Kant, Singer and Digital Piracy

Jacob Williamson observes that a strong argument against digital piracy evokes the Kantian claim that it is wrong to act in a way that you wouldn’t want to be universalised. At the same time, Peter Singer offers a consequentialist account of the ethics of piracy, suggesting that individual acts of piracy are not morally culpable, but create a collective action problem that ought to be resolved through measures like a public lending right for the internet. This seems to be an excellent illustration of one of the major fault lines between consequentialism and Kantianism, and that our views on that dispute may be highly salient to the moral evaluation of piracy.

A couple of caveats. First, this is far from the only frame through which to view the question of digital piracy. Other plausible arguments may draw on ideas of fair recognition of desert, or the importance of respecting property rights (as in a libertarian theory). Second, the version of Kantianism discussed here is only one possible interpretation, and not necessarily the most defensible. While Kant’s ‘formula of the universal law’ (FUL) is most relevant here, it has been suggested that this principle is less significant and helpful to understanding his ethical theory than other principles.

Kant’s FUL states that we are to “act only in accordance with that maxim through which you can at the same time will that it become a universal law”. In other words, morally permissible acts must be universalisable – we would not mind if everybody acted in this way.[1] The intuition captured by this principle is reflected by the familiar admonition ‘What if everybody did that?’ The central point is that morality requires us to live up to the same standards we expect of others. If we act in a way that we would not be happy for everyone else to emulate, then we are acting as if we are special and superior to others, and this is immoral.

The logic of the FUL is most persuasive in cases like internet piracy, where it is quite clear that everybody adopting a certain course of action would be disastrous, even if individuals can do it without few ill effects. If nobody bought books, CDs, TV licenses and subscriptions, then there would be no reward for those producing these goods, and they would disappear. Thus the pirates are free riding on the contributions of those paying, violating moral equality. They are acting as if they are special and above the rules.

The consequentialist accepts that collective action problems can occur, and condemns individual acts insofar as they contribute to collective action problems. However, they will insist that universalisation is only appropriate where it is likely that many people will follow my lead. The consequentialist objects that it might be terrible if everybody left for work at 7.30 – there would be awful traffic jams, and almost everybody would start work late and grumpy - but this doesn’t mean that leaving for work at that time is morally impermissible. The act of leaving for work at 7.30 might not be universalisable, but this is irrelevant, because excessive numbers of people are unlikely to perform this act together.

This line of response only works when piracy is relatively small scale, and does minimal damage to the media industry. Yet when many people are performing the same act, which we would not want universalised, the consequentialist has to take a different tack.

For the consequentialist, all that matters is the direct causal responsibility that each individual bears for the emergence of the collective action problem. The pertinent question is what would happen if I chose not to commit piracy. As Singer observes, the consequences are often minimal. (Though for an interesting discussion of additive harms and consequentialism, see Shelly Kagan)

From a consequentialist perspective, digital piracy is only bad because it undermines the media industry, but each individual act of piracy makes little impact on the media industry. It would be very good for me to have access to the pirated material, but in many cases it would do nobody else any good for me to forgo it – piracy will continue or not whatever I do – so there is no sense in choosing not to pirate.

Does making this claim violate moral equality and assert my superiority, as rejection of the universalisation principle would seem to suggest? There is no double standard because piracy is not immoral for anybody. At the very least, it is not immoral for anybody in a position similar to mine. (It is possible that those who are particularly influential might have more significant actions and ought not to participate in piracy. But even so, there is still no double standard: if I were in their positions it would be as wrong for me to pirate as it is for them).

The Kantian position seems to require us to take a stand in the full knowledge it will have no effect, while the consequentialist position seems to suggest what it is individually moral is collectively immoral. And indeed, this exposes Kantianism’s fetishism – its blind obedience to the rules, no matter what. It also demonstrates consequentialism’s essential individualism, its difficulty with dealing with collective challenges.

[1] Notice that I have slipped from talking about ‘maxims’ to talking about ‘acts’. I do this to avoid the tricky question of what constitutes a maxim.

Living for Others

I’ve always been sympathetic to the socialist argument that fulfilling and enjoyable work is crucial to human wellbeing, part of our ‘species-being’, as Marx calls it. It’s a line of thought found in the work of those like William Morris, who believe that among capitalism’s most perverse effects is to turn labour, through which we should learn about ourselves and realise our potential, into drudgery which we seek to escape. Similarly, Oscar Wilde claimed that “The chief advantage that would result from the establishment of Socialism is, undoubtedly, the fact that Socialism would relieve us from that sordid necessity of living for others”.

Today, as in Wilde’s time, most people live for others. They have a limited set of marketable skills, and so spend their working lives providing whatever service the market requires, regardless of how they would choose to spend their time. I have always felt incredibly fortunate to have a wide range of options open to me, to know that my career was a matter of choice, rather than something I had to do to get by. I have always felt lucky to be working as much for myself as for others, and that I should value this freedom because it is so unusual.

The concept of professional philanthropy turns this reasoning on its head. It suggests that as long as we live in a world so unequal that genuine career choice is a luxury, it is immoral to take advantage of it. For as long as we live in a world where money has the capacity to do such good – in terms of reducing inequality, preventing disease, providing education – it is self-indulgent to turn your back on it.

The uneasiness I feel about giving up my freedom to work only for myself reminds me of the argument my mother made to me as a child when I refused to finish my dinner (I’m sure many of you had similar conversations). ‘Think of all the starving people who are desperate for that food you’re about to throw away’, she would say. Her point, of course, was that if other people value it so much, so should I. To do otherwise would show a lack of respect and humility. My response was that if they wanted the food so much, they should have it – my eating it wouldn’t make them any better off.

As long as it was impossible for the food to be given to the impoverished my mother’s argument was valid, and mine invalid – the best way to respect the destitute would be to acknowledge my good fortune. But if (as was probably the case when we lived in Kolkata, come to think of it), it would be viable to transfer the food to the poor, then my argument surely makes more sense – it would surely show them more respect to feed them than to eat food in their honour.

I think a similar argument applies to luxury of career choice. For as long as we think that self-realisation is bound to be limited to a lucky few, then the appropriate response is to savour it. But if there is hope of extending it to others, then the best use of our good fortune is to sacrifice it.

How much should act-consequentialists pay for a Radiohead album?

An old objection to act consequentialism is that it conflicts with honesty. The basic structure of the argument runs like this:

(1) An honest person must accept certain constraints on their behaviour – there are certain actions which are off-limits to them, such as telling a lie or breaking a promise.

(2) Act consequentialists cannot accept such constraints, since they must be open to performing any act which has the best consequences. It may well be the case that telling a lie or breaking a promise has the best consequences.

Therefore: (3) Act consequentialists may be morally obligated to act dishonestly.

Act consequentialists usually respond by demonstrating two forms of bad consequences that flow from dishonesty. Firstly, they object that dishonesty undermines important social institutions, such as promising. Being able to trust one another is a necessary requirement for cooperation, and without cooperation, we would lose many important benefits. Yet if people regularly lie to one another and break their promises, trust breaks down, and these benefits are lost. Therefore, we ought to be honest in order to preserve trust and social cooperation.

The trouble with this argument is that while it rules out regular dishonesty, it seems insufficient to ensure that dishonesty is never the best policy. One lie or broken promise is unlikely to make that much difference. As we see, people lie and break promises all the time, and yet trust still exists. The key is that they do not do so too often. The only constraint that this argument places on the act consequentialist is that they must choose their exceptions carefully – they ought not to be dishonest all the time, but only when it is really necessary.

The second type of consequence brought forward by act consequentialists are the effects of a loss of personal reputation. Even if I lie all the time, it is unlikely to have a significant effect on how much other people trust each other. Yet all it takes is a few lies to greatly reduce people’s trust in me. Thus act consequentialists have a good reason to be honest because of the need to maintain their own reputations for integrity.

Of course, this raises the question of whether act consequentialists still have any reason to act honestly in cases where their reputation is not on the line. The increasingly popular phenomenon of ‘honesty boxes’ puts this to the test. Under an honesty box system, payment for a good or service is not enforced, but depends on the conscience of the consumer. Yet this neglects the possibility that the consequentialist’s conscience might tell them something entirely at odds with common-sense morality. Since honesty boxes are anonymous, and so consequentialists need not worry about their reputations, what other reason do they have to respect them?

In the case of small-scale institutions, the non-compliance of even a single individual may undermine the whole project. For example, if an office operates a coffee machine where everybody is expected to pay a set amount for every coffee they consume, the failure of even one person to pay up could make the scheme unviable. Nobody would know whose fault it is, but the consequentialist’s actions would ruin mutually beneficial arrangement for everyone.

Other honesty box systems involve making a promise, and so consequentialist objections to breaking a promise become relevant. For example, last week I found a copy of Paul Story’s novel Dreamwords left at a bus stop, with a note from its author attached. The note asked people to people to take the book only if they promise to pay its full price if they enjoyed the, and only £1 if they did not. Essentially, this sort of promise is a novel form of the ‘desert island problem’, which has exercised many moral philosophers - a case where a person makes a promise to a person who has no way of knowing if the obligation is discharged. Interestingly, Story labels the scheme ‘An experiment in honesty’, which means that breaking this promise is likely to be more consequential than breaking your average promise. The results from ‘experiments’ like these are likely to receive a fair amount of attention, and to feed back into people’s perceptions about how trustworthy their society is. Therefore consequentialists have a stronger reason to fulfil these sorts of promises, as their social consequences are greater than average.

It is harder to justify contributing to large anonymous honesty boxes that don’t involve promising, like Radiohead’s famous ‘pay what you like’ policy for the album In Rainbows. In these cases, the only consideration I can think of in favour is that if we believe that this is a good model for others writers and publishers to follow, then consequentialists should contribute to its success by paying money that will support it an encourage its extension.

While all of these are possible reasons in favour of paying into an honesty box, good act consequentialists need to consider the other side of the equation: possible alternative uses of the money. Inevitably (this is the consequentialist response to so many moral dilemmas), the best way to spend your money is almost certainly to donate it to an anti-poverty charity.

This conclusion, that we should donate all our money to charity, with its implication that this dilemma is an essentially frivolous one where we try to choose between two equally sinful alternatives, is unsatisfying. It shows the limitations of absolutist, as opposed to scalar, consequentialism. Consequentialist ought to have the resources to explain that ideally we should give our money to charity, but that if we don’t it may be better to contribute to honesty boxes than to spend money on our selves.

Does the public know enough to condemn or acquit Luis Suarez?

To many, Liverpool’s continued defence of Luis Suarez despite his eight match ban for racial abuse is transparent and shameful. For them, the club is clearly putting petty footballing concerns above the serious matter of fighting racism, indulging their star striker’s bigotry as though it were just another idiosyncrasy. It might just be my pro-Liverpool bias, but I think there’s more to the story than that.

Something that most people seem to have ignored is that Liverpool F.C., its manager and players almost certainly know more about the case than anybody else. There are all sorts of ambiguities and uncertainties about both the incident and the judgement, which only Liverpool, Manchester United and the commission really understand. Since both the commission and Man Utd. have kept silent so far, Liverpool’s statement in response to the verdict is the most direct account of the facts that the public have to go on. Of course, it is hardly likely to be neutral, but it raises a few questions that need to be answered by the official report.

Are the facts in dispute?

The first confusion is thrown up by Liverpool’s defence of Suarez. Much of the coverage of the tribunal suggested that the words uttered were accepted by both sides, and that the case depended on their interpretation, Suarez’s defence hanging on cultural differences. Yet in their statement, Liverpool placed a great deal of significance on the fact that there were no witnesses. Now if Suarez and Evra agree on what was said, it’s not clear why the fact that nobody else heard their conversation should matter. Surely it’s only if there is some doubt about the facts of the event that anybody should find it “extraordinary that Luis can be found guilty on the word of Patrice Evra alone”.

Words or intent?

There is an ambiguity in the F.A.’s statement which might have some bearing on the offensiveness of Suarez’ crime. The F.A. claims that Suarez is being punished for using “insulting words” against Evra. But of course, how insulting certain words are often depends as much on how they are said as on the words used themselves. It is unclear at this moment in time whether Suarez is being punished because the words that he used are never acceptable, or because he said them in a way that were clearly intended to be insulting. The former is clearly much more understandable and defensible as it would suggest that Suarez merely erred in his understanding of what sort of language is acceptable, rather than acting in a fundamentally inexcusable way. Liverpool’s claim that “Patrice Evra himself in his written statement in this case said: ‘I don't think that Luis Suarez is racist.’ and that “The FA in their opening remarks accepted that Luis Suarez was not racist”, if true, seem to favour the idea that all sides accept that Suarez meant no wrong.

How significant was cultural context?

It may well be that all the talk of cultural differences is a smokescreen, and that Suarez used insulting language in a plainly insulting way. But many of the reports seem to suggest that cultural questions are relevant, and that certain mitigating factors should be considered. For a start, the conversation in question appears to have taken place in Spanish. Secondly, the offensive word used has been reported to be either ‘negro’ or ‘negrito’. The latter isn’t even a word in English.

A number of people have suggested, along with Henry Winter, that “for somebody who has lived in northern Europe for four years, including three years in Holland with Ajax, the Liverpool striker should have understood the sensitivity towards the word “negro”. But Suarez used a Spanish word in the context of a Spanish conversation, that argument hardly seems to apply. Especially if the word used doesn’t even exist in English.

It is possible that the cultural question never really arose in the course of the tribunal. But if it did, there certainly seems to be a plausible defence open to Suarez.

Liverpool need to ‘calm down’

Perhaps I’m being too credulous, but I think that the ferocity with which Liverpool have reacted to the ban is evidence that they genuinely believe that Suarez has not done wrong. However, if that is the case, it would be a good idea for them to pick a line of defence and stick to it. Wide eyed conspiracy theories about how the F.A. wanted to make scapegoat of Suarez make them look paranoid and desperate, even if there is a hint of plausibility to them. Unless they are sure that Patrice Evra is lying, questioning his credibility and calling for him to be banned looks desperate.

In fact, the club’s treatment of Patrice Evra, regardless of Suarez’ guilt and innocence seems shoddy. It is clear that Evra was hurt and upset by what was said, and it would have been good to see some sort of apology for the distress caused, even if it was unintended. Moreover, it is possible that Liverpool’s vilification of Evra is sending the wrong message to fans. It would be good to see the club condemning the sickening abuse Evra has received on twitter from Liverpool supporters.

How guilty is Suarez, and what is he guilty of?

Ultimately, even if we accept the F.A.’s decision, there is a lot more we need to know before we judge Suarez and those who support him. The first key question is whether the facts of the case are in dispute. The second is whether Suarez is being punished merely for the words he used or for the suspected intent behind them. Finally, does the F.A. buy the portrait of Suarez as a confused foreigner mistaking the mores of his new country, or was his crime more serious?

A (cautious) defence of ‘fattism’

Modern Western societies condemn the obese as monstrous, but the truly deplorable are those complicit in the bullying of the overweight. That’s the conclusion of David Haslam’s recent condemnation of contemporary attitudes to fat people. He doesn’t explicitly draw the link, but it is clear that Haslam intends his article to make us recognise discrimination against the obese alongside more commonly acknowledged forms of prejudice, like racism and sexism. The most alarming piece of evidence that he produces is the way that the overweight, like victims of sexism and racism often internalise the contempt in which they are held, coming to see themselves as sub-standard and worthless:

researchers have found that children as young as six years old, even those who are overweight themselves, use words like “lazy,” “stupid,” “cheats,” “liars,” “sloppy,” “naughty,” “mean,” and “ugly” to describe their obese peers.

Haslam doesn’t seem to be arguing directly for any legal intervention. Rather, he seems to want us to reconsider our social attitudes. However, I am not sure that a social norm of condemning the obese is necessarily a bad or a wrong one. I think it would be unquestionably a good thing if racism and sexism were to end, but I’m not so sure about ‘fattism’. This is because of two crucial ways in which being obese can differ from being black or a woman:

(1) The obese have some capacity to change the relevant feature i.e. to lose weight

(2) Being obese is almost certainly worse than not being obese.

In other words, a big part of the reason why racism is bad is because it is unproductive – a black person cannot stop being black – and arbitrary – there is no reason to single out black people for condemnation rather than white people, because black people are no worse than white people. My suggestion is that the social humiliation of the obese is neither unproductive nor arbitrary, because it exhorts fat people to take an action that they are capable of taking, and which it would be good for them to take.

Both of these premises need some argument. Premise (1) is likely to be controversial because it appears to suggest that fat people are responsible for their own plight. This is explicitly rejected by Haslam who emphasises the significance of childhood and upbringing, over which a person has little control. However, premise (1) does not depend on the assumption that a fat person must be fat out of any fault of their own. Rather, all it claims is that however they got into this position, they have the ability to do something to get out of it. For sure, it is likely to be easier for some than others. But it seems to me extremely unlikely that there are many people who are literally incapable of losing any weight.

The second premise is less obvious to me, even though Haslam appears to concede it. He lists the problems of obesity: “a dysfunctional metabolism, insulin resistance, chronic illness, and a shortened life”, as if to acknowledge how much worse off the overweight are. Yet it could be argued that obesity is a valid lifestyle choice – that there is a legitimate question over whether avoiding unhealthy food and taking regular exercise are genuinely worth the health payoffs. If we think this, then the obese have not erred or failed in any way, they just have different values or preferences to thin people. But if obesity is seen as a legitimate lifestyle choice this has radical implications – it means we can no longer treat obesity like a public health problem, that government campaigns against it are illegitimate. It means granting real license to be fat.

If we accept, however, that the obese can and ought to alter their situation, this suggests that the stigmatisation of fat people isn’t all bad. For obesity to be fully socially acceptable would mean that people lose a powerful incentive to lose weight and make their lives better. Yet even if this the case, it does not imply that the current situation, which angers Haslam so much, is justified. Even if fattism has some beneficial consequences, there are three big reasons why we might still want to oppose it.

The first is that it might be disproportionate. It is perfectly plausible and consistent to think that fat people should not be treated the same as everybody else, but that they should be treated better than they are at present, and that current practices go too far.

The second is that fattism might be counterproductive as a strategy for combatting obesity. It might increase a person’s sense of powerlessness and induce fatalism. It might cut them off from support networks which might otherwise aid them in losing weight. It could foster low self-esteem, and lead to comfort eating. Rather than incentivising weight loss, picking on fat people might make them even fatter.

Finally, there is the possibility that there are far more effective and efficient ways of getting people to lose weight. For example, it is likely to dietary norms or the relative cost of different foods contributes more to obesity than the social acceptability of being overweight. In that case, it is likely to be better to focus on those levers than the ones that depend on cruelty and hurt feelings.

Writing in other places

I've just realised I've only posted to this blog twice in the last three months, which is certainly not the sort of discipline it was meant to impose on my writing. And of course, I realise how disappointing my absence must be to my legions of fans. I've not been totally lazy, though - I've written a couple of articles for other websites which might be of interest:

The first is a piece co-written with Puneet Dhaliwal for Ceasefire in which I argue in favour of 'professional philanthropy' - seeking out high earning careers (such as, controversially, banking) in order to donate large amounts of money to charity - as a strategy for fighting poverty. Find it here.

The second is a book review for the Oxford Left Review discussing Jonathan Wolff's book Ethics and Public Policy, and more generally, whether political philosophy ought to be concerned with practical questions of policy at all. Find it here (on page 79).

Peter Singer & the False Consciousness of Smokers

A blogpost is probably an inadequate forum for arguing for something as radical as the prohibition of cigarettes, but I’m not sure if a lack of space is sufficient excuse for the weakness of Peter Singer’s argument on Project Syndicate. It’s made even more peculiar by the fact that this week Singer also signed a letter for calling for the liberalisation of drug law, or at least of their enforcement.

There seem to me to be two obvious objections to the idea of outlawing tobacco. The first is the practical one – banning such a popular activity is counterproductive. The second is the principled one – such paternalism is illegitimate. Interestingly, Singer gives essentially the same response to both objections: most smokers don’t really want to smoke – they’ve just made a mistake somewhere along the way.

This is pretty implausible as a claim about the efficacy of banning cigarettes. Even if “many smokers would actually like to see cigarettes banned because, like Obama, they want to quit”, the remaining stubborn few are likely to constitute a problem as great as the current narcotics trade. If Singer can see that the war on drugs isn’t working, why does he want to add another front to it?

Singer’s strategy in response to the paternalism objection is more intriguing. His response to those who question the state’s legitimacy to carry out such proscriptions is unpersuasive – “For those who recognize the state’s right to ban recreational drugs like marijuana and ecstasy, a ban on cigarettes should be easy to accept”. But many of those who question the state’s right to ban cigarettes will be equally sceptical of its right to ban other recreational drugs. Nevertheless, most people do accept paternalism in one form or another, the classic case being the enforcement of seatbelt wearing.

I think the reason that some forms of paternalism are seen as relatively uncontroversial is because most accept that they are genuinely in people’s interests. I think very few people would think it is plausible that the discomfort of wearing a seatbelt is worse than the risk of death and injury it protects us from. With smoking, it is not so clear. People do claim to derive such pleasure from smoking that they would be willing to sacrifice a few extra years of health to keep the habit.

Singer appears to be denying either that people do think in such a way, or that if they did, it would be a rational way to look at things. Like all claims of false consciousness, it’s difficult to prove. Singer’s problem is that it seems like he’s denying that smoking can be enjoyable at all. He presents smokers as if they’re all addicts or dupes of peer pressure and advertising, which is clearly only part of the story.

Yet it could well be that the pleasure people enjoy from smoking is almost never enough to outweigh the harm that it causes them, and that almost everybody who smokes is therefore irrational. Of course, this brings us into the philosophically thorny area of what constitutes rationality. However, the simplest (and least contentious) way to show irrationality is to demonstrate that people who take up smoking will come to regret it. This is what Singer seems to do when he suggests “most smokers take up the habit as teenagers and later want to quit”. In the context of Singer’s argument this looks a bit ad hoc, but perhaps he is aware of the recent Centers for Disease Control and Prevention survey, which found that nearly 70% of American smokers want to quit, and over half had attempted to do so in the past year.

This is quite a striking finding, and I wonder what proportion of those wish that they had never started smoking. If there is an activity that over half of people regret undertaking with hindsight, is that enough to make the probabilistic claim that it is irrational to pursue it? It certainly doesn’t address the practical issues, but if Singer can convince people that it is almost always irrational to take up smoking, he will be a lot closer to his goal of banning smoking.