ask
how a person can bind herself over time; how one’s decisions can have
authority over one’s actions in the future; and whether a decision made
today for one’s future self involves metaphysical puzzles about persis-
tence and identity of persons over time. I share the premise that the theory
of planning has a metaphysical dimension. In the terms I develop, agents
plan for their lives as changing entities in a changing world. Planning, on
my account, is shaped by an agent’s desire to have her life go well and
framed by agential thought about one’s life as a whole. Persistence over
time is not merely a metaphysical issue. Planning involves anticipation
and memory. Insofar as one can do better or worse in remembering one’s
past, the persistence of one’s mental life has a normative dimension.
3

Introduction 3
My proposals, though they start from questions about motivation,
need to address questions about the nature of the good. If it is argued
that desire is for the good, then something needs to be said about this
notion: the good. How is it to be understood? Several options shall
figure in my discussion, most importantly the idea that the good is
the well-​lived human life. For long-​time readers of Aristotle, this pro-
posal may sound so familiar that it seems almost without competition.
Nevertheless, I argue that it is a mistake to take Aristotle at face value
when he says in Nicomachean Ethics I.4 that we all agree that the good
human life is the highest practical good. As his own discussion of com-
peting views throughout NE I gives away, this claim is in need of argu-
ment. I shall defend the premise that the highest practical good is the
good human life, and then part ways with Aristotle. I won’t argue, as
he does, that there is one kind of life that is best. The view that one can
get it right, living in a way that is good, must be sensitive to difference
and variability. Different people can get it right, I propose, by picking
up different pursuits and leading a life that is best for them. With this
claim, my project moves beyond and outside of a reconstruction of
ancient ethics.
Both Plato’s and Aristotle’s views permit, or demand, that different peo-
ple should take up different pursuits. Not everyone is to be a philosopher-​
queen, for example. My focus on difference, however, goes beyond this
type of argument. It is inspired by the distinctively modern intuition that
pursuits are not easily ranked as higher or lower. On the picture I defend,
there is a good life for you, and a good life for me, and they may differ
without one of these lives being better than the other. This notion of a good
life for a given agent, however, is a far cry from relativism. One can get it
right, I argue, in aiming to figure out how one should live. Thus I propose
a kind of realism. Some actions, pursuits, and ways of life—​say, the life of
a tyrant—​are not candidates for being right for any one of us. Minimally, a
life that is good for a given agent must be a good human life. Beyond that,
a certain kind of life is, or is not, good for a given person.
Both Plato and Aristotle introduce a notion of measure when dis-
cussing the good and the good life. To those who are not immersed into
the study of ancient philosophy, this notion may seem surprising. What
does measure have to do with the good? I turn to those dialogues which,
in my view, make this idea most intuitive and which, ultimately, seem
to me to offer compelling arguments in its favor. Measure is, I think, a
4

4 Desiring the Good

useful notion for the ethicist and action theorist concerned with ques-
tions about good lives. In Plato’s Philebus, measure is needed because
good lives are mixtures with many ingredients—​and these need to be
put together in the right way. In the Euthyphro, a much earlier dialogue,
measure is introduced as a desideratum. In the face of value disagree-
ment, it seems we need some tool—​a measuring tool—​to arrive at reso-
lutions. I reconstruct this line of thought because it offers a path for
thinking about value disagreement that is novel with a view to today’s
discussions. I explore disagreement about value and the sense in which
it may be true that human beings are “the measure” such that this is not
a relativist proposal, but an insight into the nature of ethics. The notion
of human beings as measure enables me to spell out how good lives for
different people differ, though they share much insofar as they are good
lives of human beings.
The emerging picture is still broadly speaking Aristotelian, on account
of two framing premises I adopt: that desire is ultimately for the good
human life, and that agential thought engages with what Aristotle calls a
“for the most part” domain, a domain in which future events are contin-
gent and in which assumptions about the way things may play out cannot
involve strict regularities. It departs, however, from some long-​standing
premises in Aristotelian and scholastic action theory.
Here, then, is an outline of the proposal I develop throughout the book:

1. Ethical thinking starts from the question “what is the good?”

2. The final, agential good is the good human life.

3. The good is the most basic kind of value.

4. There is such a thing as what is good for human beings and such a thing
as what is good for a given agent.

5. The Guise of the Good is most compelling as a theory about the desire
to have one’s life go well.

6. Desire for the good is translated into the motivation of pursuits, which
in turn structure large domains of small-​scale motivation.

7. Due to the metaphysics of the sphere of action, a conception of the

good life cannot be more than an outline.

Steps 1 through 7 correspond to the seven chapters of this book. They

do not exhaust what I argue for in these chapters, which can also be read
individually as in-​depth discussions of ideas I consider pertinent to my
5

Introduction 5
overall topic. Let me summarize very briefly the seven chapters and offer
some further remarks that help situate my approach.
Chapter 1 provides what I call a blueprint for ethics, with Plato’s
Philebus as its ancestor. Ethics, as I think of it, starts out by asking “what
is the good?” I call this question Q, and offer a distinction between dif-
ferent versions of Q. These versions reflect lines of inquiry, which on my
proposal belong to a broad conception of ethics: questions about sub-
stantive value, about the nature of value, about psychology, about cogni-
tive activities relevant to agency, and about the metaphysics of human
life. I argue that a certain interpretation of Q, namely, one that inquires
after the good for human beings, comes first. This interpretation does
not, however, eliminate the need to address other versions of Q. My pro-
posal departs from orthodoxy in contemporary appropriations of ancient
ethics by being significantly less aligned or concerned with Aristotle’s
normative proposals. I side with the Plato of the Philebus, rather than the
Aristotle of the NE, because the Philebus provides the relevant distinc-
tions between versions of Q; it offers arguments for starting from what I
call an agential version of the question “what is the human good?” and it
puts forward an approach that is largely and primarily about the human
good, without making the metaphysics of value obsolete.
Chapter 2 turns to Aristotle’s construal of Q, as inquiring into the
good as substantive, relative to human beings, and agential. The final
good, here, is the ultimate end of agency, a well-​lived human life. My
aim in analyzing this proposal is to take a step back, as it were, refus-
ing to be pulled into Aristotle’s mode of exposition. Aristotle makes it
seem as if the claims that the highest good is happiness and that hap-
piness is the well-​lived life—​and that, accordingly, the highest good is
the well-​lived life—​are agreed-​upon. But each of these premises merits
close examination. In effect, they amount to a controversial approach in
ethics: that ethics should conceive of the highest good as the final end of
agency, or at any rate, that ethics should start from this conception. The
good qua end of agency is more familiar to us than its main competitor,
the good understood as the property goodness. To hold that the good—​
understood as the good that ethics is primarily concerned with—​is the
good human life does not, by itself, commit one to any of the compre-
hensive substantive proposals Aristotle makes about good ways to live.
On the contrary, to hold that the good is the good life is compatible with
assuming that different lives are best for different people. This is my
reason for examining Aristotle’s proposal: once spelled out clearly, it is a
plausible place to pause or even to stop—​to set aside the NE and pursue
6

6 Desiring the Good

the proposal further in ways that do not go along with the way Aristotle’s
arguments unfold.
Because arguably there is not one way to live that is best for every-
one, I take a step back from any replies one may offer in response
to Q in ­chapter 3. I retrace an ancient idea that Plato and Aristotle
share: disagreement about value calls for some kind of standard or
measure of resolution. This idea is formulated, in ways that have not
received much attention, in Plato’s Euthyphro. The dialogue begins
with three examples of deeply contested actions and an analysis of
value disagreement. One upshot of this analysis is that when people
(and gods) approve or disapprove of actions, they refer to the good,
just, and noble. The Euthyphro distinguishes between basic values like
good, on the one hand, and relational value properties such as pious,
on the other hand. My reading of the dialogue calls into question a
long-​standing agreement among interpreters, namely, that Plato takes
the pious to be a basic value property. As I show, this is not compelling,
both with respect to any ordinary notion of piety—​which involves rela-
tions and attitudes—​and with respect to the text. On my reading, the
dialogue is more Socratic than it is standardly taken to be. It identifies
the good as basic and as a central topic for ethicists to understand. And
it emphasizes that the good is the kind of value people disagree about.
The Euthyphro lays out a research project, one that is to be undertaken
rather than already accomplished: how to account for the nature of the
good, given pervasive and persistent disagreement and the lack of an
established standard to resolve it.
In ­chapter 4 I take up this research project by rethinking Protagoras’s
“man is the measure” in conversation with recent discussions of relativ-
ism. Protagoras’s dictum can be reconstructed in a non-​relativist way,
amenable to many of Plato’s and Aristotle’s arguments in the Philebus
and NE. On this realist reconstruction, it is nothing other than the claim
that human beings are the measure of what is good for them. My argu-
ment involves a series of steps away from standard contemporary rela-
tivism, which I call Truth Relativism; and I reject the epistemic notion
of standards of assessment that figures in these discussions. Human
beings, on my proposal, are the measure in a metaphysical way: qua
the beings we are, we are the measure or standard that is needed in
ethical theory. Measure Realism, as I call the relative-​but-​not-​relativist
account I put forward, makes human beings the primary relatum of
7

Introduction 7
relative goodness. It makes sense to ask “what is the good for cats?”
and “what is the good for the universe?” and the fact that we can and
do ask such questions matters. But in ethics the good for human beings
comes first, simply because ethical theorizing originates in ordinary
thinking about how to live (and how our actions ought to take into
account, say, the good of animals or of the universe is part of how we
ought to live). The fact that good-​for permits different relata also mat-
ters because a compelling conception of the good needs to accommo-
date differences between agents and variability in the sphere of action.
A way of thinking about the good is needed that accommodates what
is good for a given agent and even what is good for a given agent
here-​and-​now.
In ­chapter 5 I advance my own version of the so-​called Guise of
the Good account (GG). Roughly, the GG is the type of theory which
says that actions are motivated by something looking good to an agent.
The GG is most compelling if we distinguish between motivations of
particular small-​scale actions, the motivation of mid-​scale actions or
pursuits, and the largest-​scale motivation to have one’s life go well,
and if we explore the relations between them. GG theorists tend to see
their proposals as broadly speaking Aristotelian. And yet their theories
address particular actions in isolation: agents, in one formulation, are
motivated to perform a given action by seeing the action or its out-
come as good. NE I makes a different proposal: each small-​and mid-​
scale activity aims at some good and also at the good, the well-​lived
human life. The first sentence of the NE formulates this claim in pro-
grammatic fashion, and much of NE I aims to make good on it. What,
then, are the resources of a more genuinely Aristotelian approach?
I argue that Aristotle applies the GG to a range of human activities,
including lines of inquiry and productive activities; that according to
his GG small-​and mid-​scale activity is ultimately motivated by desire
for a good life; and that smaller-​scale motivations depend for their
existence and power on the desire to have one’s life go well. This
approach, I argue, has three advantages. It is (i) inherently more plau-
sible than an approach that isolates small-​scale actions; it (ii) captures
the formative role that pursuits typically play in human life; and it (iii)
explains why, in its Aristotelian version, the GG belongs to the theory
of the human good.
In ­chapter 6 I address a long-​standing concern about ancient ethics. If
the starting point of an ethical theory is an agent’s selfish concern with
8

8 Desiring the Good

her own happiness—​or in my terms, her life going well—​it would seem
like pulling a rabbit out of a hat to arrive, at some point, at the concerns
of others, or anything really that goes beyond the agent’s happiness. But
at least some such concerns are essential for a theory that is to count, by
our lights, as ethical. The charge may be less pressing if one thinks in
terms of well-​going lives rather than in terms of happiness. But it does
not entirely dissolve. In order to genuinely refute it, I argue, one must
show that something about the agent’s desire for a well-​going life goes
beyond her own well-​going life. On the reading I propose, Socrates’s
speech in Plato’s Symposium ascribes precisely this role to the motivation
of typical human pursuits. The very way in which human beings desire
happiness propels them into pursuits that are devoted to the good, pull-
ing them away from what might appear to be, on ordinary notions, their
own happiness. According to the Symposium, there is a range of typical
human pursuits: having children, producing artifacts, earning a living
through work, creating art, writing laws, formulating theories, seeking
knowledge, and more. These pursuits are kinds of making, and via the
agent’s commitment to that which is made they extend her motivations
beyond her own life. Once we are committed to such pursuits, they make
demands on us. People typically go to great lengths in any number of
ways for the sake of the good of these pursuits rather than their own good
narrowly conceived. If this proposal is compelling, mid-​scale motiva-
tion deserves a lot more attention in the theory of action than it often
receives. Here an otherwise nondescript desire for a good life translates
into a plan. Pursuits thereby provide the framework for any number of
small-​scale motivations. And they explain the distinctive force of those
small-​scale motivations that relate to them—​the way in which days are
arranged around picking up one’s child from school, running to catch a
train so as not to be late for work, finding the one shade of green that will
work for this painting, and so on.
In ­chapter 7 I return to NE I and to the premises Aristotle explores
prior to developing his normative views about good ways to live. I exam-
ine a fundamental philosophical principle that Aristotle formulates in NE
I.3: like other lines of inquiry, ethics must be adequate for its domain.
In exploring this principle, I analyze what I call the metaphysics of the
sphere of action and how it bears on the nature of ethical theorizing. On
my reading of NE I.3, an Aristotelian ethicist must ask herself what her
line of inquiry is about, study the nature of her theory’s subject matter,
9

Introduction 9
and observe norms of theorizing that are adequate for it. What, then, is
the domain of ethics? As I argue, according to Aristotle the subject mat-
ter of ethics is value as it figures in human life. Aristotle ascribes two fea-
tures to value in human life: difference and variability. Other theorists,
he notes, are misled by these phenomena and become relativists. They
observe a lack of strict regularity and falsely conclude that the domain
of value is messy, unsuitable for any general insights. Aristotle aims to
improve on that. In his view, it is possible for a domain to lack strict
regularity and yet to display for the most part regularities. These lesser
regularities are sufficient for ethics to be a kind of study. In arguing for
this view, I pursue four aims: (i) to emphasize that Aristotle takes his
ethical theory to be a competitor to relativism; (ii) to call into question
some dominant trends in Aristotle scholarship, most important, the idea
that ethics’ precision (or lack thereof) attaches specifically to delibera-
tion; (iii) to make plausible the view that the subject matter of ethics is
value as it figures in human life; and, finally, (iv) to depart from particu-
larist proposals and appropriate the notion of for the most part regularity
as a compelling way to characterize the sphere of action.
Desiring the good, along these lines, is the motivation that propels
agents forward, guided by their conception of the good life-​for-​them.
Here I accept a widely shared premise: it is constitutive of desire that it
aims at the good. Desire is the very attitude that agents like us character-
istically have to the good. I do not endorse either of two much-​debated
options, namely, that desire aims at what is believed to be good or that
desire aims at the perceived good. In agreement with the kind of real-
ism sketched a moment ago, I take it that desire aims at what is good by
the agent’s lights and thereby at what is really good. In desiring to have
one’s life go well, one aims to get it right—​one aims to take up pursuits
and to perform actions that are conducive to a well-​going life. Beyond
the claim that desire aims at the good, I advance only two specifications.
First, that insofar as desire is for the good it does not come with built-​
in limits; we do not desire so-​and-​so much of the good, or the good for
such-​and-​such a duration of time. We desire the good, period, and that
is, we desire to have and keep the good, as it were, indefinitely. Second,
insofar as motivation plays out on the different and interrelated scales
mentioned above it involves a range of desiderative attitudes. All of them
aim at the good and are therefore attitudes of one kind. But, for example,
wishing for some good is different from deciding to pursue it. My notion
10

10 Desiring the Good

of desire is intended to encompass the various desiderative attitudes that
figure in motivation. On this account, the theory of action and the theory
of motivation are not distinct; there is no natural cut-​off point between
analyzing “merely” particular actions and the wider spectrum of atti-
tudes that play a role in motivation. Accordingly, I speak at times of the
theory of action and at times of the theory of motivation and at times of
both. My version of the GG is a theory of how activities of human agents
are motivated.
My version of the GG is, further and distinctively, a theory at the
intersection of psychology and philosophy of action. Thereby it differs
from some contributions on the GG that are explicitly intended as analy-
ses of rational action. Rational action, as understood in these contribu-
tions, is the action of some rational being, whether this being is human
or, to take examples from Kantian and Kant-​inspired frameworks, an
angel or a Martian. Such an approach removes the GG from arguments
that appeal to psychology, and it is an ill fit for the ancient-​inspired ver-
sion of the GG I defend. I take it that the question of what is a good
human life is a practical question for us, and that is, for us as human
agents who aim to lead good lives. Insofar as the GG is developed within
this framework, it would be misguided to set aside human psychology.
We are aiming to lead good lives as the beings we are—​even though,
and I argue for this when developing the notion of human beings as the
measure, we plausibly aim to be a lot better thinkers, deliberators, and so
on than it may initially seem we can be.
Finally, on method. Ancient ethics has time and again inspired later
contributions in ethics. There is a varied and rich history for this approach,
with contributors who go back and forth between aiming to get things
right in reading an ancient text and aiming to get things right in ethics.
This mode of doing philosophy flourished already in the Academy. With
changing times and changing philosophical preoccupations, it continues
to inspire debates. This book is intended as part of this endeavor. Many
influential proposals in this tradition are, however, on questions in norma-
tive ethics, on questions that, depending on the way one conceives of these
fields, may qualify as ancient counterparts to central concerns in modern
moral philosophy. These concerns are often taken to be about impartiality.
They are taken, further, to address the normativity of moral reasons, say,
as opposed to prudential reasons, as well as moral deliberation, understood
as a mode of practical reasoning that distinctively picks out what, morally,
1

Introduction 11
one ought to do. My book is not about these questions. Though I often
acknowledge debts to these contributions, my book aims to carve out a dif-
ferent space: a set of questions about motivation and agency where, I pro-
pose, some distinctively ancient resources are underexplored.
Moreover, I take seriously Elizabeth Anscombe’s observation about
Aristotle’s ethics: the notion of morality is conspicuously absent. This
strikes me as an inherently interesting observation. Surely the ancients
were thinking about what one should do and why. How is it possible
that they seem to have done this without a notion that seems crucially
important to moderns? Anscombe’s conclusion was, in part, that think-
ing this through leads one to turn to the philosophy of psychology. It
leads, in other words, to a line of inquiry that is fundamental and yet pre-
liminary. It is fundamental insofar as we ask what goes on in the minds
of agents. It is preliminary insofar as substantive questions of how we
should act and live are not (yet) discussed. This delineates the scope of
my book. I aim to contribute to the theory of motivation and metaethics
as far as it relates to motivation; I do not aim to contribute to substantive
normative ethics or moral philosophy. Hence I need not settle, for pres-
ent purposes, whether or not ancient philosophy speaks to distinctively
moral questions. In this spirit, moral values, moral reasons, and so on do
not figure in this book. I do not even speak of moral psychology, which
is often thought to be a field Anscombe inspired. To some extent, one’s
usage of these terms is stipulative, and it is not my plan to quibble about
words. Thus my remarks here are intended merely as prefatory clarifica-
tions. As I will put things throughout the book, there is a distinctive kind
of ancient-​inspired ethics, which differs from later moral philosophy at
least in two respects: (i) by being a significantly broader field, one that
includes the questions about motivation, psychology, and agency that
interest me here; (ii) by being self-​consciously practical, conceiving of
ethics as the theoretical extension of an agent’s thinking about what to
pursue and why.
As will become clear quickly, I draw more on Book I of the NE than
is customary; I part ways with Aristotle once some of NE I’s premises
are established; and I pursue lines of thought from Plato that, compared
with the NE, put more emphasis on disagreement about value and the
way in which desiring the good fuels human pursuits. I focus on the
motivations and actions of ordinary agents rather than on an ideal agent
often called the phronimos or practically wise person or other models
intended to determine what we should do. The agents I am interested in
12

12 Desiring the Good

are more like you and me and pretty much everyone else: imperfect and
more or less failing to be practically wise. I aim to understand how you
and I and others are motivated when doing particular things or taking up
pursuits, guided by what we take to be a good life. These conceptions of
a good life are work in progress or not even explicitly attended to. And
yet, or so I argue, it is the desire to have our lives go well, combined with
some idea of what amounts to a good life, that shapes every one of our
motivations.
13

1
A Blueprint for Ethics

As one goes through life, or any day really, ordinary questions arise
that lead straight into ethics. Reformulated on a more abstract level,
they become puzzling for any careful thinker. I take it that “what is the
good?” is the simplest and most basic question of this sort.1 It is asked,
in ordinary life, from the perspective of an agent who aims to make good
decisions and to take on pursuits and commitments that will turn out to
be good, contributing to her leading a good life.
The conception of ethics that emerges is, distinctively, a conception
of ethics, not of moral philosophy. It is recognizably rooted in an ancient
framework and broader than most conceptions of moral philosophy.2 It
includes substantive questions of value, questions about the nature of
value, psychology as it relates to the good qua object of desire, the analy-
sis of cognitive activities insofar as they relate to the good qua end in
agency, and the metaphysics of human life.
Along these lines, I aim to offer a distinctive alternative to contem-
porary approaches to practical rationality, decision making, and rational
choice. The core intuition of this alternative, to be defended throughout

1
While this premise recalls the beginning of Moore’s Principia Ethica, it will become
apparent that I part ways with Moore early on. Some argue that the notion of reasons is
primitive and that value can be understood in terms of reasons-​for, a view that has been
prominently defended by Scanlon. I will not directly engage views of this type (cf. Scanlon,
What We Owe to Each Other). As will become clear, I take it that whatever progress can be
made by focusing on how agents deliberate and choose, this line of inquiry does not replace
the metaphysics of value.
2
My proposals are compatible, though, with weak or thin notions of moral philosophy
intended as equivalent with ethics as understood in ancient philosophy, as, for example,
proposed by Sauvé Meyer in the 2011 Introduction of her Aristotle on Moral Responsibility.
13
14

14 Desiring the Good

the book, is that agents desire their lives to go well. Accordingly, agen-
tial thought relates to an agent’s conception of what is a good life for
her. Agents, put simply, not only think about what to do in a particular
situation and about choices on the level of pursuits. They also think, in
ways that inform these small-​and mid-​scale concerns, about their lives
as a whole.
Contemporary versions of ancient ethics most frequently self-​identify
as Aristotelian. Arguably, my proposal can also count as such. But the
Nicomachean Ethics presupposes—​rather than lays out explicitly—​the
conception of ethics that I want to explore, or something close to it. It
is what I consider one of Plato’s least well-​understood dialogues, the
Philebus, that explicitly formulates and defends it. This is why I see the
Philebus as a resource for theorizing in ethics. It is well known for the wide
range of topics it discusses, in particular relating to desiderative and cog-
nitive activities that figure in an agent’s mental life. It is, also, a dialogue
that explicitly distinguishes between several questions about the good.
Finally, the Philebus is the text in ancient ethics that explicitly
describes the good human life as a mix with many ingredients, put
together in the right way. If we are to find the ancient concern with good
human lives compelling, I submit, this idea deserves to be spelled out.
A person’s good life is unlikely to be the life of this or that, where this
or that is one value or one activity.3 It is bound to involve any number of
values and activities. Accordingly, the challenge of leading a good life
is not just the challenge to engage in activities that actually are good; it
also involves combining what one values and pursues such that it fits
into one life.
After a sketch of what I take to be ordinary ethical thinking about
the good (section 1), I offer a blueprint for ethics as outlined in the
Philebus (sections 2–​6).4 Along the way, I situate my approach vis-​à-​vis
well-​known Aristotelian views in contemporary ethics, flagging where

3
In Aristotle-​inspired ethics, there is much discussion on whether the life of politics
or the life of contemplation is best—​by Aristotle’s lights and/​or by our lights. Neither
of these proposals should appear compelling to the reader of Plato’s Philebus. Or rather,
aware that Aristotle was much influenced by the Philebus, one may expect that “life of
X”-​formulations in Aristotle are shorthand for something more complex. Cf. ­chapter 2.
4
The Philebus is one of Plato’s latest dialogues. Plato covers a lot of ground, address-
ing questions that are often considered as falling into different fields (ethics, metaphysics,
epistemology, etc.). The difficulty of making sense of this has long been known; Galen
wrote a treatise, now lost, entitled “On the transitions in the Philebus.” Research on the
15

A Blueprint for Ethics 15

I depart from approaches that conceive of the good exclusively as the
object of desire, proposals that invoke teleology and natures, others that
focus on deliberation and choice, and finally from views that explore
particularity and non-​codifiability.

1. Thinking about One’s Life as a Whole

Consider the perspective of an ordinary agent who asks herself what to

do in a particular situation. Say, she wants to write this chapter. Or she
could leave her desk and take a swim in the nearby pool. Should she
continue to work or go for a swim? She is aware of a few other commit-
ments before the day ends, some of them other-​regarding, some felt with
urgency, others at the periphery of her practical concerns, to be fitted in
only if more important things are already taken care of. Let us stipulate,
however, that given a range of background conditions, these two courses
of action, working and swimming, are most salient for her as things to
do right now. Making up her mind about this, she thinks about relevant
longer-​term commitments. She genuinely enjoys writing the chapter. It
is about a topic that she’s been thinking about for a long time. She is
also committed to a reasonably healthy life, and swimming during the
few weeks in the summer when she lives near an outdoor pool seems an
obvious choice. In the back of her mind she sometimes wonders what
has gone wrong in her life to make it almost impossible for her to fit in
anything other than work.

Philebus started to pick up with remarkable delay. Schleiermacher’s nineteenth-​century

translations of most other dialogues are subtle and polished. They were starting points
for many twentieth-​century translations in the languages of current Plato scholarship. But
Schleiermacher’s translation of the Philebus is unreadable. The difficulties of making sense
of the text are all too evident in the translation. Given such hurdles, the kind of ethics that
has been studied most widely as “Plato’s ethics” is the ethics of the far more accessible
Republic. The picture Aristotle conveys in the NE (and in particular, NE I.6) is predomi-
nant: what Plato says about the good is that it is the Form of the Good. Aristotle does not
indicate that Plato himself also formulated an approach that is rather close to the approach
of the NE. In 1993, Frede published an English translation of the Philebus, which is
included in the widely used edition of Plato’s Complete Works edited by John M. Cooper.
Frede also published a German edition (Platons Werke, Übersetzung und Kommentar Band
III.2 Philebos [Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1997]). These editions resulted in a
spike of interest.
16

16 Desiring the Good

In this example, agential thinking (as I call this) takes place on
three levels.5 The agent thinks about small-​scale, particular actions,
namely, working or swimming at a given time. She thinks about mid-​
scale actions such as pursuits, routines, and habits, in our case relat-
ing most immediately to work, health, exercise, pleasure, and more.
And finally, our agent asks herself what she wants and what is worth
wanting, at particular occasions and in particular respects, but also for
her life as a whole. In the vocabulary that I use, this means that she
aims for a good life. She aims to set up her life in such a way that it
combines actions and pursuits that on consideration are valuable by
her own lights.6
Three provisos are called for. First, the kinds of thoughts I ascribe to
our agent do not arise every time an agent makes a small-​scale decision.
Still, they tend to come up in everyday life. Second, I am intentionally
putting the claim that the agent aims for a good life in somewhat defla-
tionary terms. My formulations signal that this should not be understood
in too high-​minded a fashion. Our agent does not necessarily aim for
a virtuous or noble life. That she aims for a good life means that she
aims not to put stock in things that later will appear shallow, not to put
herself on a path that marginalizes things that on consideration she finds
important, and so on.7 Third, that our agent aims for a good life should
not be taken in too lowly a fashion either. She does not aim for “the good
life” as this slogan might be used in an ad for cigars or luxury cruises.
She aims to have her life go well in the sense of getting evaluative mat-
ters right as far as she can: fitting into her life what on consideration is
important, placing trivial concerns at the periphery of what she attends
to, and so on.8
How do things unfold when everyday agential thinking turns into eth-
ics qua philosophical discipline? Most immediately, agents may pursue

5
Chapter 5 discusses this distinction in detail.
6
These thoughts go back and forth between the three levels that I just mentioned: small-​
scale actions, mid-​scale actions or pursuits, and a well-​going life.
7
Svavarsdóttir discusses this type of consideration in “Having Value and Being Worth
Valuing.”
8
Ethicists sometimes understand the notion of a good life in terms of well-​being or in
terms or excellence. On that premise, my proposal would either reduce to the claim that
the agent pursues her well-​being or that she pursues excellence. Neither of these options,
however, strikes me as sufficiently close to the way in which we ordinarily aim for our
lives to go well.
Another random document with
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zusammengesetzt. Die Weltlichkeit der Mächtigen gebrauchte den
erwachenden bürgerlichen Freiheitssinn zu ihren Zwecken; und das
bürgerliche Genie diente noch der Autorität. Darum fehlt die höchste
Selbstverständlichkeit, die letzte Einheit; darum wurde dieser Stil
auch in der Folge so gründlich mißverstanden. Die Empfindung, die
das Barock geschaffen hatte, reichte nicht aus, um das
heraufkommende Zeitalter der bürgerlichen Selbständigkeit zu
regieren. Dazu bedurfte es noch einer anderen Eigenschaft: der
Bildung — einer alle einzelnen befreienden, revolutionierenden und
arbeitstüchtig machenden Bildung. Als sich diese Bildung dann aber
am Anfang des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts ausbreitete, erstickte sie
das künstlerische Temperament, ließ sie nicht Raum für naives
Formgefühl. Die Folge war, daß das Wissen um die griechische
Form aushelfen mußte, daß die lateinische Sprache auch in der
Kunst gewissermaßen zur europäischen Gelehrtensprache wurde.
Die Menschen brauchten Ruhe, um den ungeheuren Lehrstoff der
Zeit verarbeiten zu können. Darum konstruierten sie sich ein
beruhigendes Vollkommenheitsideal und folgten ihm als Nachahmer.
Doch davon ist im ersten Kapitel, wo die Lehre vom Ideal
untersucht wurde, schon die Rede gewesen.
* *
*
Die letzte Manifestation des gotischen Geistes fällt in die zweite
Hälfte des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts. Sie ist sehr merkwürdig und
psychologisch folgendermaßen zu erklären.
Die absichtsvoll geförderte moderne Bildung mit ihrer einseitigen
Geistesdisziplin hat das kritische Vermögen stark entwickelt, hat
zugleich aber auch die intuitiven Fähigkeiten verkümmern lassen.
Der empirisch vorgehende Verstand hat alle Erscheinungen des
Lebens zergliedert, hat sie wissenschaftlich erklärt und nur das
Beweisbare gelten lassen; die ganze Natur ist mechanisiert worden,
bis sie vor dem Geist der Bildungshungrigen dastand wie ein
berechenbares Produkt von Ursachen und Wirkungen, von „Kraft
und Stoff“. Es sind im neunzehnten Jahrhundert große Fortschritte in
der Erkenntnis dessen gemacht worden, was sich reflektiv
bewältigen läßt; erkauft sind diese Fortschritte aber durch eine
radikale Entgötterung. Welt und Leben sind ihres Geheimnisses
beraubt worden, sie hörten für die einseitig Intellektuellen auf, das
große Wunder zu sein. Die Folge davon war, daß mehr und mehr,
trotz des Stolzes auf die neuen Errungenschaften, die Stimmung
einer tiefen Verzweiflung um sich griff. In dem Maße, wie die Welt in
ihren kausalen Zusammenhängen scheinbar verständlicher wurde,
wuchs auch der Pessimismus. Die Mystik des Lebens schien
unwiederbringlich verloren, der Glaube war im Tiefsten erschüttert;
jedermann meinte hochmütig dem Schöpfer in die Werkstatt sehen
zu können; und der Mensch ist ja nun einmal so geartet, daß er nicht
länger verehrt, was er zu fassen imstande ist, weil er die eigene
Beschränktheit zu genau aus dem ständigen Verkehr mit sich selber
kennt. Während das Gehirn triumphierte, wurde die Seele elend.
Langsam spürten die Menschen, daß ihnen ein innerer Schatz
abhanden gekommen war, daß sie unvermerkt zu Fatalisten
geworden waren. Das Vertrauen auf sittliche Endziele des Lebens
ging verloren, und von den Gipfeln exakter wissenschaftlicher
Wahrheiten starrte der Bildungsmensch in das absolute Nichts.
Als dieser Zustand gefährlich zu werden drohte, hat der
menschliche Geist wieder einmal aus eigener Kraft ein Heilmittel, hat
er etwas wie ein geistiges Serum produziert. Es gelang ihm, wie es
ihm im Verlaufe der Geschichte schon unzählige Male gelungen ist,
die Schwäche in eine Kraft zu verwandeln, aus der lähmenden
Passivität der Seele eine neue Aktivität, aus dem Leiden eine neue
Willenskraft zu gewinnen. Als der Mensch verzweifelt in die von
seinem eigenen Verstand entgötterte Welt starrte, begab es sich,
daß sich in einer neuen Weise das große Erstaunen wieder
einstellte. Zuerst war es nur ein Erstaunen über die grausame
Phantastik der Situation, über die Kälte der Lebensatmosphäre,
dann aber wurde wahrgenommen, wie eben in dieser Gefühllosigkeit
des Lebens eine gewisse Größe liegt, daß im Zentrum dieser eisigen
Gleichgültigkeit eine Idee gefunden wird, von der aus die ganze Welt
neu begriffen werden kann. Das neue Wundern, das über den
Menschen kam, richtete sich nun nicht mehr auf das Einzelne der
Natur, denn dieses glaubte man ja ursächlich verstehen zu können,
sondern es richtete sich auf das Ganze, auf das kosmische Spiel der
Kräfte, auf das Dasein von Welt und Leben überhaupt. Mit diesem
sich erneuernden philosophischen Erstaunen aber tauchten zugleich
merkwürdige Urgefühle auf, Empfindungen von urweltlicher Färbung.
Ein neues Bangen und Grauen stellte sich ein, eine tragische
Ergriffenheit. Hinter der vom Verstand entgötterten Welt erschien
eine neue große Schicksalsgewalt, eine andere, namenlose Gottheit:
die Notwendigkeit. Und als diese erst gefühlt wurde, da stellte sich
auch gleich eine neue Romantik ein. Die Einbildungskraft trat nun
hinzu und begann die Erscheinungen mit den Farben wechselnder
Stimmung zu umkleiden. Alle zurückgehaltenen Empfindungen
brachen hervor und nahmen teil an der neuen, aus einer Entseelung
erwachsenen Beseelung der Welt. Auf dem höchsten Punkt hat sich
das analytische Denken von selbst überschlagen und hat der
Synthese Platz gemacht, das Verstehen ist einem neuen Erleben
gewichen.
Die Kunst aber ist recht eigentlich das Gebiet geworden, auf dem
dieses moderne Welterlebnis sich dargestellt hat. Wie neben der
einseitigen Bildungskultur, neben der Verehrung der Erfahrung als
Höchstes der Eklektizismus, die Nachahmungssucht, die
Unselbständigkeit und ein falscher Idealismus einhergegangen sind,
wie alle Künstler dieser Geistesart mehr oder weniger zur Sterilität
verdammt gewesen sind, so ist von dem neuen großen Erlebnis des
Gefühls, von dem produktiv machenden philosophischen Erstaunen
eine eigene optische Sehform abgeleitet worden. Diese Sehform,
aus der ein moderner Kunststil hervorgegangen ist und die in
wenigen Jahrzehnten in großen Teilen Europas zur Herrschaft
emporgestiegen ist, wird in der Malerei Impressionismus genannt.
Die Sehform entspricht genau einer Form des Geistes; dieses
moderne Geistige aber ist seiner seelischen Beschaffenheit nach
gotischer Art. Der Impressionismus ist die letzte Form des gotischen
Geistes, die bisher historisch erkennbar wird. Gotisch ist der
Impressionismus, weil auch er das Produkt eines erregten
Weltgefühls ist, weil ein Wille darin Form gewinnt, weil die Form aus
einem Kampf entspringt, weil er in die Erscheinungen die seelische
Unruhe des Menschen hineinträgt und weil er die künstlerische
Umschreibung eines leidenden Zustandes ist. Alles im
Impressionismus ist auf Ausdruck, auf Stimmung gestellt; die
Darstellung des Atmosphärischen ist nur ein Mittel, Einheitlichkeit
und Stimmung zu gewinnen; dieser Stil ist neuerungslustig,
revolutionär und hat von vornherein im heftigen Kampf mit leblos
gewordenen Traditionen gestanden. Auch im Impressionismus hat
die Kunst wieder protestiert und geistig vertiefend gewirkt. Sie hat
den Blick von der griechischen Normalschönheit der Klassizisten
heftig abgelenkt. Zudem handelt es sich um eine ganz bürgerliche
Kunst, um eine Offenbarung des Laiengenies. Diese neue Sehform
geht nicht dem Häßlichen aus dem Wege, sondern sie hat das sozial
Groteske geradezu aufgesucht; sie ist naturalistisch und romantisch
in einem, sie spürt im Unscheinbaren das Monumentale auf und im
Besonderen das Kosmische. Der einfache Entschluß zu neuer
Ursprünglichkeit hat eine moderne Formenwelt geschaffen, der
Wille, die Erscheinungen als Eindruck naiv wirken zu lassen, hat
einen Stil gezeitigt, in dem der Geist des Jahrhunderts sich
abspiegelt.
Auch in der Baukunst ist dem Klassizismus und
Renaissancismus des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts eine neue Gotik
gefolgt. Sie äußert sich in dem Interesse für groß begriffene und
symbolhaft gesteigerte Zweckbauten, die den Zug zum
Weltwirtschaftlichen, der unserer Zeit eigen ist, verkörpern; sie
äußert sich in einer neuen Neigung zum Kolossalen, Konstruktiven
und Naturalistischen, in der entschiedenen Betonung des Vertikalen
und der ungebrochenen nackten Formen. Gotisch ist das
Ingenieurhafte der neuen Baukunst. Und wo sich die Architekten um
rein darstellende Formen bemühen, um Ornamente und
motivierende Zierformen, da geraten sie wie von selbst in eine
heftige Bewegungslust, sie kultivieren die abstrakte Form und das
Ausdrucksornament. Die Linienempfindung weist unmittelbar oft
hinüber zum Mittelalter und zum Barock, ohne daß man aber von
Nachahmung oder nur von Wahltradition sprechen dürfte. Das am
meisten Revolutionäre ist immer auch das am meisten Gotische.
Und die profanen Zweckbauten nehmen, wo sie ins Monumentale
geraten, wie von selbst oft Formen an, daß man an
Fortifikationsbauten des Mittelalters denkt. Ein unruhiger Drang nach
Mächtigkeit, der die ganze Welt erfüllt, gewinnt in den
Speicherbauten, Geschäftshäusern und Wolkenkratzern, in den
Industriebauten, Bahnhöfen und Brücken Gestalt; in den rauhen
Zweckformen ist das Pathos des Leidens, ist gotischer Geist.
Überall freilich ist die neue gotische Form auch innig verbunden
mit der griechischen Form. Denn das Griechische kann, nachdem es
einmal in Europa heimisch geworden ist, nie wieder vergessen und
ganz aufgegeben werden; immer wird es irgendwie Anteil behalten
und gegenwärtig sein. Denn es enthält Lösungen, die sich dem
menschlichen Geiste um ihrer Allgemeingültigkeit willen aufs tiefste
eingeprägt haben. Es wird unmöglich sein, die griechische Form
jemals wieder ganz aus der europäischen Kunst zu entfernen. Jede
neue Manifestation des gotischen Geistes wird auf Mischstile
hinauslaufen. Entscheidend wird es für diese Mischstile aber sein,
wo der Nachdruck liegt, ob die Gesinnung mehr der griechischen
Ordnung oder dem gotischen Ausdruckswillen zuneigt. Daß auch die
ihrer Herkunft nach griechische Form im Sinne einer gotischen
Gesamtstimmung benutzt werden kann, hat dieser flüchtige Gang
durch die Geschichte bewiesen. Er beweist auch, daß der Geist der
Gotik unendlich verwandlungsfähig ist, daß er in immer neue
Formen zu schlüpfen vermag und doch stets er selbst bleibt, daß er
immer und überall bildend am Werk sein wird, wo der Willensimpuls
einer Zeit, eines Volkes oder eines schöpferischen Individuums sich
unmittelbar in Kunstformen verwandelt.
 IV. Schlußwort

Ich begnüge mich mit diesen Anmerkungen über die

Stilbewegungen des gotischen Geistes und mache mit Bewußtsein
dort halt, wo die Kunst von den Lebenden nicht mehr historisch
gewertet werden kann. Ich vermeide es, von der neuesten Kunst zu
sprechen und von dem, was darin wieder auf eine Form des
gotischen Geistes hinzuweisen scheint; ich vermeide es, das Wort
„Gotik“ zum Schlagwort eines Programms zu machen und mit
Forderungen als ein Führer zu neuen Zielen des gotischen Geistes
hervorzutreten. Jedes hat seine Zeit und seinen Platz. Man kann als
ein heftig Wollender vor sein Volk hintreten, kann ihm neue Ziele
weisen, die man als segensreich erkannt hat, und kann die Besten
zur schöpferischen Unruhe, zu neuen Elementargefühlen
aufzuwiegeln suchen. Oder man kann, wie es in diesem Buch
versucht worden ist, rein der Erkenntnis folgen, kann versuchen, im
höchsten Sinn sachlich zu sein und naturgeschichtlich zu forschen,
wie die künstlerisch bildende Kraft des Menschen beschaffen ist.
Aber man kann nicht beides zugleich tun. Es versteht sich, daß der
heftig Wollende nicht seine Erkenntniskraft unterdrücken kann und
soll und daß der Erkennende nicht aufhören kann, einen
persönlichen Willen zu haben. Die Betonung muß aber dort auf dem
Willen, hier auf der Erkenntnis liegen, wenn nicht eine heillose
Verwirrung aller Begriffe die Folge sein soll.
Von dieser Verwirrung haben wir genug gesehen, haben wir
übergenug noch heute vor Augen. Die unendliche Unordnung des
Formgefühls, die bezeichnend für das neunzehnte Jahrhundert ist,
kann auf eine solche Vermengung des Willens und der Erkenntnis
zurückgeführt werden. Die Kunstwissenschaft, die berufen ist, der
Erkenntnis allein zu dienen, hat geglaubt, sie müsse führen, müsse
dem Künstler, dem Volke das Ideal zeigen und ein Gesetz des
künstlerischen Schaffens aufstellen. Und die Kunst anderseits, die
ganz ein Kind des Willens ist, hat sich aufs Gebiet wissenschaftlicher
Erkenntnis begeben und hat dort ihre beste Kraft: die Sicherheit der
instinktiven Entscheidung und die Unbefangenheit eingebüßt.
Es muß endlich wieder begriffen werden, daß alle
Kunstwissenschaft, ob sie die Kunst nun historisch, formenkritisch
oder psychologisch untersucht, nur konstatieren darf. Sie kann nur
empirisch hinter der Produktion einhergehen und aus einer gewissen
Distanz anschauen. Die Kunstwissenschaft darf keinen Willen, keine
programmatische Absicht haben: sie hat Naturgeschichte zu treiben
und alle persönlichen Sympathien und Antipathien dem Objekt
unterzuordnen. Es ist so, wie es in dem Gedenkblatt Wundts auf Karl
Lamprecht heißt: „Vorauszusagen, was die Zukunft bringen wird, ist
nicht Sache des Kunsthistorikers, und ebensowenig fühlt er sich
gedrungen, für etwas Partei zu ergreifen, was sie bringen könnte
oder sollte.“ Darum darf der Kunsthistoriker nicht diese Form
ablehnen und jene bevorzugen. Paßt irgendeine geschichtlich
gewordene Kunstform in eine Kunsttheorie nicht hinein, so ist damit
nichts gegen die Kunstform bewiesen, sondern nur etwas für die
Enge der Theorie. Auch Formen der Natur können ja nicht abgelehnt
werden; Kunstformen aber sind mittelbare Naturformen. Für die
Kunstwissenschaft besteht das Ideal darin, jenem imaginären Punkt
außerhalb des irdischen Getriebes nahe zu kommen, von dem
Archimedes träumte. Es darf für sie keine Rücksichten, keine
Grenzen geben, das Leben, die Kunst müssen ihr zu einem
ungeheuren Ganzen werden, und jedes Stück Kunstgeschichte muß
sein wie der Ausschnitt einer Universalgeschichte der Kunst. Auch
der patriotische Standpunkt hat keine Geltung. Das Wunder, wie alle
Rassen, Völker und Individuen an dem ewigen Leben der Kunstform
beteiligt sind, ist zu groß, als daß es nationalistisch eingeengt
werden dürfte. Muß aber so der nationale Standpunkt aufgegeben
werden, das heißt, darf der wissenschaftlich Erkennende an dem
triebartigen Willen seiner Nation nicht einmal teilnehmen, um wieviel
weniger darf er da seinem kleinen persönlichen Willen, dem Trieb
seiner Natur folgen und ihn in scheinbar sachliche Argumente
ummünzen!
Ganz anders aber als der Kunstgelehrte steht der Künstler da. Er
bedarf keiner Kraft so sehr als des Willens. Er kann Neues nur
schaffen, kann die lebendige Form nur hervorbringen, wenn er sich
einseitig für bestimmte Empfindungsmassen entscheidet, wenn er
eine Wahl trifft und rücksichtslos ablehnt, was seinen Trieb zu
hemmen imstande ist. Der Künstler darf sich nicht nur für ein
bestimmtes Formideal entscheiden, sondern er muß es tun, er darf
nicht objektiv werden, sondern muß lieben und hassen. Es ist sein
Recht, unter Umständen seine Pflicht, ganze Stilperioden
abzulehnen, ja zu verachten; nämlich dann, wenn seine
Schöpfungskraft dadurch gewinnt. Er darf geschichtlich gewordene
Formen der Kunst für seine Zwecke ändern, aus ihrem organischen
Verband reißen und umgestalten, sofern sein Verfahren nur zu etwas
wertvoll Neuem führt. Auch darf er alle Mittel anwenden, um seine
Zeit mitzureißen. Lebt der Wissenschaftler von der Vergangenheit,
so zielt der Künstler in die Zukunft, geht jener empirisch vor, so
verfährt dieser intuitiv. Um neue Formen, einen neuen Stil zu
schaffen, muß er spontan sein bis zur Gewaltsamkeit; er kann als
Handelnder nicht, wie der betrachtende Gelehrte, Gewissen haben.
Die Wahl wird ihm zur Pflicht in dem Augenblick, wo er sich für
bestimmte Formen entscheidet; aus der Fülle der Möglichkeiten muß
er die eine Möglichkeit greifen, die ihm selbst, die seinem Volke,
seiner Zeit gemäß ist.
Möchten sich dieses unsere Kunstgelehrten ebensowohl wie
unsere Künstler endlich gesagt sein lassen. Möchten jene ihre
Hände von der Kunst des Tages lassen, die sie mit ihren Theorien
nur verwirren, und diese auf den Ehrgeiz, wissenschaftliche Kenner
des Alten zu sein, endgültig verzichten. Und möchten die
Kunstfreunde sich klar werden, daß sie wohl beim Künstler wie beim
Gelehrten stehen können, ja sogar abwechselnd bei diesem oder
jenem, daß sie es aber nicht zur selben Zeit mit beiden halten
können, ohne weiterhin Verwirrung zu stiften. Was uns not tut, sind
reinliche Abgrenzungen. Diese Mahnung steht nicht ohne Grund am
Schluß dieses Buches. Sie soll, soweit es möglich ist, verhindern,
daß dieser kurze Beitrag zu einer Naturgeschichte der Kunst
programmatisch ausgenutzt wird, daß sich auf ihn die berufen, die
im Gegensatz zum griechischen nun ein gotisches Ideal verkünden
möchten, und daß auch diese Arbeit mit zur Ursache wird, das Wort
„Gotik“ zum Modewort von morgen zu machen. Diese Gefahr droht
seit einiger Zeit. Man spricht vom gotischen Menschen, von der
gotischen Form, ohne sich immer etwas Bestimmtes dabei
vorzustellen. So sehr ich selbst als wollender Deutscher, als triebhaft
empfindendes Individuum für die Zukunft mit jenen Kräften in
Deutschland, ja in Europa rechne, die vom Geiste der Gotik gespeist
werden, so sehr empfinde ich auch die Gefahr, die darin liegt, wenn
dem Worte „gotisch“ allgemeiner Kurswert zuteil wird. Das Wort
könnte dem Gedanken schaden, ja könnte ihn in falsche Bahnen
lenken. Wenn der Geist der Gotik sich in den kommenden
Jahrzehnten wieder eigentümlich manifestieren will, so ist es am
besten, das Wort „Gotik“ wird als Programmwort überhaupt nicht
genannt. Im stilgeschichtlichen Sinne wird das Neue um so
ungotischer aussehen, je gotischer es dem innersten Wesen nach
ist. Soll schon ein Programm verkündet werden, so kann es nur
dieses sein: Klarheit über das Vergangene gewinnen, mit eisernem
Willen, das eigene Lebensgefühl zu formen, in die Zukunft gehen
und, weder dort noch hier, sich vom Wort, vom Begriff tyrannisieren
lassen!

Druck der Spamerschen Buchdruckerei in Leipzig.

 Fußnoten:
[1] Auch der alte Streit, wie im Drama die Zeit begriffen werden
soll, ist nicht zu lösen, wenn man die eine Art richtig und die
andere falsch nennt. Auch hier handelt es sich um dieselben
beiden Stilprinzipien. Denn es herrscht der große, naturgewollte
Dualismus der Form nicht nur in den bildenden Künsten, er ist
vielmehr auch in den Künsten der Zeit nachzuweisen. Und
naturgemäß hängen von dem Stilprinzip auch in der Dichtung und
in der Musik alle Einzelformen ab. Der Dramatiker, der im Sinne
des griechischen Menschen die Einheit des Raumes und der Zeit
als Grundsatz anerkennt, wird von diesem Prinzip aus sein
Drama im Ganzen und in allen Teilen aufbauen müssen; seine
Handlung wird durch den Zeitsinn ein besonderes Tempo, eine
bestimmte Gliederung, eine eigene Motivation erhalten, sie wird
ganz von selbst zur Konzentration, zur Typisierung und zur
Idealisierung neigen. Wogegen das Zeitgefühl, wie es zum
Beispiel in den Dramen Shakespeares so charakteristisch zum
Ausdruck kommt, die Handlung auflockern muß; es muß die
Handlung weniger dramatisch und mehr lyrisch und romantisch-
episch machen, dafür aber auch mehr theatralisch wirksam —
mehr sensationell in ihrer psychologischen Sprunghaftigkeit. Es
gibt ein Drama des gotischen, des barocken Geistes (seine
Entwicklungslinie ist von den alten christlichen Mysterienspielen
bis zur Shakespearebühne und weiter bis zur Romantik zu
verfolgen), und es gibt eines des griechischen Geistes, beide
Formen aber sind — unterschieden bis in die
Temperamentsfärbungen der Verse sogar — in ihrer Art
notwendig, beide können klassisch sein, weil es zwei Arten von
künstlerischem Zeitgefühl gibt. Es ließen sich überhaupt die
beiden Formenwelten in allen Künsten nachweisen — auch in der
Musik —; man könnte, von dem fundamentalen Gegensatz
ausgehend, eine Naturgeschichte der ganzen Kunst schreiben.
[2] Die Entwicklung drückt sich formal etwa so aus, wie Heinrich
Wölfflin es in seinem Buch „Kunstgeschichtliche Grundbegriffe“
dargelegt hat. Wölfflin hat, als vorsichtiger Historiker, der keinen
Schritt tut, bevor er den Boden untersucht hat, der seine Theorie
tragen soll, den Weg vom einzelnen Kunstwerk aus gewählt. Er
hat in seinem Buch die Formen und Formwandlungen des
sechzehnten und siebzehnten Jahrhunderts untersucht; dem
Leser überläßt er es, von den gewonnenen Erkenntnissen auf
das Ganze zu schließen. Seine Feststellungen lassen sich im
wesentlichen als allgemeingültig bezeichnen. Um die
Metamorphosen innerhalb eines Stils zu bezeichnen, hat er fünf
Begriffspaare gebildet, die sich folgendermaßen
gegenüberstehen: 1. das Lineare und das Malerische, 2. das
Flächenhafte und das Tiefenhafte, 3. die geschlossene und die
offene Form, 4. Vielheit und Einheit, 5. absolute Klarheit und
relative Klarheit. Mit diesen Gegensätzen läßt sich in der Tat
operieren. Doch könnte man vielleicht noch den viel zu wenig
bisher beachteten Gegensatz der warmen und der kalten Farben
hinzufügen. Wölfflin spricht nur von den formalen Wandlungen,
die sich vollziehen, wenn ein Stil aus seinem zweiten Stadium in
sein drittes eintritt. Nicht weniger bedeutungsvoll sind die
Wandlungen, die zwischen der ersten und zweiten Periode vor
sich gehen.
[3] Italien. Tagebuch einer Reise. Mit 118 ganzseitigen
Bildertafeln. 4. bis 6. Tausend (Leipzig 1916).
1. Höhlenmalerei, Bison. Altamira (Spanien)
2. Negerplastik, Tanzmaske. Aus Karl Einsteins
„Negerplastik“, Verlag der Weißen Bücher
3. Pyramide von Dashoor, um 3000 vor Chr.
4. Sphinx vor der Chefren-Pyramide, um 2800 vor Chr.
5. Die Memnonssäulen bei Theben in Ägypten, um 1500 vor Chr.
6. Säulensaal, Luxor, Ägypten, um 1400 vor Chr.
7. Löwenjagd, Relief, assyrisch. 7. Jahrhundert vor Chr.
8. König Assur-Bani-pal auf der Löwenjagd, Relief, assyrisch. 7.
Jahrhundert vor Chr. Aus „Der Schöne Mensch im Altertum“ von
Heinr. Bulle (G. Hirths Verlag)