CHAPTER 30
Barry Schwartz
Abstract
In the course of studying the cognitive and affective components of wise judgment, psychology has largely neglected the moral dimensions of wisdom. In Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle places moral will at the center of his discussion, and points out how skill divorced from will—divorced from virtue and character—can create knavish individuals who will mold institutions that corrupt human character. In this chapter, the author discusses the central role that moral will must play in a complete discussion of wisdom. Understanding moral will requires understanding the proper telos of human activities and practices, as well as the virtues of character that people need in order to remain true to the telos of those practices. Discussion of these essential topics is avoided by psychologists, but embraced by philosophers. Thus, philosophy has a central role to play in developing a proper understanding of practical wisdom. Moreover, for Aristotle, wise practice typically involves finding the “mean” between extremes. But the mean is not formulaic; it is context specific. This means that wise judgment must give priority to the particular, which, in turn, means that judgment must be understood as embedded in narrative. Thus, an understanding of narrative, best embodied by literary studies, has much to contribute to a complete understanding of wisdom. In sum, a complete account of practical wisdom requires psychology, philosophy, and literary studies acting as partners.
Key Words: Aristotle, practical wisdom, moral will, telos, the “mean” narrative, philosophy, literature
In recent years, psychology has embraced the study of wisdom (e.g., Schwartz & Sharpe, 2011; Sternberg & Glueck, 2019). We now have a clearer idea of the psychological processes—cognitive and affective—that make wisdom possible. We have a much richer understanding of the importance of context, both in determining what a wise course of action would be and in judging whether the chosen action was, in fact, a wise one. But there are neglected aspects of wisdom that need to be understood if wisdom is to be understood. And those neglected aspects have more to learn from philosophy and literature than from the social and behavioral sciences.
My own work, with Kenneth Sharpe, has focused on what Aristotle (1999) called “practical wisdom” (phronesis) and on how Aristotle’s key ideas could be translated into a more modern conceptual framework (Schwartz & Sharpe, 2011). Following Aristotle, we argued that practical wisdom is an essentially moral attribute. It is what enables people to do what is right in any given situation. It consists of two fundamental components—moral skill and moral will. Moral skill is what enables someone to determine what a situation calls for so that she can do the right thing. Moral will is what motivates a person to want to do the right thing. Will, without skill, leads to people who “mean well” but often leave situations worse than they found them. But skill, without will, creates people who can use their insights, sensitivity, and judgment to manipulate and exploit others, rather than serve them. Psychological research on wisdom has emphasized the “moral skill” needed to be wise, but has neglected the “moral will.”
In this chapter, I will address this issue. I will make a case for why attention to moral will is essential. It is not enough for people to do the right thing; they must do the right thing for the right reasons. And moral philosophy has much to teach us about what the right reasons are. In addition, finding the right thing to do depends critically on context. Courage in one situation is recklessness in another. Every situation is relevantly different from every other. To be sensitive to context often requires that we embed the particular situation we face in a narrative that helps us make sense of what the particular situation calls for. Sometimes narratives are built up from personal experience. But sometimes, narratives come from learning about the experiences of others. Literary studies has much to teach us about understanding narrative. Thus, I will suggest, a proper understanding of practical wisdom requires insights from psychology, buttressed by insights from philosophy and literature.
Moral Will: Wanting to Do the Right Thing
In order to say anything meaningful about the will to do the right thing, one must be able to say something about what the “right thing” is. This is not a simple matter. From Aristotle’s teleological point of view, every human activity has its own appropriate telos (purpose, aim, end), so that doing the right thing means achieving the telos of the activity. In order to judge whether a doctor is a wise doctor, or a teacher is a wise teacher, or a soldier is a wise soldier, we must be able to specify what the aims of medicine, education, and warfare are. The will to do the right thing is the will to pursue the telos appropriate to that activity. To know what practical wisdom is and to act wisely means embracing this teleological view of human activity. Moral skill, in the service of the wrong ends, produces anything but wise actions.
Aristotle conceived of practical wisdom as the crucial capacity that human beings need for making good choices. Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics is a book written not simply for philosophers but for statesman and legislators—for people who build institutions (it is the prequel to his Politics). At its heart, Nicomachean Ethics is a book about character, wisdom, education, and human flourishing. It is a book that elucidates the distinction between the theoretical wisdom (sophia) emphasized by Aristotle’s mentor, Plato, and practical wisdom. Aristotle argued that sophia was important but incomplete because it failed to stress the centrality of being able to choose well in our daily activities. To be a parent, or a spouse, or a friend; to be a doctor, or a teacher, or a citizen—actually to act in the world—demanded phronesis. The reason people needed practical wisdom was that the everyday choices they made took place in circumstances that were quite often ambiguous, puzzling, and contradictory. They were circumstances about which choice-makers had incomplete information. Often, they were circumstances that were, in important respects, unique. And the kinds of choices Aristotle was interested in were deeply ethical; they were about the right way to do the right thing for the right reasons.
For Aristotle, then, practical wisdom was a kind of moral expertise. A practically wise person—a phronemoi—had the expertise to deliberate about the right thing to do and had the motivation (the disposition) to do it. A practically wise person had both the moral skill and the moral will to choose and act rightly.
Aristotle stressed the importance of moral skill because he wanted to underline the limits of general rules and principles in guiding choice. Such general rules were limited, first, because of the very nature of the world: the particularities and uncertainties of the context in which people make choices frequently befuddles the application of general rules. We recognize this point today when we talk about the need to exercise discretion or judgment because a rule does not fit, given the particularities of a specific situation (see Ng & Tay, 2020, for an elaboration of this point, along with methodological suggestions about how psychology might study context specificity with rigor). Second, rules and principles—even good ones—are often in conflict: truth telling can conflict with kindness; empathy with detachment; justice with mercy. We need practical wisdom to achieve a balance among good aims. Third, even if we know what the right thing to do is, there is no rule or principle to tell us how to do it—in what way and when. When and how does a teacher interrupt a student, and when does the teacher let the student talk and stumble? When and how does the teacher ask the student a question to help her figure things out herself, and when does the teacher just tell the student the answer? Answering these questions depends on what the teacher knows about the student, and what the teacher notices in the particular moment. Is the student an introvert or an extrovert? Is the student secure and reflective or riddled with anxiety?
Sternberg (1998) emphasized just these kinds of context-dependent factors and balancing acts when he distinguished practical intelligence—and the tacit knowledge upon which it depends—from academic problem-solving. Academic problems, Sternberg said, tend to be formulated by others, well-defined, self-contained (all needed information is given), disconnected from ordinary experience, and characterized by one correct answer and one method for getting it. But the practical problems that require—and might help teach—wisdom are ill-defined, lack some of the information needed to solve them, are related to everyday experience, and are characterized by multiple solutions and multiple methods for picking a solution.
Given these particularities of context, having the capacity to deliberate and choose, to balance conflicting virtues, and to figure out how to act rightly, demands capacities such as judgment, improvisation, good listening, perspective taking, and empathy—all attributes of skill (see Schwartz & Sharpe, 2011, for a discussion of the importance of these skills and what psychology has to teach us about them). But these skills can be dangerous if they are aimed at the wrong things, if they are unmoored from good purpose. This was something Sternberg recognized after identifying the importance of practical intelligence for wisdom. He wrote, “A person who uses his mental powers to become an evil genius may be academically or practically intelligent, but the person cannot be wise” (Sternberg, 1998, p. 355).
Aristotle would have agreed about the potential dangers of practical intelligence. He referred to it as “shrewdness” or “cleverness” and he said of it that:
[t]here exists a capacity called “cleverness,” which is the power to perform those steps which are conducive to a goal we have set for ourselves and to attain that goal. If the goal is noble, cleverness deserves praise; if that goal is base, cleverness is knavery. That is why men of practical wisdom are often described as “clever” and “knavish.” But in fact this capacity [alone] is not practical wisdom, although practical wisdom does not exist without it. Without virtue or excellence, this eye of the soul, [intelligence,] does not acquire the characteristic [of practical wisdom]…. Hence it is clear that a man cannot have practical wisdom unless he is good.
(Nicomachean Ethics, Book Six, lines 24–37)
Thus, Aristotle thought that a disquisition on what constitutes a moral motivation could not be avoided. Without it, there could be no serious discussion of practical wisdom. “Our discussion, then, has made it clear that it is impossible to be good in the full sense of the word without practical wisdom or to be a man of practical wisdom without moral excellence or virtue” (Nicomachean Ethics, Book Six, 1144b–30). For practical intelligence to serve practical wisdom, it had to aim at the right thing, at the proper purpose of an activity. That is why Aristotle put central importance on what he called the telos of an activity.
Knowing the purpose of your action was not, for Aristotle, knowing a general ethical norm about how a human being should, in general, treat another human being. Rather, the proper, ethical action depended on the kind of activity in which you were engaged: doctoring, soldiering, statesmanship, friendship, citizenship, navigation. Such activities or practices had proper aims—curing the ill or reducing suffering for the practice of medicine, justly ordering the distribution of honors and positions if you were a legislator or a statesman. So, the moral expertise to choose wisely depended on knowing what the aims were in the particular practices that framed one’s choices. Knowing the direction you are aiming at will not tell you how to get there, but it will be a guide on your path—the essential guide. A wise person needs the moral skill to navigate along a path, but she also needs the compass that provides the direction, the telos of a practice. And crucially, even an appreciation of the telos of an activity is not enough. One must embrace that telos as one’s own, what Schwartz and Sharpe (2011) meant by “moral will.”
Critically, from Aristotle’s point of view, none of the virtues of character he regarded as the hallmarks of human excellence could be judged apart from the telos of the activities in which they were displayed. The very meaning of virtues like courage, compassion, honesty, or loyalty depended on the practice. And it was these virtues—directed at achieving the aims of a practice—that enabled people to do the right thing. The moral will to use the skill of practical reasoning wisely depended on wanting to do the right thing in achieving the aims of a practice. But this meant that Aristotle was working from a theory of motivation very different from most common variants today. It is to that theory of motivation—and the allied concepts of telos and practice—that I now turn.
Moral Will and the Telos of Human Activity
Aristotle’s teleological framework for understanding human nature is probably foreign to most modern students of human behavior. But it has become a commonplace to distinguish between “intrinsic” and “extrinsic” motivation. Extrinsically motivated activity is directed to some other end. It is a means to that end. It is instrumental. Intrinsically motivated activity is an end in itself. Extrinsically motivated activity is work; intrinsically motivated activity is play. Extrinsically motivated activity is all about achieving some instrumental goal; intrinsically motivated activity is the goal (see Lepper, Greene, & Nisbett, 1973; Deci, 1975; Deci & Ryan, 1985; Pink, 2011).
This research on intrinsic motivation is important for understanding the importance of moral will and telos in Aristotle’s theory of practical wisdom. But much of the existing literature in psychology on intrinsic motivation misses something important about the moral will demanded by practical wisdom. Often intrinsic motivation is associated with the pleasure that derives from simply engaging in the activity, rather than with consequences of the activity. This assumption, that intrinsic motivation is entirely about the activity and not its consequences, leads to an oversimplification of what is an extremely complex set of relations between motives, actions, and consequences. Here, I attempt to clarify some of these relations (see Schwartz & Sharpe, 2019 Schwartz & Wrzesniewski, 2019, for further discussion).
The Idea of a “Practice”
Imagine a college professor who enjoys her work and is good at it. Her work produces a family of consequences for her. She gets satisfaction from the minute-to-minute, day-to-day character of her job, and from interacting with young minds. She gets satisfaction from knowing that she is an excellent teacher—that she does the job well. She gets satisfaction from evidence that students are learning and are enthusiastic. She enjoys respect and admiration from her peers. She enjoys respect and admiration from her students and from society at large. She appreciates her nice salary and benefits, as well as her job security. She is pleased that her work hours are flexible. She likes the flexibility to make her own schedule. She is pleased with free time in the summer for travel, scholarly activity, and the development of new courses.
Which of these multiple consequences serve also as motives? There are several possibilities: pleasure in the activity, pursuit of excellence, status and acclaim, salary, job security, and benefits, and the desire to have a positive impact on others. Which of these motives count as “intrinsic”? And what are the criteria for establishing a motive as intrinsic?
I think the preceding questions can be profitably addressed from a framework developed by neo-Aristotelian philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre. In After Virtue (1981), MacIntyre introduces the idea of a “practice,” which he defines as “any coherent and complex form of socially established cooperative human activity through which goods internal to that form of activity are realized in the course of trying to achieve those standards of excellence which are appropriate to, and partially definitive of, that form of activity, with the result that human powers to achieve excellence, and human conceptions of the ends and goods involved, are systematically extended” (p. 175).
This definition is complicated, and requires elucidation. First, practices are complex. The game of tennis is a practice, whereas hitting a tennis ball over the net is not. Gardening is a practice, whereas mowing the lawn is not. Second, practices are characterized by the pursuit of excellence or, at least, competence. People who engage in practices strive to be good at them. Third, what constitutes excellence is itself defined by standards internal to the practice, largely established by practitioners themselves. Thus, we are perfectly free to say something like, “I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like.” But we are not entitled to expect that anyone (especially artists) will care what we like or interpret our likes and dislikes as an indication of the quality of their art. In another domain, the quality of a search engine in presenting users with exactly the information they seek (the telos of search engine design, after all) need have nothing to do with the profits it generates for shareholders. Software designers engaged in the practice seek search-engine excellence. Shareholders and software designers who are not “practitioners” seek profitability.
The concept of excellence is necessarily imprecise. First, if MacIntyre is right, excellence is a moving target, since as practices develop, the standards of excellence among practitioners change. And second, each practice has standards of excellence that are peculiar to it. There is no abstract standard of excellence that unites instances of excellence across different practices. Moreover, there is room for disagreement, both among practitioners and between practitioners and non-practitioners, about what excellence means (see Kuhn, 1977, for a parallel argument about judgments of the excellence of scientific theories among practicing scientists). Nonetheless, only activities that have standards of excellence (however imprecise “excellence” may be) can be practices in MacIntyre’s or Aristotle’s telling.
A fourth feature of practices is that practitioners pursue goods or ends that are internal to the practice itself. In other words, there is an intimate relation between the ends of the practice and the means to achieve those ends. For our hypothetical college professor, educating students and engendering in them enthusiasm for learning are internal to the practice. They are the aims, the teloi, of the practice. Salary and benefits, job security, and summers off are not. These ends could be achieved in other ways, through other occupations. The relations between the teacher’s teaching and these other ends are purely instrumental. Not even praise and admiration from students and colleagues are unambiguously internal to the practice. Perhaps praise for excellence as a teacher is; praise for excellence more generally is not. The line between what is and is not a practice is sometimes fuzzy, and some activities may be practices at one point in their development but not at another. But I think the differences between prototypical practices and mere instrumental activities are clear. And MacIntyre’s framework enables us to discern whether a given participant in a practice is a true practitioner or not.
Two things about MacIntyre’s conception of practices are especially worth noting in this context. First, in contrast to the way in which “intrinsic motivation” is understood, it is not just the doing, but also the achieving, that matters. The gardener wants a beautiful and bountiful garden; the professor wants enlightened, enthusiastic students. Second, there is no mention of pleasure in MacIntyre’s account. Of course, our college professor may derive pleasure from her day-to-day activities, but that is just icing on the cake. As Aristotle (1999, X.3) wrote, “there are many things for which we would exert our efforts even if they would not entail and pleasure…. [And] we would choose them even if we were to get no pleasure from them” (Nicomachean Ethics, Book X.3 1174a4–7). Aristotle did not disdain pleasure. It would be hard to sustain the practice of friendship, he argued, if the relationship did not give the friends pleasure (Nicomachean Ethics, Book VI.5 1157b5–25). But not pleasure at every moment: in the challenging and painful moments in a friendship, it will be the virtues of loyalty, courage, empathy, and patience that will sustain the friendship. Aristotle also argues that people need to learn to take pleasure in the right things—in the arc of a friendship, not in immediate gratification of fleeting desires. Nussbaum (1990) observes, in commenting on the preceding passage from Aristotle, that “even if in fact pleasure is firmly linked to excellent action as a necessary consequence, it is not the end for which we act” (p. 57). In other words, not every consequence of an act is a motive for the act. What makes the professor’s activities “intrinsically motivated” is that she is pursuing aims that are internally and intimately related to teaching—aims that cannot be achieved in any other activity. The crucial point here is that participation in a practice is not aimless. It is not “play.” Aims and results matter critically. But the route to achieving those results also matters. A “practicing” gardener pursues a beautiful and bountiful garden, and will do back-breaking, unpleasant work amid weeds and mud and bugs to achieve that aim. Hiring someone to plant and weed will not be the practice of gardening for her. The “practicing” painter aims to pursue a striking work of art despite the frustrations and failures along the way; hiring someone else to paint just won’t do. The “practicing” doctor wants to be the one who cures disease and eases suffering, the “practicing” teacher wants to be the one who opens up and inspires young minds, and so on.
Practicing competitive games underlines the importance of treating ends as internal to a practice. Competitive games have winners and losers, and people who love the games want to win. Indeed, if they are practitioners pursuing excellence, they should want to win. But they should not want to win by cheating. If they cheat, they are treating the ends as external to the activities that produce them.
It is perhaps an unfortunate accident that early research on intrinsic motivation focused on the drawings of four-year-olds and the puzzle-solving of college students (Deci, 1975; Lepper, Greene, & Nisbett, 1973). Neither of these activities is a practice, and both are rather effortless. Thus, the focus was on pleasure in the activity—engaging in the activity “for its own sake,” rather than on pursuit of excellence in the activity. But even in these cases, I doubt that the preschooler would be pleased if others did the drawing and handed it to her, or the college student would be pleased to get handed already solved puzzles. Preschoolers want pleasing pictures that they drew, and college students want solved puzzles that they solved. The framework of means and ends is thus as characteristic of “intrinsically” motivated behavior as it is of “extrinsically” motivated behavior. The critical distinction between these two categories of means–ends relation is in the connection between means and ends. With so-called intrinsically motivated behavior, the relation between means and ends is anything but arbitrary. And MacIntyre’s conception of practices helps us to understand what Aristotle meant by the telos of human activities.
The Dangers of Skill without Will
My discussion has focused on what psychological research on wisdom has largely left out—the motivation to do the right thing, or moral will. One might conclude from this line of argument that I think that research on wisdom is incomplete. Actually, I think the problem is worse than this. Conceiving wisdom as skill, or practical intelligence, unharnessed from moral will (Aristotle’s distinction, noted earlier, between “shrewdness” and practical wisdom) is actually dangerous (see Schwartz & Sharpe, 2011). When Aristotle argued that practical reasoning enabled people to manipulate others more effectively than they would if shrewdness were absent, he was thinking of the danger posed by the Sophists of his day. These political orators and teachers of rhetoric—the art of persuasion—prided themselves on their skill at using rhetoric to convince citizens to be swayed by demagogues. Aristotle would have understood the danger of lawyers, or political consultants, or public relations experts today who contract out their shrewdness to serve the ends of whichever client will pay. He would have understood the danger of the prosecutor today who aims not to pursue justice by punishing the guilty and exonerating the innocent, but who instead is motivated to cajole suspects to accept plea bargains in order to be recognized and rewarded for having high “clearance rates.” Or the professor who aims not to inspire curiosity and awaken young minds, but to achieve high evaluations while pretending to be aiming at awakening young minds. Moral skill, without moral will, risks becoming a tool for exploitation and manipulation.
Awareness of and commitment to the telos of a profession is important for another reason. Often, doctors, lawyers, financial advisors, and teachers face challenges that are complex and ambiguous. How should this patient be treated? How should this client be advised? How should this student be taught? Should the doctor be honest or kind? Should the lawyer be an advocate or a counselor? Should the teacher be stern or forgiving? Resolving these conflicts and determining the right thing to do requires judgment, improvisation, good listening, perspective taking, and empathy—all attributes of moral skill. But for the professional to get things right, to use judgment and discretion in a way that serves the client, the telos of her activity must be kept firmly in mind as a guide to making difficult decisions. Absent a firm and guiding grasp of the telos of her profession, a doctor, lawyer, or teacher might worry too much about the feelings of her patients, clients, or students, or worry too much about the financial returns on her time, and thus fail to cure, counsel, or educate.
Moral Will, Moral Skill, Philosophy, and Literature
In this chapter, I have argued that practical wisdom demands not only the skill of practical reasoning or practical intelligence, but also the will to engage and pursue excellence in activities for reasons that underscore the purpose of the activities themselves. Where do the skill and will come from?
Wisdom comes from experience. Dr. Jerome Groopman (2002) describes his painful path to learning how to give a young patient very bad news. Groopman stumbled badly in this respect in his early days as a doctor, but experience gave him a more nuanced understanding of what patients needed—of how to deliver bad news with empathy and kindness. His wisdom came from his experience. Yet, wisdom does not come only from experience. A young physician (or lawyer, or teacher) can read Groopman’s account, learn from it, and be much more sensitive, empathic, and wise than Groopman was when he started. In other words, as Nussbaum (1995) pointed out, wisdom can come from literature. It can come from accounts like Groopman’s and also from narrative fiction. By reading narrative, we get to experience vicariously the unique lives of people like those we may be dealing with in our own lives. We get to see inside them, to appreciate their subtlety, their conflicts, their complexity. Using the study of literature as a teaching tool can prevent some of the mistakes in interpersonal interaction that Groopman made. So, a way to develop moral skill in people is to teach them through narrative.
But, as I have argued, skill is not enough. A doctor’s skill in interpersonal relations can induce patients to overlook his incompetence or neglect in treatment. The patients like him too much to complain. What must be combined with skill—with practical intelligence—is will. Practice must be guided by the proper telos of the activity. And where does this will come from? To a large degree, it comes from being properly socialized into a practice by experienced practitioners. But it is all too easy for practices to lose their way as they succumb to the pressures of keeping institutions afloat and making a living. Practices need watchdogs, and those watchdogs need to be trained in moral philosophy. And so, to be a good doctor, lawyer, or teacher, one needs to know the technical details of the profession, but one also needs to know how patients, clients, and students feel, and one needs to know what medicine, law, and education are for. I think that literature and philosophy are essential tools in helping to keep practices on course and helping to make practitioners wise.
Any situation in which what one does affects other human beings has a significant moral dimension. And that moral dimension, though central to Aristotle, has been peripheral to the interests of psychology and other social sciences. They have either ignored or presupposed the moral dimensions of human action. Choosing between right and wrong demands an understanding of the telos of a practice.
But if the telos of a practice gives us guidance for choosing rightly in ambiguous, uncertain, and complex contexts in which rules and principles are of limited value, it is not enough. Actors (decision-makers) also need the excellences (arête), the virtues or character traits that guide, motivate, enable them to act in the right way: courage, loyalty, self-control, a commitment to fairness and justice, patience, humility (a willingness to admit that you are wrong), caring, compassion. The specific manifestation of these character traits or virtues depends on the telos of the practice (e.g., courage means something different for a student, a teacher, a warrior, and a doctor). And importantly, these virtues are not ethical adornments; they are essential traits needed to perform the practice wisely and well. Aristotle was right: one can’t be practically wise without the virtues. And the converse is also true: one can’t exercise the virtues without being practically wise (Nicomachean Ethics, Book Six, 1144b–30). It turns out, then, that practical wisdom is the master virtue.
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