Moral Psychology and Human Agency

Moral Psychology
and Human Agency
Philosophical Essays on
the Science of Ethics

EDITED BY

Justin D’Arms and

Daniel Jacobson
Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP,
United Kingdom
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 in certain other countries
© The several contributors 2014
The moral rights of the authors have been asserted
First Edition published in 2014
Impression: 1
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 licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics
rights organization. Enquiries 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
Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press
198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Data available
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014938931
ISBN 978–0–19–871781–2
Printed and bound by
CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
Links to third party websites are provided by Oxford in good faith and
for information only. Oxford disclaims any responsibility for the materials
contained in any third party website referenced in this work.
Acknowledgments

The editors would like to thank audiences at the University of Michigan Workshop
on Moral Psychology and Human Agency for their helpful comments on many of the
chapters in this volume, and Peter Momtchiloff of Oxford University Press for his help
in bringing the volume to fruition. This volume and the workshop were supported by a
grant from the John Templeton Foundation.
Contents

Editors and Contributors ix

1. Introduction 1
Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson
2. Intuitive and Counterintuitive Morality 9
Guy Kahane
3. Moral Psychology as Accountability 40
Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall
4. Remnants of Character 84
David Shoemaker
5. Knowing What We Are Doing 108
Heidi Maibom
6. Meta-Cognition, Mind-Reading, and Humean Moral Agency 123
Julia Driver
7. The Episodic Sense of Self 137
Shaun Nichols
8. The Motivational Theory of Emotions 156
Andrea Scarantino
9. The Reward Theory of Desire in Moral Psychology 186
Timothy Schroeder and Nomy Arpaly
10. Does Evolutionary Psychology Show That Normativity
Is Mind-Dependent? 215
Selim Berker
11. Sentimentalism and Scientism 253
Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

Index 279
Editors and Contributors

Editors
Justin D’Arms is Professor of Philosophy at the Ohio State University.
Daniel Jacobson is Professor of Philosophy at the University of Michigan.

Contributors
Nomy Arpaly is Associate Professor of Philosophy at Brown University.
Selim Berker is John L. Loeb Associate Professor of the Humanities at Harvard
University.
Stephen Darwall is Orrick Professor of Philosophy at Yale University.
Brendan Dill is a graduate student in the Department of Linguistics and Philosophy
at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
Julia Driver is Professor of Philosophy at Washington University in St Louis.
Guy Kahane is Deputy Director and Research Fellow, Oxford Uehiro Centre for
Practical Ethics, Faculty of Philosophy, University of Oxford.
Heidi Maibom is Professor of Philosophy and Cognitive Science at University of
Cincinnati.
Shaun Nichols is Professor of Philosophy at University of Arizona.
Andrea Scarantino is Associate Professor in the Department of Philosophy and
Neuroscience Institute at Georgia State University.
Timothy Schroeder is Professor of Philosophy at Ohio State University.
David Shoemaker is Associate Professor in the Department of Philosophy and the
Murphy Center at Tulane University.
 1
Introduction
Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

There is a philosophical tradition of treating moral psychology as, if not exactly an a

priori discipline, at any rate one to be pursued at some remove from empirical fields.
In part this is due to some influential but contentious ideas that have shaped the dis-
cussion. One is the view that moral demands apply not specifically to humans but to
all rational agents capable of recognizing and being motivated by these demands. If
so then contingent facts about human psychology seem irrelevant to the most fun-
damental aspects of morality (though they may play a secondary role in determining
how its demands apply specifically to humans). Another is the idea that rationalizing
explanations, which seek to understand certain human behavior as action done for
reasons, should appeal exclusively to capacities or states—such as belief and desire,
understood very abstractly—that are constitutive of rational agency as such. Thus, de-
spite some notable exceptions, much of the philosophy of action abstracts away from
contingencies of human cognitive and motivational systems. In recent decades, how-
ever, there has been significant growth in the scientific study of ethics from disparate
fields, including psychology, biology, linguistics, behavioral economics, and neuro-
science. This trend coincides with increasing philosophical enthusiasm for empirical
approaches to issues in moral psychology and human agency, to the extent that a split
has occurred between those who see the field of moral psychology as a branch of psy-
chology and those who see it as an autonomous branch of moral philosophy. We find
ourselves at a distance from both these approaches, doubting whether either can be
adequate.
Although we see promise in the scientific investigation of ethics, we also think some
scientists and empirically minded philosophers overreach in their aspirations. Some of
those who claim moral psychology as an empirical discipline derive hasty conclusions
about values, reasons, and moral requirements by assuming undefended and implau-
sible normative premises. Others seek to undermine all rationalizing explanations of
human behavior and evaluative judgment, on grounds that we find inadequate. While
in our view there is no doubt that the details of human thought and motivation can
help answer classic philosophical questions, these answers will not be given by scien-
tific inquiry alone. Just how much philosophical progress the new science of ethics can
2 Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

provide, and what are its limitations, remains to be seen. Although empirical study of
moral psychology will continue, as it should, philosophers can bring distinctive intel-
lectual tools to bear on the discussion; and we think they can do much to clarify these
issues and explore their consequences. This volume attempts just that.
The contributors to this volume are philosophers who share our conviction that
scientific inquiry is relevant to various classic philosophical questions, while also
showing an appreciation for the difficulty of these questions that is not always evident
in empirical moral psychology. Beyond those similarities and their shared commit-
ment to analytical rigor, the chapters are diverse in their approach to the philosophical
implications of the science of ethics.
Two authors (Kahane and Nichols) report here on their own empirical findings. The
first (Kahane) responds to one of the most influential but problematic claims in em-
pirical ethics, according to which only consequentialist thinking can be vindicated as
rational. The second (Nichols) raises novel questions about the role of memory in two
distinct and influential conceptions of the self. The details about human memory, spe-
cifically about its deficits in the impairments characteristic of dementia, are claimed
(by Shoemaker) to help explain some philosophical puzzles about moral responsibility
at the margins. Other authors similarly use recent empirical findings to enrich their
thinking about classic philosophical problems. One (Maibom) argues that the ques-
tion of how much one needs to know about what one is doing, in order to be respon-
sible for an act, is sharpened by attention to studies of situational influences on action.
Another (Driver) argues that the capacity for effective moral agency in humans relies
on contingent features of our emotional repertoire.
Two other papers develop accounts of human motivation that rely on structures and
processes that would not be found in every possible rational agent. The first (Schroeder
and Arpaly) offers a theory of desire grounded in the neuroscience of the reward sys-
tem, which is used to answer certain familiar objections to desire-based theories of
reasons for action. The second (Scarantino) argues that the emotions are a distinc-
tive species of motivational state quite different from the desires appealed to in stand-
ard cases of rational explanation. Finally, several authors resist specific anti-realist or
skeptical arguments grounded in evolutionary theory and other empirical claims. It
is argued (by Berker) that an influential evolutionary argument against moral realism
does not succeed as advertised, and (by D’Arms and Jacobson) that the empirical ethics
movement has overstated its case for pessimism about the role of reasons and rea-
soning in human moral judgment. It is further suggested (by Dill and Darwall) that
empirical data support a philosophically prominent account of morality and moral
concepts as against the skeptical alternatives more commonly advocated in empirical
ethics.
Taken together, we think these essays provide an encouraging picture of how careful
philosophical engagement with the science of ethics can advance discussion of impor-
tant questions about morality and agency. What follows are some brief notes on the
individual chapters.
 Introduction 3

In “Intuitive and Counterintuitive Morality,” Guy Kahane critically examines Joshua

Greene’s influential application of the dual-process model of moral thinking. Greene
has argued that there are two distinct forms of moral thinking: a fast, intuitive form
that is based on alarm-like emotional responses and pushes people to deontological
verdicts; and a slower, deliberative form involving other cognitive capacities which
leads people to utilitarian conclusions. Thus subjects who (slowly) choose to divert a
trolley to save five people at the cost of one are claimed to be reaching a utilitarian con-
clusion thoughtfully, whereas those who (quickly) refuse to push a man off a bridge in
order to achieve the same result reach a deontological conclusion emotionally. Greene
takes this to be bad news for deontological approaches to ethics, partly on the assump-
tion that more thinking is better thinking.
But Kahane points out that decisions with “utilitarian” content do not necessarily
result from utilitarian thinking. He offers an alternative hypothesis to explain why it
takes more time to decide to switch the trolley than to decide not to push the man.
Since it is more difficult to reach counterintuitive judgments, it takes longer to do so,
regardless of their content. Kahane reports on experiments showing that counterintu-
itive judgments reaching disparate conclusions are based in similar neural processes.
He then suggests a compelling explanation of the phenomena that turns Greene’s ac-
count on its head. The reason that subjects are slower in reaching the utilitarian de-
cision to divert the trolley is not that they are taking a long time doing the (trivial)
utilitarian arithmetic, but that they are weighing disparate moral considerations: in
favor of saving innocent lives and against harming innocents. The crucial distinction is
not between utilitarian and deontological judgments but between intuitive and coun-
terintuitive ones.
Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall argue, in their collaborative paper, “Moral
Psychology as Accountability,” that a large body of empirical evidence supports the
view that central moral attitudes, emotions, and motivations are best understood as
devices used to hold people (including ourselves) accountable. Thus moral condem-
nation functions to get putative wrongdoers to hold themselves accountable for their
wrongdoing, and moral conscience functions to hold oneself accountable. The authors
contrast these accounts with alternative empirical hypotheses about these central
moral attitudes that have a more debunking slant, such as the claim that condemnation
masks a brute desire to make perpetrators suffer, and that conscience is the egoistic
desire to appear moral to others. Like Kahane, they suggest that a closer look at the em-
pirical evidence reveals facts that are friendlier to morality than the skeptical alterna-
tives more typically defended by proponents of the empirical approach to ethics.
In addition, this chapter suggests an answer to an outstanding question in moral
philosophy and empirical ethics: how to circumscribe morality. Dill and Darwall sug-
gest that what is distinctive to morality is its essential connection to accountability and
the motivations that are partly constitutive of it. Their chapter also sets a helpful con-
ceptual backdrop for Shoemaker, who uses the notion of accountability to make sense
of some puzzling moral phenomena.
4 Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

Although moral philosophers have made much of psychopathy, a more common

but less considered pathology with moral implications has been largely overlooked. In
his finely observed paper, “Remnants of Character,” David Shoemaker considers the
distinctive issues about moral responsibility and personal identity posed by dementia.
This chapter explores questions about responsibility in patients with moderate-stage
dementia. A puzzle about this disease is that it often exempts its sufferers from reactive
attitudes such as resentment while leaving them capable, it seems, of particular acts of
kindness or cruelty. Shoemaker argues that the crucial point about dementia, which
explains how and when it excuses, lies in its impairments to memory.
The specific memory impairments dementia patients suffer explain why the patients
are still sometimes attributable—in that they can be said to act kindly or cruelly—even
though they are not accountable for their actions. A central puzzle is how to make
sense of the mean actions of a demented person, on the assumption that this meanness
is not a new trait issuing from the dementia (which would undermine even attribut-
ability), but reveals something that was already present in them though somehow pre-
viously overmastered. Shoemaker’s answer is that these actions flow from clusters of
commitments once unified in character traits, aspects of which have been ravaged by
the dementia. His explanation emerges from the insight that certain traits might be the
product of dispositions that persist in the absence of other, tempering dispositions that
no longer function.
In her contribution to this volume, “Knowing What We Are Doing,” Heidi Maibom
investigates the question of when we can hold people responsible for doing things that
they do not realize they are doing, and why it can be legitimate to do so. The cases she
is interested in are not run-of-the-mill negligence cases, where the agent could grant
retrospectively that did something he should not have done (or failed to do something
he should). Rather, she focuses on cases where the agent can be expected sincerely to
deny that he acted in the way described—typically because situational factors affected
the circumstances of his choice—even though in some sense he should realize that he
did so act.
Maibom considers three plausible candidates for when one is responsible under
such circumstances: when the agent would perform the action if he conceived it under
the relevant description; when the act is in character; and when the agent should
have known that his action is of the relevant kind. She makes a compelling argument
that neither of the first two candidates is tenable but the third one is, at least to some
degree. As she notes, the trick is fleshing out just what one should have known. She
makes progress on this difficult issue by explicating the degree to which moral learning
involves the ability to conceive of alternative perspectives on one’s action. The demand
for self-reflection turns out to be a crucial component to understanding what we are
responsible for doing, even though the degree and limits of that demand cannot be
neatly circumscribed.
Julia Driver’s chapter, “Meta-Cognition, Mind-Reading, and Humean Moral
Agency,” distinguishes moral agency, which underlies distinctively moral action,
 Introduction 5

from mere agency arising from beliefs, desires, and intentions. She interprets Hume as
drawing this distinction too, and as holding that moral agency requires self-regulation
through attitudes of self-appraisal. She thinks Hume’s claim is too strong, and that atti-
tudes of self-appraisal are not necessary conditions on moral agency as such. However,
the capacity for such attitudes, which she terms meta-cognition, is crucial for effective
moral agency, given other contingent features of human psychology. To be appropri-
ately held accountable by criticism, one needs to have access to the mental states that
lie behind one’s behavior in virtue of which one is being criticized. And one needs to
be able to regulate those states through higher-order attitudes about them, in order for
blame and criticism to do any good. Driver explores recent studies of various affective
disorders that contribute to failure of this sort of self-regulation. She argues that some
of them diminish the effectiveness of moral agency in humans without obliterating the
capacity for such agency.
In his chapter, “The Episodic Sense of Self,” Shaun Nichols suggests that ordinary
thought displays two distinct conceptions of the self. One is a thick conception, based
on the collection of psychological traits that constitute a person’s distinctive personal-
ity. The other, thin conception is of the self simply as an enduring subject of experience.
This thin conception is delivered to us by the very nature of episodic memory: the form
of memory by which we recall events as having happened to us (as opposed to semantic
memory, by which we remember facts). The thin, episodic sense of self is independent
of the trait conception, in that even great changes in traits do not disrupt your sense of
being the same person who experienced the events you remember episodically.
Nichols contends that the thin conception of self is central to certain self-conscious
emotions. Guilt is triggered by memories of what one has done, for instance, in ways
that can be insensitive to whether you are now dissimilar to the earlier person who did
them. He finds a tension between ordinary thought about moral responsibility and the
role of such episodic memory in generating guilt. Philosophers and ordinary people
hold that trait constancy is important to responsibility, Nichols argues, because people
generally hold that if someone commits a transgression in youth and then undergoes
massive personality changes (of the right sort), her culpability for the action is thereby
diminished. Thus guilt is less fitting. Yet the thin sense of self generates guilt in these
cases all the same, because people identify with their previous actions through epi-
sodic memory in ways that are insensitive to changes in their traits. Nichols argues that
while such responses may be unfitting, there are good prudential reasons for them.
Guilt serves its function of repairing relationships by motivating people to make
amends and acknowledge transgressions—even for actions done by former selves who
are quite radically trait-discontinuous.
Andrea Scarantino pursues the nature of emotions more generally in “The
Motivational Theory of Emotions.” Two influential philosophical approaches are the
cognitive and the perceptual theories of emotion. Scarantino argues that neither of
them does a good job explaining the central aspect of the psychological role of emo-
tions: namely, the distinctive way in which they motivate behavior. Taking up and
6 Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

expanding on some ideas from the psychologist Nico Frijda, Scarantino emphasizes
respects in which emotional motivations involve forms of control precedence that
are quite different from standing desires. Emotional motivation clamors for execu-
tion, it limits the information one considers in thinking about how to execute it, and it
restricts attention in ways that inhibit practical reasoning about how to fit the action
within one’s other goals. While not all emotional behavior exhibits these features, any
account of emotions must explain these commonplace observations.
Scarantino argues that the accounts of emotional motivation given by rival theo-
ries are inadequate. Perceptual theories rely on reflexive and hedonistic explanations
of how emotions motivate, while cognitive theories understand the motivational role
of emotions on the model of belief and desire pairs. But Scarantino shows that this
ignores important motivational differences between a bout of fear and the combina-
tion of the belief that one is in danger and the desire to avoid it. There are obvious and
predictable differences between one person fleeing a threat out of fear and another
fleeing it fearlessly, simply to avoid the danger it poses. These differences include the
range of options considered, the ability to integrate the escape with other goals, and
the ability to attend to or recall various features of the surrounding circumstances.
Scarantino lays out a sophisticated alternative, the motivational theory, which better
explains these complex phenomena. He goes on to argue that it also meets other desid-
erata for a general theory of emotions: explaining the intentionality of emotion and
providing a sound basis for differentiating emotion types.
The next chapter takes up desire, another psychological state central to moral psy-
chology. According to the most widely held theory, desires are simply (sophisticated,
cognitively sensitive) behavioral dispositions. But mere behavioral dispositions ap-
pear to be inadequate explainers of things that philosophers have invoked desire to
explain: love and care, having reasons for action, and the differences between acting on
an appetite and acting out of a sense of duty. In their chapter, “The Reward Theory of
Desire in Moral Psychology,” Timothy Schroeder and Nomy Arpaly argue against this
orthodox theory. Although desire typically motivates behavior, they argue that it is not
essentially motivating. Rather, desire is a natural kind that can be picked out by under-
standing the role it plays in the brain’s reward system. Motivation is one typical effect of
a desire, as is pleasure at its satisfaction, but these are not constituents. After explaining
their alternative, the reward theory of desire, they go on to explore its implications for
a number of important issues in philosophical moral psychology.
For example, one standard objection to desire-based theories of reasons for action
arises from perverse behavioral impulses, such as compulsions, which do not seem to
rationalize the actions they cause. The objection assumes that if a person is behavior-
ally impelled to act in a coherent way that is responsive to the person’s instrumental
beliefs, then what motivates the person must be an intrinsic desire—and if the behav-
ioral impulse is strong, then the intrinsic desire must be a strong one. The rejection of
the motivational theory of desire opens up the possibility that some of these behav-
ioral dispositions are caused by something other than a desire, or that the behavioral
 Introduction 7

impulses are much stronger than the desires that cause them. Hence, a desire-based
theory of reasons need not entail that such impulses provide (strong) reasons to act.
The authors argue that the reward theory of desire also helps to handle objections to
the idea that motivation by moral duty can be motivation by desire, and to the idea that
intrinsic desires provide a grounding for an adequate account of love and care.
Selim Berker examines an important argument made by Sharon Street over the
course of several articles, in his chapter, “Does Evolutionary Psychology Show That
Normativity Is Mind-Dependent?” According to Street, the evolutionary origins of our
moral judgments generate profound epistemological problems for normative realists, to
which the Humean constructivism she favors is immune. Street’s argument against re-
alism takes the form of a dilemma. Either the evolutionary forces that shaped our moral
beliefs influenced those beliefs so as to track the (attitude-independent) moral truth,
or they did not. If the realist claims that they did, he must defend an empirically im-
plausible account of the evolution of moral thought, which loses out to better scientific
explanations in which the correctness of our moral beliefs play no role. But if he grants
that they did not, then he has no basis for supposing that beliefs which were forged to
promote our fitness also manage, by sheer coincidence, to track the moral truth.
Berker works through Street’s arguments carefully and argues that they do not suc-
ceed. He concludes that the distinctively evolutionary challenge in Street’s argument
can be met by various species of “third factor” accounts, which posit facts that both
(causally) help make various normative judgments adaptive and (metaphysically)
help make those judgments true. While Street has offered objections to third factor ac-
counts, Berker argues that that they apply to her own view as well. Moreover, although
he grants that these objections raise a profound problem, it does not depend on any
claims about evolution. Ultimately Berker concludes that the deepest problem here
is the familiar puzzle of how to justify reliance on our most basic cognitive faculties
without relying on those faculties in a question-begging manner. Perhaps there is no
answer to this problem, but this is not unique to normative theory, has nothing partic-
ularly to do with evolution, and challenges Street’s own view as well.
The final chapter, “Sentimentalism and Scientism,” is written by the editors. It chal-
lenges a central thesis of the empirical ethics movement, which we call pessimism about
reasons and reasoning. This is the claim that the reasons people offer in support of
their evaluative judgments are merely post hoc rationalizations of conclusions driven
by their emotional responses. This pessimism is manifest in Peter Singer’s claim that
the science of ethics presents a dilemma between relativism (or some other form of
skepticism) and a morality denatured of anything contingently human—in particular,
of all emotional influence. We argue that although pessimists are right that emotions
influence moral and evaluative thinking in various ways, and some of these influences
are deleterious, no pessimistic thesis strong enough to support the dilemma is tenable.
In fact, a more philosophically adequate theory, which discriminates between good
and bad reasons and reasoning, is at least as well supported by the evidence. This view,
rational sentimentalism, is anthropocentric but not relativist or otherwise skeptical.
8 Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

It thus offers a route through Singer’s dilemma that avoids the costs of relativism and
denatured rationalism.
We then use rational sentimentalism to offer a novel defense of a modest form of
retributivism against Joshua Greene’s charge that retributivists are rationalizers, and to
press a more familiar challenge to the oppressive social practices that relativism must
defend whenever they are sufficiently accepted. Finally, we argue that our anthropo-
centric view captures certain well-founded reasons that are specific to humans, such
as those that issue from the symbolic and expressive aspects of action. Some psycholo-
gists ignore or mistakenly reject such reasons, treating commonsense tendencies to act
on them as symptoms of magical thinking and taboo. These claims are not deliverances
of science, however, but uncharitable assumptions that are symptomatic of scientism.
 2
Intuitive and Counterintuitive
Morality
Guy Kahane

1. Intuition and Deliberation in Moral Psychology

Recent empirical work on moral psychology is often claimed to have yielded sur-
prising and disturbing results. It has discovered, it is said, that moral judgment is not
based in reason or conscious reflection, but in immediate intuitions. And it tells us
that individuals rarely engage in deliberation when they make moral judgment, and
even when they do, their reasoning merely aims to rationalize a pre-established in-
tuitive conclusion. To shift to psychological terms, the emerging picture is that moral
judgment is based almost exclusively in processes that are automatic—fast, effortless,
and unconscious—and only rarely, if at all, in processes that are deliberative—slow, ef-
fortful, and involving explicit conscious thinking (Haidt 2001, 2007, 2012; Greene and
Haidt 2002).1
When these findings are discussed, it’s usually assumed that what is surprising about
them is the key role they ascribe to intuition in moral judgment. But in itself this is nei-
ther surprising nor disturbing. It is hardly news to moral philosophers that intuition
plays a central role in our moral lives. Moral philosophers would be surprised, how-
ever, to find out that our intuitions are not just starting points for ethical reflection, but
also where it invariably ends. A pressing question, then, is whether moral judgment is
ever also based in genuine deliberation.
An important body of research by Joshua Greene and his colleagues, and research
influenced by it, has offered a striking answer to this question. While broadly confirm-
ing the view that automatic processing drives the moral judgments of most individu-
als, it also appears to show that there is a minority whose moral judgments are based
on deliberation. Moreover, this minority uses deliberation to arrive at moral conclu-
sions that, far from being mere rationalizations of prior intuitions, actually go counter

1
For general discussion of these two kinds of psychological processes, see Stanovich 1999; Evans 2007.
10 Guy Kahane

to their immediate intuitions (Greene et al. 2001; Greene et al. 2004; Greene 2008;
Paxton and Greene 2010).
What is most striking about this research, however, is that it has tied the psycho-
logical divide between automaticity and “controlled” deliberation to moral judgments
with opposing contents. For it appears to show that when the majority follow their im-
mediate intuitions, the result is deontological in content, whereas when individuals
do engage deliberative reasoning, they arrive instead at contrary utilitarian conclu-
sions.2 This dual process model of moral judgment is meant as a quite general account
of moral psychology, dividing the mind into two modes of processing that generate
conflicting moral outputs—and moreover moral outputs that have a strong philosoph-
ical resonance.3
Needless to say, Greene’s dual model would be of great interest even if it were only a
descriptive account of our moral psychology. But much more might be at stake here,
since Greene and others have gone on to argue that this theory has dramatic normative
implications—that it offers support for utilitarianism and its many counterintuitive
implications (Greene 2008; Singer 2005).4
Notice again that what is potentially disturbing about this model for non-utilitarians
isn’t the role it ascribes to intuition in deontology. Most (though not all) non-utilitarian
views explicitly appeal to intuitions. This is merely a truism, something we don’t need
fancy neuroimaging to know.5 What might be disturbing isn’t the presence of intui-
tion, but the supposed absence of deliberation: the claim that deontological judgments

2
In what follows, I will reluctantly follow Greene and pretty much everyone else in this literature in using
“utilitarian judgment” to refer to what are really just judgments that, in a given decision context, are more
utility maximizing than the alternatives (see Kahane and Shackel 2010). As we shall soon see, this termi-
nology is highly misleading at best. I will also reluctantly follow this literature in using “utilitarianism” to
refer to what is at best a very simple form of Act Utilitarianism, understood, moreover, not just as a criterion
of rightness but also as a concrete decision procedure (see again Kahane and Shackel 2010). This simple
variant of utilitarianism is actually rejected by many contemporary utilitarians, let alone by non-utilitarian
consequentialists. But the criticism I will be developing here is meant to apply even if we assume this incred-
ibly narrow understanding of utilitarianism. Finally, again in line with the current literature, I will be using
“deontological” to refer merely to views that are non-utilitarian.
3
Greene and others often refer to the view as the “dual process model of moral judgment.” But this label
is misleading. Greene isn’t merely applying the general dual process approach to the mind to the moral do-
main—something that can be done in multiple ways. What is interesting (and controversial) about Greene’s
model is the way he ties automaticity and deliberation (aka System 1 and System 2) to distinct moral outputs,
something that is in no way entailed by the general dual process approach (see Kahane 2012 for an attempt to
precisely state Greene’s model and its different components). When I criticize Greene’s dual process model
in what follows, I intend to refer only to this more specific view; I will later actually outline an alternative way
to apply the dual process approach to the model domain.
4
For criticism of Singer and Greene’s normative arguments, see Berker 2009; Kahane, 2010.
5
It would be slightly, but only slightly, more surprising to discover that non-utilitarian judgments are
driven by emotion. But this is something that some non-utilitarians (think of Bernard Williams) explicitly
avow. And the evidence suggesting that non-utilitarian judgments are driven (as opposed to influenced) by
emotion is far from conclusive (see, e.g., Huebner et al. 2009). In any event, whether or not such judgments
involve emotion, we now know they are responsive to the interaction of a complex range of factors—they
are nothing like crude gut reactions. In line with that, in a recent study we found that a pharmacological in-
tervention that reduces the physiological arousal component of emotion (that is, literally the “gut” part of
emotion) in fact led to an increase in deontological judgment (Terbeck et al. 2013).
 Intuitive and Counterintuitive Morality 11

involve nothing beyond intuition, and that deliberation always (or perhaps nearly al-
ways) points in a utilitarian direction.
In what follows, I will therefore largely grant the claim that deontological judgment
is based in intuition.6 What I will challenge in this chapter is Greene’s more contro-
versial claim that utilitarian judgments are uniquely based in deliberative processing.
I will argue that a closer inspection of the evidence supports a very different picture of
our moral psychology.
My argument will proceed as follows. In section 2, I will provide evidence that there
is in fact nothing distinctively utilitarian about deliberation to “utilitarian” conclu-
sions. In section 3, I will go further and argue that such deliberation to “utilitarian”
conclusions is in fact best understood as non-utilitarian in character. In section 4, I will
argue that when individuals do arrive at counterintuitive conclusions in a way that
might actually resemble utilitarian reasoning, these judgments actually turn out to be
non-deliberative—and worse. In section 5, I will present findings that suggest that there
is actually little connection between so-called “utilitarian” responses to trolley-like
dilemmas and genuine concern for the greater good. I conclude, in section 6, by
drawing some general lessons for the cognitive science of ethics.
I will not directly consider the possible normative significance of this body of
research. But if my argument is even partly successful, then the idea that this empirical
research can be used to support utilitarianism will seem highly misguided, at best.

2. Utilitarian or Counterintuitive?
2.1. The Evidence Linking Utilitarian Judgment and
Deliberative Processing
There is a great deal of empirical research that is supposed to support Greene’s dual
process model. However, much of this research in fact only provides evidence for
the uncontroversial tie between deontological judgment and automaticity, or for the
slightly more controversial tie between such judgment and emotion (see e.g. Greene
et al. 2001; Greene et al. 2004; Mendez et al. 2005; Koenigs et al. 2007; Ciaramelli et al.
2007; Moretto et al. 2009).
The available evidence for deliberative processing in utilitarian judgment is rather
more limited. Some of it comes from Greene’s neuroimaging studies. These studies
have reported that moral judgments in so-called “impersonal” trolley-like dilemmas—
dilemmas to which most people give “utilitarian” answers—recruit greater activity in
areas classically associated with cognitive processing (the right dorsolateral prefrontal
cortex (DLPFC) and inferior parietal lobe) compared to “personal” dilemmas like the
famous Footbridge case, to which most people give “deontological answers” (Greene

6
For further discussion of the relation between deontological judgement, intuition, and emotion, see
Kahane 2012.
12 Guy Kahane

et al. 2001; Greene et al. 2004).7 Moreover, when subjects do endorse utilitarian solu-
tions to “difficult” personal dilemmas, these judgments turn out to be associated with
greater activation in the DLPFC and the dorsal anterior cingulate cortex (dACC), an
area implicated in conflict, compared to contrary deontological judgments (Greene
et al. 2004).
The classic marker of the automatic/deliberative contrast is difference in response
times (RT)—deliberative processing should take longer. Although Greene originally
reported that utilitarian judgments in personal dilemmas were associated with greater
RTs compared to deontological ones (Greene et al. 2001; Greene et al. 2004), these
results have not held up when the stimuli used were better (Moore et al. 2008; Greene
et al. 2008; see also McGuire et al. 2009; Greene 2009). However, another classical
marker is interference through cognitive load: A competing task should affect only
responses based in deliberative processing. Greene et al. 2008 report that a cognitive
load manipulation raised response times for utilitarian judgments but not for deon-
tological judgments in “high conflict” personal dilemmas. However, contrary to what
Greene’s model predicts, such a manipulation did not affect the rates of utilitarian
judgment. Nevertheless, in line with the model, more recent studies did find that time
pressure increased rates of utilitarian judgment (Suter and Hertwig 2011), whereas
stress reduced them (Youssef et al. 2012).
A further source of evidence comes from studies tying utilitarian judgement to
traits and capacities associated with deliberative processing. In particular, higher rates
of utilitarian judgments were associated both with “need for cognition,” a motiva-
tional tendency to prefer effortful cognition (Bartels 2008), and with greater working
memory capacity, a component of general intelligence (Moore et al. 2008; but see also
Koven 2011).8 In addition, exposure of people to non-moral problems that were specif-
ically designed to assess the capacity to suppress a strong intuitive answer and instead
endorse a counterintuitive solution (Frederick 2005) also induced greater rates of util-
itarian judgment (Paxton et al. 2012).9

7
In “personal” moral dilemmas like Footbridge, one must choose whether to significantly harm someone
in an “up close and personal” way, or to let a larger number of people die; “impersonal” dilemmas involve a
similar decision, but the harm is done in a more indirect way. In what follows, I will ignore important wor-
ries about classifying moral dilemmas in this way (for further discussion, see Kahane and Shackel 2010).
8
Notice however that these studies offer only indirect evidence for the role of deliberative processing in
utilitarian judgment, since unlike the studies cited here, these studies don’t directly measure the processes
that are involved in generating such judgments. The tie between utilitarian judgment and, say, a motiva-
tional tendency to effortful cognition may be explained by greater engagement in effortful cognition when
individuals make utilitarian judgments, but it can also be explained by other factors (individuals higher
on need for cognition may be different from other people in all sorts of ways that might affect their moral
judgment).
9
As I point out in Kahane 2012, n. 10, Moore et al. 2008 and Paxton et al. 2012 (as well as Paxton et al.
2013) tied “utilitarian” judgment to potential markers of deliberative processing only in “personal” dilemmas
where—unlike the classic Footbridge case—even if you don’t harm someone to save five, that person will
die anyway. This is problematic, since many deontological views would also endorse such a conclusion. For
other methodological worries about some of the evidence listed in this section, see Kahane and Shackel 2011
and Berker 2009.
 Intuitive and Counterintuitive Morality 13

2.2. Problematic Inferences

There is thus considerable evidence appearing to establish a tie between utilitarian
judgment and deliberative processing. There is, however, an obvious gap in this ev-
idence. Greene’s dual process model is clearly meant to be entirely general: It makes
a general claim about utilitarian judgment, a claim that is supposed to apply across
moral contexts and domains.10 But virtually all of the research taken to support the
model has focused on so-called “trolley problems” and similar scenarios where one
person must be seriously harmed to save a greater number. Such dilemmas of course
relate to a rather unusual part of morality, and are merely one of numerous contexts
in which utilitarianism clashes with commonsense intuitions11—to name just a few
other examples, act utilitarianism requires complete impartiality, implying both that
we shouldn’t give any inherent moral priority to those dear and near to us, and that
we have obligations to make extremely demanding sacrifices to help distant stran-
gers in need (I’ll return to this example below); utilitarianism also rejects retributive
punishment and the notion of desert quite generally, and similarly gives no intrinsic
weight to considerations of distributive justice—and this is just the beginning of a
long list.12
So the model currently relies on a huge inductive leap from findings about
trolley-like problems to general conclusions about the sources of “utilitarian” and “de-
ontological” judgment. It’s unfortunately common for researchers to report that some
study has shown utilitarian judgments to be this or that, where it at most shows this
about utilitarian (viz. utility maximizing) judgments in trolley-like dilemmas.
We shall later return to this problem. My more immediate aim in what follows,
however, is to show that even in the narrow domain of trolley-like problems, this sup-
posed tie between utilitarian judgment and deliberative processing involves a serious
misreading of the current evidence. In the next two sections, I will therefore focus on

10
The intended strength of this claim isn’t entirely clear. But the idea seems to be that utilitarian judgments
are the favored outputs of deliberative processing, and that contrary deontological outputs are at best rare
exceptions, even aberrations. Notice moreover that Greene’s model makes a claim about the causal source of
each type of judgment. It is perfectly compatible with deontological judgments sometimes engaging deliber-
ative processing in an extensive way, so long as this processing plays a merely epiphenomenal role in the final
output—so long as it is engaged merely to offer a rationalization of the initial intuition.
11
In fact, although Greene and other researchers often present the trolley case as a core part of the tradi-
tional case against utilitarianism, this is highly misleading at best. The trolley problem is a problem internal
to non-utilitarian ethics, as a look at Foot 1978 and Thomson 1976 would confirm.
12
When we spell out the ways in which utilitarianism clashes with commonsense morality, we need to
be careful with the distinction between criterion of rightness and decision procedure (see n. 2). So-called
“indirect” utilitarianism, for example, may allow us to give priority to our loved ones, because such a “de-
cision procedure” (i.e. actual moral psychology) will in fact lead to better consequences. But this point,
of course, also applies to how we respond to the classical trolley cases (see Kahane and Shackel 2011). As
I explained above, I will be following Greene in using “utilitarianism” to refer to a very simple form of Act
Utilitarianism—a slightly simplified version, if you want, of the view associated with Peter Singer.
14 Guy Kahane

another problematic inference that underlies the dual process model. Greene and oth-
ers slide from the supposed empirical finding that
(1) when individuals make utilitarian judgments in trolley cases, deliberative proc-
essing plays a causal role in the generation of these judgments
to the conclusion that
(2) deliberative processing reflects the distinctively utilitarian character of these
judgments.
In what follows, I shall argue that this deliberative processing is unlikely to have much
to do with the utilitarian content of these judgments. In fact, we shall see that the con-
nection between deliberative processing and utilitarian judgment is rather superficial.

2.3. An Overlooked Confound?

Here is one obvious reason why it is invalid to infer, from evidence associating “util-
itarian” judgments with deliberative processing, the conclusion that this processing
reflects the distinctive utilitarian character of these judgments. Greene and other
researchers typically compare utilitarian judgments that are highly counterintuitive
(such as: push the fat man in the Footbridge dilemma) with contrary deontological judg-
ments that are strongly intuitive (e.g. don’t push). They observe various behavioral and
neural differences between the two. And they conclude that these differences must re-
flect differences between utilitarian and deontological judgments. But there is a glaring
alternative explanation they have overlooked: These differences might merely reflect
differences between counterintuitive and intuitive judgments, quite regardless of the
content of these judgments. If this is correct, then the apparent tie between process and
content is really just an artefact of the kinds of scenarios that researchers have studied,
reflecting nothing very interesting about utilitarian and deontological judgments.
Now this alternative explanation wouldn’t be a problem if all counterintuitive judg-
ments were utilitarian, and all intuitive ones deontological. But this is obviously not so,
as Kant’s notorious assertion that we mustn’t lie even to prevent murder demonstrates
(Kant 1797/1966; this example is actually mentioned in Greene 2008). Most people
seem to find it immediately obvious that we should lie in such a case—it is natural to
say that they find this “utilitarian” decision intuitive, and the contrary deontological
one strongly counterintuitive. And the mere existence of these overlooked pairings of
content (utilitarian/deontological) and intuitiveness (intuitive/counterintuitive) al-
ready presents apparent counterexamples to Greene’s model.
Could Greene deny that there really are these counterexamples? With respect to
supposed instances of intuitive utilitarian judgments, he might argue that although
some “utilitarian” judgments are immediate and effortless, and based on intuition in
some broad sense, they are nevertheless not genuinely automatic—though this would
also seem to drain talk of automaticity of much of its content. In any event, Greene
himself speculates that utilitarian judgments have their origin in immediate affective
 Intuitive and Counterintuitive Morality 15

responses to harm to others (Cushman, Young, and Greene 2010). So he already seems
committed to accepting this counterexample, although it’s not clear how exactly to
square this with his general model.13
I’m more interested, however, in the possibility of counterintuitive deontological
judgments, since they challenge the crucial tie between deliberative processing and
utilitarianism. How might Greene challenge this possibility? Greene doesn’t deny that
some deontological claims, such as Kant’s remarks on lying, seem counterintuitive. But
he seems to treat these as rare cases where a commitment to an explicit philosophical
theory leads some philosophers to make counterintuitive judgments (Greene 2008,
65–6; Paxton and Greene 2010). However, non-philosophers plainly make similar de-
ontological judgments, and Greene is surely committed to claiming that such judg-
ments must involve utterly different psychological processes than the counterintuitive
utilitarian judgments on which the research has so far focused. One possibility that is
in line with Greene’s model is that judgments that appear to be counterintuitive deon-
tological judgments really reflect, not the effortful overcoming of a utilitarian intui-
tion, but unusual affective responses—e.g. an atypically strong aversion to lying.
In any case, apparent everyday examples of counterintuitive deontological judg-
ments, and utilitarian judgments based on intuition, have so far been strangely ignored
by researchers. What would we find if we examined them?
Taken at face value, Greene’s dual process model makes clear predictions. Utilitarian
judgments should involve deliberative processing, whether they are (in the loose sense
set out above) intuitive or not. And the neural and behavioral correlates of counterin-
tuitive deontological judgments should be utterly different from those of counterintui-
tive utilitarian ones such as in the Footbridge dilemma. The alternative hypothesis I’ve
just offered makes exactly contrary predictions: Counterintuitive judgments should
engage similar brain areas whether or not they are deontological or utilitarian; and a
parallel prediction follows for intuitive judgments. In a recent neuroimaging study, we
set out to test these competing hypotheses.

2.4. Intuitiveness vs. Content

In that study, we first operationalized “intuitiveness” by surveying the unreflective
judgments of an independent sample of non-philosophers, and classifying types of
judgments as intuitive if they were clearly dominant—if they were made unreflec-
tively by 13 or more out of the 18 independent judges; the contrary judgments were
classified as “counterintuitive” (Kahane et al. 2012).14 In addition to the commonly used

13
An even more embarrassing counterexample is provided by a recent study in which Greene himself was
involved. That study found, across a wide range of decision contexts, that most subjects find cooperative
decisions more intuitive than selfish ones, which typically require greater deliberative effort (Rand, Greene,
and Nowak 2012). It’s hard to see how this squares with Greene’s model. Moreover, to the extent that an
association with deliberation is supposed to give support to a normative view—as Greene often seems to
assume—then these results should strongly support rational egoism.
14
On this operationalization, “intuitiveness” is a population-relative notion, so judging that we are forbid-
den to push in Footbridge counts as intuitive in this sense even though, as we shall see in section 4, some
16 Guy Kahane

dilemmas such as Footbridge where the utilitarian choice is typically counterintui-

tive, we also used dilemmas, not previously studied, where the deontological choice is
counterintuitive, such as refusing to lie to prevent harm. Importantly, although only a
minority of these lay judges endorsed refusal to lie in such cases, it is highly unlikely,
to put it mildly, that this refusal was based in adherence to some explicit deontological
theory.
We then used fMRI to compare the neural correlates of responses to these two kinds
of dilemmas. Setting aside many points of detail, our main finding can be summarized
as follows: The apparent neural and behavioral differences between utilitarian and de-
ontological judgments in trolley-like dilemmas appear to be driven almost exclusively
by differences in their intuitiveness, not in their content.15 To focus on the case that is
most relevant to our discussion, “utilitarian” judgments such as that it is appropriate
to push in Footbridge, and what we can call “ultra-deontological” judgments, such
as refusing to lie to prevent harm, were associated with strikingly similar patterns of
neural activation, compared to contrary intuitive judgments. In other words, coun-
terintuitive judgments with radically opposing contents were based in highly similar
neural processes.
These results are plainly incompatible with Greene’s dual process model.16 They
show, first, that it’s not the case that deontological judgments are associated with auto-
matic processing, and utilitarian with deliberative processing, across different moral
domains.17 But our results also strongly suggest that the differences between utilitarian
and deontological judgments reported by previous studies largely reflect differences in

individuals may actually lack this intuition. Notice that we don’t define intuitiveness as merely a matter
of consensus. The independent judges were explicitly asked for their unreflective response; after reflection,
some gave different answers to some of these dilemmas.
15
See Kahane et al. 2012 for the full details of the analysis that supports this conclusion. For a similar con-
clusion based on a different approach, see Baron et al. 2012.
16
In an empirical response to our study, Paxton et al. 2013 report that responses to the Cognitive Reflection
Test, a measure developed to measure counterintuitive thinking in a non-moral context, was associated
with increased utilitarian responses both in a personal dilemma and in one of the lying dilemmas we used
in Kahane et al. 2012. This is an interesting result that is not predicted by my remarks above. However, even
setting aside the fact that only a single dilemma of each type was used in this study, and other methodo-
logical worries (see e.g. n. 9), this result does not really address the main result of our study: that similar
neural processes were associated with counterintuitive moral judgments of opposing contents, and that the
differences between utilitarian and deontological judgments within (appropriate) personal dilemmas were
almost entirely explained by differences in intuitiveness.
17
Notice that our main aim was to compare counterintuitive judgments of opposing contents. It wasn’t
to demonstrate that in some contexts, deontological judgments also involve deliberative processing. In fact
we didn’t find that counterintuitive judgments were generally associated with greater response times, or
with activation in classical cognitive areas, compared to contrary intuitive ones. In fact we didn’t find this
even when we compared only counterintuitive utilitarian judgments with intuitive deontological ones—the
comparison closest to that in Greene et al. 2004. Counterintuitive judgments were, however, associated with
greater perceived difficulty, and with activation in the subgenual part of the rostral ACC, an area that has
been implicated in affective conflict (Etkin et al. 2006), but also in feeling guilt (Zahn et al. 2009a; Zahn et al.
2009b). So we actually found only limited support for the hypothesis that counterintuitive judgments—
including counterintuitive utilitarian judgments in trolley-like cases—are generally associated with deliber-
ative processing.
 Intuitive and Counterintuitive Morality 17

intuitiveness even when we consider only “personal” dilemmas like Footbridge cases.
So it seems that the neural and behavioral correlates of paradigmatic “utilitarian” judg-
ments merely reflect deliberation to a counter-intuitive conclusion—and not anything
distinctively utilitarian.18

2.5. A Less Exciting Dual Process Model

So what we get, instead of Greene’s exciting and controversial dual-process model, is
an alternative and rather less surprising dual-process model:
The Banal Dual Process Model. Intuitive judgments are generally associated with automatic
processing, and counterintuitive judgments with deliberative processing.

Greene has suggested to me that his dual process theory is really meant to essentially
make this more general claim about intuitive and counterintuitive judgment. This,
however, is certainly not how the theory has so far been presented or understood. If
Greene’s claim is simply that many utilitarian judgments are counterintuitive, and that
the processes involved in making such judgment merely reflect the processes gener-
ally involved in making counterintuitive judgments, then these are near truisms. It
is hardly a great surprise that counterintuitive judgments are harder to make, or that
they require more deliberative effort. And since we know that some utilitarian judg-
ments are counterintuitive, it is also hardly surprising that these judgments are harder
to make . . . But this would give no support to the ambitious theoretical and normative
arguments that Greene and others have elaborated on the basis of the dual process
model—after all, these truisms imply nothing interesting that is specific to utilitari-
anism, let alone anything favorable to utilitarianism.
It might be replied that even if deliberative processing is generally associated with
counterintuitive moral judgments, such processing nevertheless favors utilitarian
judgments. If this is a general claim, not specific to trolley-like cases, it’s hard to see
what evidence is supposed to support it. How exactly are we supposed to measure such
a general tendency?19 It is also important to distinguish this interesting sounding hy-
pothesis from the far less exciting claim in the reverse direction: that utilitarian judg-
ment more often involves deliberative processing simply because utilitarianism issues
more counterintuitive conclusions compared to many other moral views. The latter
claim is a mere truism. We don’t need fancy neuroimaging to know that.
Let me summarize this section. I have argued that even if utilitarian judgments in
trolley-like dilemmas are deliberative, this deliberation is merely generic. If these judg-
ments involve deliberative processing, this is merely because they are counterintuitive,

18
In line with this, we also didn’t find common correlates for so-called “utilitarian” judgments across dif-
ferent domains.
19
And see again the Rand, Greene, and Nowak (2012) study mentioned in n. 13, associating deliberation
and selfish decisions. Does deliberative processing favor both utilitarianism and rational egoism?
18 Guy Kahane

not because they’re utilitarian. And the processes involved are (broadly) the same as
those involved in counterintuitive ultra-deontological judgments.

3. Deliberating about What?

3.1. “Utilitarian reasoning” and the Footbridge dilemma
In this section, I want to take the argument one step further.20 Consider again the prob-
lematic inference from evidence associating “utilitarian” judgments with deliberative
processing, to the conclusion that this processing reflects the distinctive utilitarian
character of these judgments. To decide whether this inference is valid, we need to
know what it would mean for such processing to have some distinctive utilitarian char-
acter. Unfortunately, however, Greene’s dual process model is surprisingly unclear on
this question.
Greene sometimes writes that utilitarian judgments are generated by “utilitarian
reasoning.” But what does Greene mean when he speaks of “utilitarian reasoning” (or
“cost–benefit analysis”) leading, say, to the judgment that it is morally appropriate to
push the stranger in Footbridge?
Greene does not, of course, think that individuals making such judgments explicitly
endorse act utilitarianism or any similar ethical theory. Neither is it plausible that they
endorse such a theory implicitly, since virtually all of them make some deontological
judgments in some contexts (see Kahane and Shackel 2011). Still, if they are to be said to
be making “utilitarian” judgments even in the thinnest sense, their ground for judging
that it’s appropriate to push the stranger must be that this would lead to better conse-
quences. And if they reach this conclusion by explicit reasoning, as Greene holds, then
they must be reasoning from a corresponding general moral principle. This means that
such individuals must be following something at least approximating the following
piece of reasoning:21
(1) We are required to impartially maximize well-being.
(2) 5 lives > 1 life.
Therefore
(3) We are required to sacrifice 1 to save 5.
If this is what individuals are going through when they arrive at utilitarian conclu-
sions, then they would indeed be making an inference that sets out from a utilitarian
premise to a utilitarian conclusion—though I’ll later question whether it’s usefully
called utilitarian reasoning.

20
The argument in this section is heavily based on Kahane 2012. Some empirical and conceptual detail
has been removed to clarify the argument, and several new points have been added. Still, readers already
familiar with (or even persuaded by) the argument of that paper may prefer to skip to section 4.
21
This picture is essentially endorsed in Cushman, Young, and Greene (2010).
 Intuitive and Counterintuitive Morality 19

3.2. Deliberative Processing of What?

Let’s suppose for the moment that subjects are really engaged in the piece of reasoning
Greene ascribes to them.22 Greene’s main claim is that when subjects engage in such
reasoning and reach utilitarian conclusions, they uniquely do so using deliberative
processing. This is what the empirical evidence cited above is supposed to show.
But we should ask: What exactly does this deliberative processing reflect? Let’s
briefly consider some possibilities.

Recognizing a Foundational Principle?

If the deliberative processing reflected recognition of the moral principle that we
are required to maximize utility then it would perhaps reflect a distinctly utilitarian
thinking. But this is highly implausible. Even if someone reached this normative view
through effortful reflection when first confronted with, say, the Footbridge case, surely
this is something they only need to do once, so this anyway couldn’t account for the
greater levels of deliberative processing found in responses to a large set of dilemmas.
Notice, moreover, that this is a foundational moral principle—such a principle can
serve as a premise for reasoning, but it’s not itself plausibly supported by any kind of
inference.23 So to the extent that the deliberative processing associated with utilitarian
judgment is supposed to reflect reasoning, it can’t reflect the non-inferential judgment
(aka intuition) that we should maximize utility.
This example nicely illustrates the limits of thinking about moral psychology using
the dual process framework. If the utilitarian principle that we ought to maximize
the greater good is non-inferential, then it’s in one good sense intuitive. Yet it is also
claimed to be the product of “reason,” rather than anything external to it (cf. Singer
2005; de Lazari-Radek and Singer 2012). Nor need it be immediate: That insight may
strike someone after long, effortful reflection.

Counting the Numbers?

Another possibility, which is often implied by the way Greene and others describe util-
itarian judgment, is that the deliberative processing reflects the calculation of “5 lives
> 1 life.”
The first problem with this suggestion is that this isn’t any kind of utilitarian rea-
soning. This is just standard non-moral reasoning, used to apply a moral principle—any
kind of moral principle.24 It’s easy to vary the degree of non-moral reasoning needed
to apply different moral considerations in a given context. Some “utilitarian” ques-
tions involve little or no calculation (“Should we give someone in agony a painkiller?”),

22
See Kahane 2012, §2.3 for further reasons to doubt this.
23
This is a point that is often emphasized by utilitarians like Singer—see Singer 2005; de Lazari-Radek and
Singer 2012.
24
This point is actually supported by Greene’s own work: Shenhav and Greene (2010) report that so-called
“utilitarian” reasoning has the same neural correlates as non-moral reasoning.
20 Guy Kahane

and some deontological questions require quite a bit of calculation (“Should someone
break a promise to a friend that conflicts with 3 promises to his daughter, when this
requires lying twice?”). Responses to such questions are likely to differ in reaction
times or DLPFC activation, reflecting obvious differences in complexity. But of course
these processing differences would tell us absolutely nothing about the psychology of
utilitarianism or deontology. Non-moral reasoning is simply irrelevant to that issue. It
follows that if the deliberative processing associated with utilitarian judgment merely
reflects the calculation of “5 lives > 1 life,” this would merely be a contingent artefact of
the particular stimuli Greene and others are comparing, rather than any kind of inter-
esting feature of utilitarian vs. deontological thinking.
In any event, however, it is extremely unlikely that the deliberative processing
reflects this simple calculation. Non-utilitarians are not numerically challenged. It is
near certain that all subjects considering Footbridge and similar dilemmas make this
simple calculation, whether or not they reach a “utilitarian” conclusion. It is aston-
ishing that so many researchers seem to think otherwise. There is a further problem: It
is surely the case that no cognitive effort is required to judge that 5 is greater than 1! As
we shall see in section 4, there is in fact evidence that engaging in such “utilitarian rea-
soning” can actually be quick and utterly effortless.

3.3. So What Does the Deliberative Processing Reflect?

The argument I have been developing so far largely converges with the empirical ev-
idence I presented in section 2. It suggests that if utilitarian judgments are associated
with deliberative processing, that processing doesn’t reflect any kind of “utilitarian rea-
soning.” In the previous section, I already argued that this processing really reflects a
generic type of deliberation to a counterintuitive conclusion. In the rest of this section,
I want to look more closely into what such deliberation might involve in the context of
trolley-like dilemmas.

Overcoming Conflict?
If “utilitarian” judgments in Footbridge involve deliberative processing then that proc-
essing couldn’t reflect “utilitarian reasoning.” So it must reflect something else. What
could that be?
Greene’s own account suggests a further option. After all, his account says that indi-
viduals not only engage in such “utilitarian reasoning,” but also need to actively sup-
press the pre-potent emotional response pushing them in the contrary deontological
direction:
Deliberation reflects conflict. When deontological intuitions are present, effortful deliberative
processing is needed if one is to arrive at a contrary utilitarian judgment.

This is supposed to be why we find greater activation in the dorsal Anterior Cingulate
Cortex (dACC), an area associated with conflict, when subjects make utilitarian judg-
ments. As Greene often points out, the dACC is also active in the classical Stroop
 Intuitive and Counterintuitive Morality 21

paradigm, where deliberative processing is needed to overcome the pre-potent impulse to

name the color word rather than the color in which it is written (Greene et al. 2004, 390).
I have so far deliberately ignored this part of Greene’s theory. Greene typically presents
the deliberative processing associated with utilitarian judgment as reflecting both “utili-
tarian reasoning” and the conflict generated by the contrary emotion. The argument so far
shows that it can at most reflect the latter.
The problem is that talk about emotional conflict and overcoming an emotional re-
sponse is ambiguous. It can mean two rather different things. The first interpretation,
which is implicit in Greene’s view, doesn’t really support his model, and is also implausible.
The second, more plausible interpretation is simply incompatible with Greene’s overall
theory. I will consider each interpretation in turn.

Resisting/Inhibiting a Pre-potent Emotion?

If we take the analogy to the Stroop paradigm literally, then the deliberative processing
should reflect the effort that individuals are making to resist a spurious distorting in-
fluence (see Paxton and Greene 2010). Such outright rejection of one’s intuitions is of
course common in genuine utilitarian thinking for the simple reason that utilitarians
reject all non-utilitarian moral considerations, and thus all of the intuitions that (at
least sometimes) drive them.
The first problem with this suggestion is that there is nothing distinctly utilitarian in
rejecting some intuition as spurious—this is something that both utilitarians and deontol-
ogists do. Indeed, we also often dismiss our intuitions in this way in many non-moral con-
texts. In any case, since this is a purely negative operation, it tells us nothing positive about
the source and nature of utilitarian thinking. Instead of the claim tying utilitarian judg-
ment and deliberative processing, we again get the banal claim that whenever strong intui-
tions are present, effortful deliberative processing is needed if one is to arrive at a judgment
contrary to these intuitions. It should be obvious that this near truism does not support the
dual process model as such, let alone the grandiose theoretical and normative conclusions
that Greene and others want to derive from it (see again Greene 2008; Singer 2005).
In any event, it turns out that this interpretation of the data is also highly implausible. If
subjects rejected their aversion to intentionally killing an innocent person as expressing
any kind of genuine moral reason, then they should surely reject it as such a reason quite
generally. But few subjects make consistently utilitarian decisions across the board even
in the restricted context of trolley-style dilemmas—though in section 4 we will consider
subjects who at least approximate such a pattern—so when subjects endorse the deon-
tological answer to such dilemmas, are they simply suddenly “overcome” by an emotion
they take to be spurious, as people sometimes get confused and make errors in the Stroop
paradigm? This is utterly implausible. Moreover, subjects tend to report feeling guilty after
making utilitarian judgments in personal dilemmas (Choe and Min 2011),25 and, when
25
More precisely, subjects reported feeling guilty when making utilitarian judgments in an overwhelming
majority of personal dilemmas. However, Choe and Min found no correlation between a trait disposition to
guilt, and rates of utilitarian judgment.
22 Guy Kahane

given the chance, they report finding that both options are somewhat wrong (Kurzban,
DeScioli, and Fein 2012). Neither of these results makes much sense if subjects are just
resisting an insistent emotional urge which they perceive as utterly spurious.

Non-utilitarian Weighing of Opposing Duties

The subpersonal talk about conflict generated by a contrary emotion is also com-
patible with another, and more plausible, picture of the deliberation that most
non-philosophers go through when they make “utilitarian” judgments in Footbridge.
In most moral dilemmas, we face genuine opposing moral reasons, and try to figure
out which of these “wins” in the given context. We don’t treat the reasons we ultimately
reject as a mere psychological annoyance we need to repress. This is what makes
moral dilemmas difficult: There are strong reasons supporting each of the conflicting
choices.26
Once we begin to think of moral dilemmas in this more plausible way, an alternative
account of what typically happens in trolley-like dilemmas naturally suggests itself.
Subjects start, as I suggested earlier, with a moral reason or principle:
(1) We have reason to reduce harm (or Prima Facie Duty to Save).
And they count the numbers:
(2) 5 lives > 1 life.
But they also recognize that
(3) There is reason not to intentionally harm an innocent person (or Prima Facie
Duty Not to Harm).
And at least some of them conclude, after some reflection, that
(4) In this context, there is more reason to minimize harm.
Which is why they conclude that
(5) It is permissible to sacrifice one to save 5.
If this is what is going on, then not only is it misleading to describe this as “utilitarian
reasoning,” but what we have here is really a paradigmatic example of a distinctly deon-
tological form of deliberation (for a classical defence of this understanding of everyday
moral deliberation, see Ross 1930). After all Act Utilitarianism leaves no space for such

26
Of course, even on the utilitarian view, there is some reason not to push the fat man—needless to say,
the fat man’s death is a very bad consequence. But this counter-reason cannot generate conflict, or the need
for effortful deliberation—on this utilitarian view, the number of lives saved in each of the two options are
straightforwardly commensurable. As I have been repeating, there is neither effort nor conflict in conclud-
ing that 5 is greater than 1.
 Intuitive and Counterintuitive Morality 23

weighing of competing moral duties or reasons: On Act Utilitarianism (understood as a

decision-procedure) there is only a single duty, viz. to maximize impartial well-being, and
its application to different contexts.

3.4. Misunderstanding Moral Deliberation

Greene often portrays deontological responses as immediate judgments that some act is
absolutely wrong, which he contrasts with the sophisticated utilitarian weighing of com-
peting concerns (see e.g. Greene 2008, 64). But this gets things exactly upside down. Most
plausible forms of non-utilitarian thinking (including, of course, “commonsense” mo-
rality) are not absolutist in this way. Instead, non-utilitarian moral deliberation typically
involves precisely the weighing of competing moral considerations (including consid-
erations about consequences), whereas utilitarian deliberation leaves space only for the
(non-moral) comparison of the causal consequences of different lines of action. And, to
repeat, in cases like Footbridge this utilitarian calculation should be obvious and effortless.
This more plausible alternative has so far been overlooked because current research
relies on an incredibly narrow conception of what deliberation is or can be. It unthink-
ingly identifies deliberation with inference, and sharply contrasts it with intuition, as if
inference is an utterly independent, competing source of judgment—neglecting to see
that the premises for reasoning also need to come from somewhere, that effortful de-
liberation needn’t involve anything like inference, and, moreover, that there are certain
kinds of intuitions and emotions that appear only in deliberative contexts.
It is because of that narrow conception of deliberation that Greene and others
simply assume that if deliberative processing plays a part in generating “utilitarian”
judgments, then this means that this deliberative processing is generating these judg-
ments from scratch, and that it does so by inference—as if the only alternative is for the
deliberative processing to produce mere rationalization of some pre-existing emotion
or intuition. But deliberative processing can play a genuine causal role in producing
moral judgments without necessarily being the source of their content.
As described above, deliberative processing can help us decide between competing
pro tanto moral reasons (or “prima facie duties”27) by generating an all-things-considered
judgment about what ought to be done.28 And that decision can be conscious and ef-
fortful without being the result of inference—the judgment that, in some given con-
text, one duty outweighs another is almost certainly also based in intuition! (Notice
that this would be a second order intuition resolving a conflict between two first order
intuitions. For a classical statement of the view that we need something like intuition to
resolve conflicts between opposing principles, see again Ross 1930).29
27
I follow W. D. Ross in speaking of “prima facie duties,” but the relevant reasons are not literally “prima
facie” (merely appearing to be genuine reasons), and are best described as “pro tanto” (genuine reasons that
can be outweighed in a given context).
28
Nichols and Mallon (2005) show that non-philosophers can easily distinguish between whether an act
violated some rule (weak impermissibility) and whether that act was wrong, all things considered.
29
I’m not claiming that no one treats the intuition not to push as spurious, only that most people don’t.
There certainly are clear cases where people reject their intuitions/affective reactions as simply morally
24 Guy Kahane

It might be objected that subjects couldn’t be going through this deliberative process
because, although something like the principle of utility is an explicit principle that
people actually cite, the resistance to, e.g., pushing the stranger in Footbridge is an
intuition that most people are unable to articulate as an explicit principle (Cushman
et al. 2006). But this is irrelevant. We can be conscious of, and torn between, opposing
moral considerations even if we can’t articulate them as fully explicit principles.30
This gives us an alternative explanation of the role of deliberative processing in util-
itarian judgment:
Deliberation as weighing of opposing reasons. “Utilitarian” judgments are generated by delib-
erative processing reflecting deliberation about the proper weighing of various moral reasons/
principles—some or all of which are deontological in character—when these generate con-
flicting verdicts about a given situation.

Notice that this account is perfectly compatible with the claim that “utilitarian”
judgments in “personal” trolley-like dilemmas are more closely associated with de-
liberative processing. In many moral contexts, one of the opposing moral reasons
or principles can be especially salient, and dominate, even pre-empt, deliberation. It
might thus take some effort to see and give proper weight to competing considerations
that are less salient.

3.5. “Utilitarian” Judgment ≠ Utilitarian Reasoning

Let me end this section by tying the above argument to a familiar objection to utilitar-
ianism. Consider Bernard Williams’s famous anti-utilitarian example of Jim and the
Indians, where Jim is told that if he shoots one Indian, the lives of several others would
be spared (Williams in Smart and Williams 1973). Although this is sometime misun-
derstood, the point that Williams wanted to make with this example wasn’t that we
shouldn’t make the “utilitarian” decision to save more lives—he was actually inclined to
think we should. Williams’s point was rather that this decision shouldn’t be as easy as
is implied by Act Utilitarianism; it should be a difficult, agonizing choice. And indeed,
unlike a minority of individuals which (as we shall see in section 4) do find this an easy
choice, most people seem to find such “utilitarian” choices difficult in exactly the way
Williams described—and not merely because they need to overcome some irritating
but spurious “pre-potent response.”31

spurious—one example might be the way that, according to Haidt, liberals regard their disgust reactions to
harmless violations (Haidt 2001).
30
In fact the utilitarian principle is itself indeterminate in multiple ways that utilitarians still disagree
about.
31
If you could put Bernard Williams in the scanner, and ask him for his view about the Jim and the Indians
case, he would engage in agonizing deliberation about what one should do in such a situation. Suppose he
ends up endorsing the “utilitarian” conclusion that Jim should shoot one of the Indians to save the greater
number. It would be absurd to then say that, since he arrived at this conclusion through effortful delibera-
tion, this shows that utilitarianism is based on more cognitive processing. It would be even more absurd to
think that by studying the neural correlates of Williams’s agonizing deliberation, we are learning anything
 Intuitive and Counterintuitive Morality 25

Greene et al. 2004 report that utilitarian judgments were associated with greater ac-
tivation in the insula, which they speculate might reflect repugnance at the sacrifice of
the one. Moretto et al. 2009 report that a strong emotional reaction (reflected in skin
conductance response) followed utilitarian judgments. And as we saw, Choe and Min
2011 report that utilitarian judgments in most personal dilemmas were reported by
subjects to be accompanied by some guilt.32 It’s hard to square these three findings with
the common assumption that subjects view the deontological intuition as merely a gut
reaction that needs to be resisted—but they nicely fit Williams’s 1965 remarks about the
moral residue we feel when we are tragically forced to choose one of two profoundly
bad options.
The lesson here is that it is a mistake to assume that if a moral judgment is “utili-
tarian” (in the narrow sense that, in a given moral context, it favors the act that maxi-
mizes utility), then this implies that the deliberation that generated it must also be
“utilitarian.” Quite the opposite: Such “utilitarian” judgments are typically based in
a distinctly deontological form of deliberation that is profoundly incompatible with
utilitarianism.33
In this section, I’ve argued that when utilitarian judgments involve deliberation,
it’s not just that this deliberation doesn’t reflect anything distinctly utilitarian—it’s a
form of deliberation that is resolutely non-utilitarian in character!34 If an association
with deliberation is supposed to support a moral theory, as Greene and others think (a
rather questionable assumption), then, ironically, this empirical evidence should actu-
ally support non-utilitarian views.

4. Cold or Calculating? “Pure” Utilitarian

Judgments are Non-Deliberative
4.1. Utilitarian Judgment without Deliberation
Utilitarians hold that their counterintuitive conclusions are simply what results when,
instead of just following our immediate gut reactions, we use moral reasoning to criti-
cally scrutinize them (Singer 2005; Unger 1996). This picture of utilitarian psychology

about the psychological sources of utilitarian thinking. I have been arguing in this section that a lot of cur-
rent research on “utilitarian” judgment falls exactly into this absurd mistake.
32
Utilitarian judgments in some dilemmas were more strongly associated with disgust and other emo-
tions—but these also happen to be the dilemmas that Nick Shackel and I have previously shown to be utterly
irrelevant, as now also conceded by Greene (see Kahane and Shackel 2008; Kahane and Shackel 2010).
33
This is just one reason why it’s misguided to suggest, as Greene does, that we take “utilitarian” to refer
to whatever processes turn out to underlie judgments with “characteristically utilitarian content” (Greene
2008).
34
Needless to say, if utilitarianism is understood only as a criterion of rightness (and not also as a deci-
sion procedure), then it is logically compatible with any form of deliberation—including rational egoism
or applying the Categorical Imperative. But Greene’s claims about the origins of utilitarian thinking require
treating it, at least in this context, as referring to a distinctive decision procedure.
26 Guy Kahane

of course sits nicely with Greene’s dual process model, which portrays lay people who
make utilitarian judgments as thinking harder than the rest.
In the previous sections of this chapter, I have cast some doubt on this claim.
In this section, I want to take the argument yet one step further. I will point to ev-
idence that strongly suggests that there are in fact some individuals who arrive at
utilitarian conclusions through a process that more closely resembles a utilitarian de-
cision procedure. The problem is that it appears that these utilitarian judgments are
non-deliberative—they are driven, not by greater cognitive effort, but by an affective
deficit. Such individuals are not more “calculating” in the sense of being more rational.
They are simply colder.
This alternative picture of “utilitarian” psychology is actually supported by a growing
body of evidence. Some of this evidence comes from clinical populations. Patients
with lesions in the vmPFC (Ciaramelli et al. 2007; Koenigs et al. 2007; Moretto et al.
2009) and with frontotemporal dementia (Mendez et al. 2005), conditions associated
with deficits in empathic concern and social emotion and with disordered social be-
havior, exhibit increased rates of utilitarian judgment in emotionally-loaded moral
dilemmas, apparently because such patients lack the normal aversive response to
harming—they lack, if you want, the intuition that it’s wrong to push the stranger in
Footbridge.
Now this result is taken by Greene and others to be a key bit of evidence supporting
the dual process model: If the absence of social emotion leads to an increase in utili-
tarian judgment, this supports the claim that deontological judgment is based in emo-
tion (see e.g. Greene 2008). This, however, is only one half of the dual process model.
What hasn’t been noticed so far is that vmPFC patients at the same time raise a worry
about the other, more interesting part of the model.
I have earlier argued that to the extent that “utilitarian” judgment is associated with
controlled processing, that processing doesn’t reflect any kind of “utilitarian rea-
soning.” (For isn’t it just obvious that it’s better to save 5 than to save 1?) This argument
actually generates a straightforward empirical prediction: that such reasoning (i.e. the
psychological processes directly pushing us in the direction of pushing the fat man in
Footbridge) can actually be fast and effortless. And indeed, so it is in vmPFC patients.
A recent study has shown that in vmPFC patients, utilitarian judgments in personal
dilemmas were associated both with weaker skin conductance responses, and with
shorter reaction times, compared to healthy subjects (Moretto et al. 2009). That is,
once you remove the opposing force of the deontological consideration against di-
rectly harming someone, the “utilitarian” solution becomes pretty intuitive.35

35
It is also worth noting that the area of the DLPFC that Greene et al. 2004 reported to be associated with
utilitarian judgment is damaged in many of these VMPFC patients (Moll and de Oliviera 2007). Since other
parts of the DLPFC are intact, this doesn’t itself show that they are incapable of controlled processing, or that
they are not engaged in such processing when making utilitarian judgments. What this does strongly suggest
is that, if the DLPFC activation reported in Greene et al. 2004 reflects the controlled processing healthy sub-
jects engage in when they make utilitarian judgments in Footbridge, then this controlled processing couldn’t
 Intuitive and Counterintuitive Morality 27

This finding may not seem so significant. After all, this evidence relates to rare and
unusual brain damage. It tells us nothing about how ordinary, healthy individuals ar-
rive at utilitarian judgments.
But more recent evidence shows that this pattern of response is actually far from un-
usual. To begin with, several recent studies report greater rates of utilitarian judgment
in individuals high on antisocial traits such as psychopathy (Glenn et al. 2010; Bartels
and Pizarro 2011; Koenigs et al. 2012; Wiech et al. 2013; though see also Cima et al. 2010;
Glenn et al. 2009).
These findings have been overinterpreted by the press. The Economist, for ex-
ample, reported one such study by announcing that “Goodness has nothing to do with
it: Utilitarians are not nice people.”36 This is of course a blatantly fallacious inference.
From the fact that some not so nice people are utilitarian, it hardly follows that all utili-
tarians are not nice people. This claim also relies on the terrible inference I mentioned
earlier, from “utilitarian” responses to trolley-like dilemmas to general claims about
utilitarian judgment. But some defenders of utilitarianism are happy to make that ter-
rible inference when it associates utilitarian judgment with something more flattering!
However, it would also be a mistake to assume that these results merely relate to a
tiny, abnormal minority. “Proper” psychopaths are indeed a tiny minority, but some
of the studies I just cited actually examined ordinary individuals who happen to
have psychopathic and similar antisocial traits—individuals who are a bit colder and
harsher than the rest of us. And anyway these findings are just part of a much broader
trend in recent research suggesting that utilitarian judgments in healthy individuals
are often rooted in an atypically weak or even absent aversion to harming others. For
example, higher rates of utilitarian judgment in normal, healthy individuals have been
associated with lower rates of trait empathy (Crockett et al. 2010; Choe and Min 2011),
as well as with higher levels of testosterone (Carney and Mason 2010), which often
leads to reduced empathic concern (Hermans et al. 2006). Another study found that
a disposition to utilitarian judgment was associated, not with greater cognitive ability,
but with lower emotional intelligence, and specifically with a difficulty with reasoning
thoughtfully about one’s emotions (Koven 2011).
More directly, a strong “utilitarian” disposition was associated with reduced aver-
sive reactivity to harming others, as indexed by peripheral vasoconstriction (Cushman
et al. 2012), with reduced skin conductance response (Moretto et al. 2009), and, most
importantly for us, with significantly lower response times (Greene et al. 2008). In
other words, even in ordinary, healthy individuals, a strong disposition to utilitarian
judgment in “personal” moral dilemmas is often due, not to increased critical reflec-
tion that has overcome deontological intuitions, but to the absence of these intuitions,

reflect a utilitarian cost–benefit analysis, since these patients can reach this utilitarian conclusion without
engaging this brain area.
36
The Economist, 24 September 2011.
28 Guy Kahane

and more generally, to reduced empathic concern. And when ordinary people are
“colder” in this way, their utilitarian judgments also become pretty fast and effortless.
Stated more generally, the conclusion we should draw is the following:
Deliberative effort as function of deontological commitment. The more weight one gives to
deontological constraints on harming, the more deliberative effort is needed to conclude that
one should set them aside in a given moral context; the less seriously one takes such constraints,
the more effortless and non-deliberative “utilitarian” judgments become.

In other words, the degree to which deliberative effort is involved in so-called “util-
itarian” judgments really reflects the strength of one’s deontological commitments!
Without such commitments, “utilitarian” judgments require little or no deliberation.

4.2. Utilitarian Judgment: Hot or Cold

Let us return now to the neuroimaging study we discussed in section 1. One of our
findings was that counterintuitive moral judgments in general, as well as counterin-
tuitive utilitarian judgments in particular, were perceived as more difficult, and were
associated with increased activation in the anterior cingulate cortex, and specifically
in its subgenual part, compared to contrary “intuitive” moral judgments (Kahane et al.
2012). This is an area of the brain that has been repeatedly implicated in empathic con-
cern and guilt (Decety, Michalska, and Kinzler 2012; Green et al. 2010; Moll et al. 2006;
Zahn et al. 2009a; Zahn et al. 2009b). This result is in line with the finding mentioned
earlier that counterintuitive utilitarian judgments in healthy individuals are typically
followed by stronger skin conductance response (Moretto et al. 2009), indicating an
emotional reaction. That reaction seems to be one of guilt, or something close, given
that individuals also typically report feeling guilty when making utilitarian judgments
in most personal dilemmas (Choe and Min 2011).
This tie between counterintuitive utilitarian judgments and emotion is in itself com-
patible with Greene’s model, since these emotional responses seem to follow such judg-
ments rather than cause them. But as I have argued in section 3, what these results
do strongly suggest is that most individuals take their deontological intuitions at
face value, as representing genuine constraints on harming others that, in some un-
usual cases of “life and death” decisions, might nevertheless be outweighed by strong
competing considerations. This is why, for most people, such decisions appear to be
accompanied by guilt, or a similar aversive response to the violation of a moral norm.
But in a separate study based on the same neuroimaging data, we found that this
may not be true of all individuals (Wiech et al. 2013). To begin with, we found that
higher rates of utilitarian judgment were associated with “psychoticism” (or “tough
headedness”), a trait associated with lack of emotionality and empathic concern, hos-
tility, aggression, and non-conformity to social norms (Eysenck 1976).37 Individuals

37
We did find that need for cognition was also associated with greater rates of utilitarian judgment, but,
importantly, need for cognition and psychoticism were statistically independent (Wiech et al. 2013), sug-
gesting they may be independent factors in utilitarian judgment. However, it is worth noting that we did not
 Intuitive and Counterintuitive Morality 29

higher on psychoticism have been shown to perceive media violence as more comical
and enjoyable, and show rapid habituation to violent material (Bruggemann and Barry
2002), and reduced aversion to killing enemies in a video game (Ravaja et al. 2008).
Unsurprisingly, psychoticism is also strongly correlated with psychopathy (Hare 1981;
Shine and Hobson 1997), a construct often seen as lying on a continuum with psychoti-
cism (Corr 2010; Eysenck 1992) although, unlike psychopathy, psychoticism primarily
aims to capture a general dimension of personality in the normal population.
Interestingly, we found that psychoticism was at once positively correlated with the
number of utilitarian judgments and negatively correlated with activation in the sub-
genual anterior cortex. Put together with the evidence cited here, these findings seem
to suggest that although most individuals find utilitarian judgments aversive, individ-
uals higher on psychoticism do not. We already know that vmPFC patients don’t feel
guilt when they violate social norms (Krajbich et al. 2009), and this is of course also
true of psychopaths. In other words, it seems that individuals who are strongly dis-
posed to utilitarian solutions to “personal” dilemmas don’t just lack intuitions against
directly harming others, but also do not find such harm morally problematic. They
do not perceive it as a regrettable (if sometimes necessary) violation of an important
moral constraint.
These “colder” individuals appear to arrive at utilitarian judgments just by consid-
ering the consequences. They are not inhibited by deontological constraints against
directly harming others, or need to engage in any deliberation to decide whether some
significant benefit outweighs these constraints in a given context. Unsurprisingly, these
individuals also tend to more consistently endorse utilitarian solutions to “personal”
dilemmas compared to other individuals, who may endorse such solutions in a few
cases but not in most others.38 The “colder” individuals consider only the consequences
because they do not recognize deontological constraints against directly harming oth-
ers, nor, of course, find it aversive to violate such constraints. In these respects, these
individuals arrive at utilitarian judgment in ways that are more closely in line with
something resembling a utilitarian decision procedure—these individuals take only
consequences into account, and nothing else.39

find any association between need for cognition and increased activation in the DLPFC or any other marker
of effortful cognition.
38
It is hardly surprising that a colder approach to moral problems, where various deontological constraints
are suppressed or ignored, will tend to lead to more “utilitarian” conclusions. This is actually a familiar fea-
ture of decision-making in emergency situations such as triage. In ordinary medical contexts, doctors and
nurses don’t just try to maximize the outcome as a utilitarian would—they will usually try to save the lives of
even those who are gravely injured, and give some attention even to relatively minor injuries. But these de-
ontological considerations will be brushed aside in situations of emergency, where there is an imperative to
focus limited resources on those who will benefit the most. We can call such practices “utilitarian,” but these
imperatives are really just part of commonsense morality. This point is overlooked by Greene and others
because they conflate deontology and absolutism, the view that deontological constraints must never be bro-
ken. They thus fail to see that many judgments that they classify as “utilitarians” are really just expressions of
commonsense, non-utilitarian morality. I am grateful to the editors for these points.
39
I described such individuals as “colder.” They are colder in the sense that they exhibit little empathic
concern, and don’t find the idea of harming others emotionally aversive. But they needn’t be entirely
30 Guy Kahane

Now it’s not generally true that people who make utilitarian judgments aren’t nice.
Our study actually suggests that antisocial tendencies are the driving force behind util-
itarian judgment only in some individuals (Wiech et al. 2013)—“utilitarian” judgment
may have more than one source. But it does appear that many of those who are more
strongly disposed to make utilitarian judgments, and who make such judgments in ways
that more closely resemble a utilitarian decision procedure, really aren’t that nice. In
fact, these individuals are disposed to utilitarian solutions because they aren’t so nice.
The important thing, though, is that these utilitarian judgments are non-deliberative.
These individuals may lack common emotions and intuitions, but it doesn’t follow
from this that they are thinking harder when presented with these moral dilemmas.
They just respond to them differently.
One further lesson of these results is that we need to be more careful with the way
we think about counterintuitive judgments. Claims of intuitiveness and counterintui-
tiveness are ambiguous. In common philosophical and everyday use, they are often,
explicitly or implicitly, tied to a population. When someone says that something is
counterintuitive, they are not merely reporting that it goes against their own intui-
tions. They are assuming that it goes against the intuitions of many or most others.
Certain utilitarian claims are often said to be counterintuitive in exactly this sense.
They are claimed to go against the strong intuitions of most people. That this is so in
some cases is now supported by quite a bit of empirical evidence (see e.g. Cushman
et al. 2006). But it doesn’t follow that when someone makes a utilitarian judgment that
is counterintuitive in this sense, then this means that this person is going against their
own intuitions—that they are using reason to override their first, intuitive response.
Here we would be sliding to a person-relative sense of “intuitive” and “counterintui-
tive.” In fact, a claim might be both counterintuitive in the population-relative sense,
yet also be intuitive for some individuals. And this seems to be the case for many utili-
tarian judgments. These judgments reflect unusual (or absent) intuitions, not the “ra-
tional” overcoming of common intuitions.
Let me summarize this section. In section 3, I argued that when “utilitarian” judg-
ments are driven by deliberation, this deliberation is non-utilitarian. In this section,
I further argued that when individuals make “pure” utilitarian judgments, these judg-
ments are non-deliberative! These individuals endorse counterintuitive conclusions,
but these conclusions are counterintuitive only relative to the intuitions of the major-
ity—for these individuals, these utilitarian conclusions are intuitive.40

unemotional. In fact, several studies have tied utilitarian judgment to feeling angry (Choe and Minn 2011;
Ugazio et al. 2012; see also Plaisier and Konijn 2013 on how anger can increase tolerance of antisocial behav-
iour). Interestingly, Jonathan Baron, a self-avowed utilitarian, independently described moral anger as the
dominant utilitarian emotion (see Baron 2011).
40
This point can be missed if we mistakenly identify intuition (and automaticity) with emotion.
 Intuitive and Counterintuitive Morality 31

5. For the Greater Good?

In section 4, I offered a very different picture of the psychology of utilitarian judg-
ment than that defended by Greene, and assumed by utilitarians such as Peter Singer.
Utilitarianism is often presented as the reasoned and systematic generalization of nat-
ural human empathic concern (Hare 1981; Singer 1979). Yet it ironically turns out that
so-called “utilitarian” judgments are often driven, not by rational reflection or “gener-
alized benevolence” (Smart 1961), but by a deficit in empathic concern and an indiffer-
ence to harming others.
This result might seem puzzling. In section 4, I have highlighted the tie between a
strong tendency to utilitarian judgment and reduced aversion to harming others. And
I claimed that if we want to study the psychological processes associated with a form
of moral thinking in lay people that at least resembles a kind of utilitarian decision pro-
cedure, we should look at this category of individuals, who appear to just consider the
consequences of their actions, and to not be inhibited (normatively and psychologi-
cally) by the nature of the violent act that they are asked to contemplate doing.
But it might be objected that such individuals aren’t likely to be following a genuine
utilitarian outlook. Psychopaths aren’t likely to be concerned with the greater good.
They are likely to be concerned only with their own good.
This is correct. In fact, in a further set of studies, we set out precisely to investigate
whether there really is any relationship between so-called “utilitarian” judgments in
trolley-like dilemmas and any kind of genuine concern for the greater good (Kahane
et al. under review). We found that greater rates of “utilitarian” judgment were posi-
tively correlated not only with psychopathic tendencies and reduced empathic con-
cern, but also with explicit endorsement of rational egoism—while being negatively
correlated (albeit only marginally) with whether individuals identify with the whole
of humanity. In addition, we found that rates of “utilitarian” judgment were also asso-
ciated with seeing uncontroversially immoral acts in a business context (e.g. stealing
money from one’s company) as less wrong. We also found that although individuals
higher on psychopathy do appear to show a “utilitarian” tendency in their responses to
“personal” moral dilemmas, their responses to such dilemmas are in fact highly sen-
sitive to considerations of self-interest. Thus, they show an even stronger utilitarian
tendency when the “utilitarian” act would also benefit them—i.e. they would be among
the five people saved when someone is sacrificed “for the greater good”—while if they
are given the choice whether to sacrifice themselves or someone else to save five others,
they overwhelmingly prefer to sacrifice another person (individuals low on psycho­
pathy show exactly the reverse pattern of response).
Utilitarianism tells us to selflessly promote the greater good—to transcend our
narrow personal concern and care about the good of all human beings, even all sen-
tient beings, as if from the point of view of the universe. But those who tend to most
strongly endorse “utilitarian” solutions to “personal” dilemmas turn out to largely
care about themselves . . . In one obvious sense, utilitarianism and rational egoism are
32 Guy Kahane

diametrically opposed. But on reflection, this convergence shouldn’t be so surprising.

Both utilitarianism and rational egoism are teleological views, concerned with maximiz-
ing the good (in one case, the greater good, in the other, one’s own good). Both often come
across as rather tough-headed, unsentimental, and calculating. And both treat common
moral norms, intuitions, and sentiments as no more than useful instruments, to be fol-
lowed only when this leads to better consequences. Is it really so surprising that when
egoists are asked for their view about a moral dilemma, and given either a deontological
option or a more calculating “utilitarian” one, they would tend to prefer the latter?41
The results I have just described further highlight the antisocial dimension in
so-called “utilitarian” judgment. You might still think that, although this is an un-
pleasant association, we might be able to get around it. We just need to bracket this an-
tisocial element, and this will reveal those judgments that are truly utilitarian—those
responses that are really driven by greater deliberation, and by genuine concern for the
good.42
But don’t get your hopes up. In the same series of studies, we also investigated the re-
lation between “utilitarian” judgment and a range of views and attitudes drawn directly
from the work of Peter Singer—if someone tends to think that, for example, you should
push the stranger in Footbridge, would they also think that it’s wrong to eat meat, or
that we have obligations to people in need in developing countries? Would they think
that failing to donate money to save the lives of children in poor countries is wrong in
the way it is wrong to refuse to step into a pool to save a drowning child? The answer
is no. We found that there is no relation between a “utilitarian” tendency in personal
dilemmas and any of these marks of a genuine concern for the greater good. It’s not just
that individuals with such a “utilitarian” tendency don’t think that, say, eating meat is
wrong. They don’t even find eating meat, or failing to help children in poor countries, a
bit more wrong than those who don’t have such a tendency. And importantly, this lack
of relation remained even when we controlled for the antisocial dimension in so-called
“utilitarian” judgment.43

41
In line with these results, a recent study found that individuals who identify as political libertarians turn
out to have lower empathic concern, identify least with humanity as a whole, and don’t place as much moral
weight on considerations of harm and the welfare of others (Iyer et al. 2012). Needless to say, the moral views
of such libertarians are clearly very far from utilitarianism—libertarianism is in certain respects a very ex-
treme deontological view! Yet it still turns out that libertarians are also more “utilitarian” in personal moral
dilemmas. . .
42
Conway and Gawronski (2013) suggest an interesting method to try to distinguish positive “utilitarian”
tendencies from mere reduced aversion to harm. Their approach, however, doesn’t address any of the issues
I have been pressing in this chapter. Worse, they use a number of highly inappropriate dilemmas, thereby
serious compromising their results. Their analysis strangely assumes, for example, that utilitarians would be
opposed to abortion in a young single woman who has no income and is clearly not ready to have children.
43
It’s important to emphasize that the complaint isn’t that people who make “utilitarian” judgments in
trolley-like moral dilemmas don’t explicitly endorse and follow a utilitarian theory, or even that they aren’t
inarticulate clones of Peter Singer. We were not expecting these people to think that we should make the
extremely demanding sacrifices required by utilitarianism. But in what sense are they expressing a genuine
utilitarian disposition if they don’t even have a slightly stronger tendency to more impartial altruism com-
pared to others? You might still insist that judging that we should push the stranger in Footbridge to save five
 Intuitive and Counterintuitive Morality 33

But these results don’t threaten the argument I have developed in the previous sec-
tion. They only strengthen it. As I have pointed out repeatedly, it is a mistake, and a
common mistake, to treat so-called “utilitarian” responses to trolley-like dilemmas as
any kind of general measure of a genuine utilitarian outlook. To repeat: This type of
dilemma reflects merely one particular point where utilitarianism clashes with com-
monsense morality (Kahane and Shackel 2010). Worse, such dilemmas focus only on a
narrow and fairly negative aspect of utilitarianism, its willingness to cause severe harm
to individuals when this leads to a better outcome. They entirely ignore the more posi-
tive, altruistic, and impartial core of utilitarianism.
The thrust of my argument in this chapter is that the two main driving forces of ap-
parently “utilitarian” judgment in such dilemmas turn out to be either a form of delib-
eration that is explicitly non-utilitarian, or a form of moral response that does, in this
context, at least resemble a utilitarian decision procedure (i.e. a concern for nothing
besides the consequences of actions) but actually reflects a broadly selfish and antiso-
cial tendency. Individuals who are low on empathic concern are not concerned about
the greater good, but they exhibit a more unsentimental, hard-headed, and calculating
approach to moral questions, an approach which manifests itself in a more utilitarian
outlook in the unusual context of “personal” dilemmas, even if not in real life.44
Utilitarianism is a rather peculiar moral view, with a recent history, and which never
spread beyond a small minority. It is not a view that is common in the general popula-
tion, so it is not surprising that we don’t find much evidence for it in the lay population.
If we want to study the psychological correlates of genuine utilitarianism, we should
study actual utilitarians—and I think there are few of these in the subject pool of most
experiments.
When Greene tells us that utilitarian judgment is uniquely based in deliberation and
reasoning, this can seem like good news to utilitarians; the emerging link between util-
itarian judgment and antisocial tendencies is less flattering. But true utilitarians should
neither cheer the relationship between “utilitarian” judgments and “rational” delib-
eration, nor feel discomfort about the sinister associations between such judgments
and psychopathy—for, contrary to appearances, the so-called “utilitarian” responses
of non-philosophers to trolley-like dilemmas may, in the end, have rather little to do
with utilitarianism.

is appropriately called a “utilitarian” judgment. But judging that we should help the elderly lady across the
street is also a “utilitarian” judgment in that sense. Yet studying the neural correlates of the latter judgment
would surely tell us nothing at all about utilitarianism qua ethical outlook.
44
Some philosophers with strong utilitarian inclinations have actually confessed to me that they see them-
selves as low empathy, unsentimental types. It is an open empirical question whether most proper utilitar-
ians start out as high empathy types that, through a process of reflection, come to reject various intuitions, or
whether they are low empathy types who are attracted, at an abstract level, to the systematic, tough-headed
nature of utilitarianism, without feeling much natural concern for the welfare of others.
34 Guy Kahane

6. Conclusion
According to Greene’s dual process model of moral judgment, our moral psychology
is divided between opposing forces: an emotional, intuitive deontological half, and a
rational, deliberative utilitarian half.
In this chapter, I have argued that this provocative picture of our moral psychology
is mistaken. I first argued that there is in fact nothing distinctively utilitarian about
deliberation to “utilitarian” conclusions: They merely reflect generic deliberation to a
counterintuitive conclusion. I then went further and argued that such deliberation to
“utilitarian” conclusions in trolley-like dilemmas is in fact non-utilitarian in character.
It involves, not “utilitarian reasoning,” but the weighing of opposing moral principles,
a process that itself relies on intuition, at a second order level. I next argued that when
individuals do arrive at counterintuitive conclusions in a way that might resemble
utilitarian reasoning, these judgments actually turn out to be non-deliberative—and
to reflect a strong antisocial, self-centered tendency. For these individuals, utili-
tarian solutions to trolley-like dilemmas don’t require deliberation, because for them
such solutions are actually intuitive. Finally, I presented evidence that strongly sug-
gests that there is actually little connection between so-called “utilitarian” responses
to trolley-like dilemmas and genuine concern for the greater good, even when we set
aside the antisocial dimension that drives some of these responses. This shouldn’t be
surprising: that someone is willing to dismiss (or otherwise discount) a single specific
deontological constraint against harming others in highly unusual contexts hardly
shows that this person has any special concern for the greater good in any other con-
text, let alone that they have the slightest inclination to make (or even just endorse) the
demanding sacrifices required by a genuine utilitarian outlook.
Over the past decade or so, an ever growing empirical literature has been devoted
to studying so-called “utilitarian” judgment in trolley-like dilemmas. The argument
of this chapter is that much of this literature has been based on a series of mistaken
assumptions—mistaken assumptions about the nature of the relation between deliber-
ation and intuition, about what “utilitarian reasoning” might involve, and what moral
deliberation is actually like, about the different senses in which a judgment might be
intuitive or counterintuitive, about what it is to genuinely face a moral dilemma, and
finally, about what it even means to make a “utilitarian” judgment.
We should welcome the use of philosophical concepts, distinctions, and examples in
the cognitive science of ethics, and it is only natural that when such concepts and dis-
tinctions are adapted to an empirical setting, they may change some of their meaning,
or lose some of their philosophical precision. We should even welcome bold attempts
to draw ambitious normative conclusions from such empirical research. But the dis-
tinctions that philosophers draw in their armchairs often have important psycholog-
ical implications, and when these distinctions are overlooked or ignored, empirical
research can be led into error. Perhaps worse, when empirical research assumes prob-
lematic or even simply mistaken understandings of basic philosophical notions, it is
led to overlook important possibilities, and to ignore key questions.
 Intuitive and Counterintuitive Morality 35

Dual process models may be the height of fashion at the moment, but trying to divide
everything in the mind into “automatic” or “controlled” isn’t any kind of advance. Nor is
it useful to crudely oppose intuition and deliberation, or emotion and reason. We already
have a richer, and more precise, vocabulary to describe the different ways in which we form
our moral judgments. Moral deliberation often draws on intuition, and it isn’t always, or
even often, a kind of inference. In fact, moral deliberation not only often takes its starting
point from intuition, it sometimes actually requires intuition to reach its conclusion—yes,
there are intuitions (and for that matter emotions) that only make sense in the context of
deliberation. Current empirical research hasn’t even begun to explore this territory.45

Acknowledgments
This chapter draws on prior work, including Kahane and Shackel 2010; Kahane et al.
2012; Wiech et al. 2012, and especially the argument outlined in Kahane 2012—the
present chapter reprises and develops that earlier argument, and then takes it several
steps forward. I would like to thank my collaborators on some of these earlier papers,
and especially Nick Shackel and Katja Wiech. I am also extremely grateful to the edi-
tors for excellent comments on an earlier draft of this chapter. I presented much of the
material in this chapter at the workshop on Moral Psychology and Human Agency at the
University of Michigan, as well as at events in Bielefeld and Munich. I am also grateful
to the audiences in these events for many useful suggestions. Work on this chapter was
supported by a University Award from the Wellcome Trust (WT087208MF) and by a
grant from the Volkswagen Foundation.

References
Baron, J. 2011. Utilitarian emotions: Suggestions from introspection. Emotion Review, 3(3),
286–7.
Baron, J., Gürçay, B., Moore, A. B., and Starcke, K. 2012. Use of a Rasch model to predict response
times to utilitarian moral dilemmas. Synthese, 189(1), 107–17.
Bartels, D. 2008. Principled moral sentiment and the flexibility of moral judgment and decision
making. Cognition, 108, 381–417.
Bartels, D. M., and Pizarro, D. A. 2011. The mismeasure of morals: Antisocial personality traits
predict utilitarian responses to moral dilemmas. Cognition, 121(1), 154–61.

45
Once we start to think about deliberation in this richer way, numerous interesting empirical questions
come into view: How are different moral (and other practical) reasons represented, aggregated, and inte-
grated in the brain? How does our cognitive system keep tab both of different kinds of reasons (e.g. relating
to beneficence, fidelity, justice, etc.) and of whether they support or oppose some particular option in a
choice situation? (After all reasons of different types can simultaneously support and oppose a given option.)
Does the brain represent the number of reasons in favor of some option independently of their strength? (A
single weighty reason can outweigh numerous weak ones.) How does the brain represent and process the
distinction between pro tanto reasons and all-things-considered ones (or “oughts”)? Is the outcome of de-
liberation merely a function of the context-invariant strength of each reason, or is a function of the holistic
constellation of reasons in each particular situation, as Ross and Dancy argue?
36 Guy Kahane

Berker, S. 2009. The normative insignificance of neuroscience. Philosophy and Public Affairs, 37,
293–329.
Bruggemann, J. M., and Barry, R. J. 2002. Eysenck’s P as a modulator of affective and electro-
dermal responses to violent and comic film. Personality and Individual Differences, 32,
1029–48.
Carney, D. R., and Mason, M. F. 2010. Decision making and testosterone: When the ends justify
the means. Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, 46, 668–71.
Choe, S. Y., and Min, K.-H. 2011. Who makes utilitarian judgments? The influences of emotions
on utilitarian judgments. Judgment and Decision Making, 6, 580–92.
Ciaramelli, E., Muccioli, M., Làdavas, E., and di Pellegrino, G. 2007. Selective deficit in personal
moral judgment following damage to ventromedial prefrontal cortex. Social Cognitive and
Affective Neuroscience, 2, 84–92.
Cima, M., Tonnaer, F., and Hauser, M. D. 2010. Psychopaths know right from wrong but don’t
care. Social Cognitive and Affective Neuroscience, 5, 59–67.
Conway, P., and Gawronski, B. 2013. Deontological and utilitarian inclinations in moral decision
making: A process dissociation approach. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 104(2),
216–35.
Corr, P. J. 2010. The psychoticism–psychopathy continuum: A neuropsychological model of
core deficits. Personality and Individual Differences, 48, 695–703.
Crockett, M. J., Clark, L., Hauser, M. D., and Robbins, T. W. 2010. Serotonin selectively influ-
ences moral judgment and behavior through effects on harm aversion. Proceedings of the
National Academy of Sciences, 107, 17433–8.
Cushman, F., Gray, K., Gaffey, A., and Mendes, W. B. 2012. Simulating murder: The aversion to
harmful action. Emotion, 12(1), 2–7.
Cushman, F., Young, L., and Greene, J. D. 2010. Our multi-system moral psychology: Towards a
consensus view. In J. M. Doris (ed.), Oxford Handbook of Moral Psychology. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Cushman, F., Young, L., and Hauser, M. 2006. The role of conscious reasoning and intuition in
moral judgment: Testing three principles of harm. Psychological Science, 17, 1082–9.
Decety, J., Michalska, K. J., and Kinzler, K. D. 2012. The contribution of emotion and cognition to
moral sensitivity: A neurodevelopmental study. Cerebral Cortex, 22(1), 209–20.
Etkin, A., Egner, T., Peraza, D. M., Kandel, E. R., Hirsch, J. 2006. Resolving emotional con-
flict: A role for the rostral anterior cingulate cortex in modulating activity in the amygdala.
Neuron, 51, 871–82.
Evans, J. 2007. Dual-processing accounts of reasoning, judgment, and social cognition. Annual
Review of Psychology, 59, 255–78.
Eysenck, H. J. 1976. Psychoticism as a dimension of personality. London: Hodder & Stoughton.
Eysenck, H. J. 1992. The definition and measurement of psychoticism. Personality and Individual
Differences, 13, 757–85.
Foot, P. 1978. The problem of abortion and the doctrine of double effect. In Foot, Virtues and
Vices. Oxford: Blackwell.
Frederick, S. 2005. Cognitive reflection and decision making. Journal of Economic Perspectives,
19(4), 25–42.
Hermans, E. J., Putman, P., and Van Honk, J. 2006. Testosterone administration reduces empa-
thetic behavior: A facial mimicry study. Psychoneuroendocrinology, 37, 859–866.
 Intuitive and Counterintuitive Morality 37

Glenn, A. L., Koleva, S., Iyer, R., Graham, J., and Ditto, P. H. 2010. Moral identity in psychopathy.
Judgment and Decision Making, 5, 497–505.
Glenn, A. L., Raine A., and Schug R. A. 2009. The neural correlates of moral decision-making in
psychopathy. Molecular Psychiatry, 14, 5–9.
Green, S., Lambon Ralph, M. A., Moll, J., Stamatakis, E. A., and Zhan, R. 2010. Selective func-
tional integration between anterior temporal and distinct fronto-mesolimbic regions during
guilt and indignation. Neuroimage, 54, 1720–6.
Greene, J. D. 2008. The secret joke of Kant’s soul. In W. Sinnott-Armstrong (ed.), Moral
Psychology: The Neuroscience of Morality, pp. 35–79. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
Greene, J. D. 2009. Dual-process morality and the personal/impersonal distinction: A reply to
McGuire, Langdon, Coltheart, and Mackenzie. Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, 45,
581–4.
Greene, J. D., and Haidt, J. 2002. How and where does moral judgment work? Trends in Cognitive
Science, 6, 517–23.
Greene, J. D., Morelli, S. A., Lowenberg, K., Nystrom, L. E., and Cohen, J. D. 2008. Cognitive load
selectively interferes with utilitarian moral judgment. Cognition, 107, 1144–54.
Greene, J. D., Nystrom, L. E., Engell, A. D., Darley, J. M., and Cohen, J. D. 2004. The neural bases
of cognitive conflict and control in moral judgment. Neuron, 44, 389–400.
Greene, J. D., Sommerville, R. B., Nystrom, L. E., Darley, J. M., and Cohen, J. D. 2001. An fMRI
investigation of emotional engagement in moral judgment. Science, 293, 2105–7.
Haidt, J. 2001. The emotional dog and its rational tail: A social intuitionist approach to moral
judgment. Psychological Review, 108, 814–34.
Haidt, J. 2007. The new synthesis in moral psychology. Science, 316: 998–1002.
Haidt, J. 2012. The Righteous Mind. New York: Pantheon.
Hare, R. M. 1981. Moral Thinking. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Huebner, B., Dwyer, S., and Hauser, M. 2009. The role of emotion in moral psychology. Trends in
Cognitive Sciences, 13(1), 1–6.
Iyer, R., Koleva, S., Graham, J., Ditto, P., Haidt, J. 2012. Understanding libertarian morality: The
psychological dispositions of self-identified libertarians. PLoS ONE, 7(8): e42366. doi:10.1371/
journal.pone.0042366
Kahane, G. 2012. On the wrong track: Process and content in moral psychology. Mind and
Language, 25(5), 519–45.
Kahane G., Everett, J., Earp, B., Farias, M., and Savulescu, J. Under review.
Kahane, G., and Shackel, N. 2008. Do abnormal responses show utilitarian bias? Nature, 452, 7185.
Kahane, G., and Shackel, N. 2010. Methodological issues in the neuroscience of moral judgment.
Mind and Language, 25, 561–82.
Kahane, G., Wiech, K., Shackel, N., Farias, M., Savulescu, J., and Tracey, I. 2012. The neural
basis of intuitive and counterintuitive moral judgement. Social, Cognitive and Affective
Neuroscience, 7, 393–402.
Kant, I. 1797/1966. On a supposed right to lie from philanthropy. In M. J. Gregor (ed.), Practical
Philosophy, pp. 611–15. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Koenigs, M., Kruepke, M., Zeier, J., and Newman, J. P. 2012. Utilitarian moral judgment in psy-
chopathy. Social, Cognitive and Affective Neuroscience, 7(6), 708–14.
Koenigs, M., Young, L., Adolphs, R., Tranel, D., Cushman, F., Hauser, M., and Damasio, A. 2007.
Damage to the prefrontal cortex increases utilitarian moral judgements. Nature, 446, 908–11.
38 Guy Kahane

Koven, N. S. 2011. Specificity of meta-emotion effects on moral decision-making. Emotion, 11(5),

1255–61.
Krajbich, I., Adolphs, R., Tranel, D., Denburg, N. L., and Camerer, C. F. 2009. Economic games
quantify diminished sense of guilt in patients with damage to the prefrontal cortex. Journal of
Neuroscience, 29, 2188–92.
Kurzban, R., DeScioli, P., and Fein, D. 2012. Hamilton vs. Kant: Pitting adaptations for altruism
against adaptations for moral judgment. Evolution and Human Behavior, 33, 323–33.
de Lazari-Radek, K., and Singer, P. 2012. The objectivity of ethics and the unity of practical
reason. Ethics, 123, 9–31.
McGuire, J., Langdon, R., Coltheart, M., and Mackenzie, C. 2009. A reanalysis of the per-
sonal/impersonal distinction in moral psychology research. Journal of Experimental Social
Psychology, 45(3), 577–80.
Mendez, M. F., Anderson, E., and Shapira, J. S. 2005. An investigation of moral judgement in
frontotemporal dementia. Cognitive and Behavioral Neurology, 18, 193–7.
Moll, J., Krueger, F., Zahn, R., Pardini, M., de Oliveira-Souza, R., and Grafman, J. 2006. Human
fronto–mesolimbic networks guide decisions about charitable donation. Proceedings of the
National Academy of Sciences, 103(42), 15623–8.
Moll, J., and de Oliveira-Souza, R. 2007. Moral judgments, emotions and the utilitarian brain.
Trends in Cognitive Sciences, 11, 319–21.
Moore, A. B., Clark, B. A., and Kane, M. J. 2008. Who shalt not kill? Individual differences in
working memory capacity, executive control, and moral judgment. Psychological Science, 19,
549–57.
Moretto, G., Làdavas, E., Mattioli, F., and di Pellegrino, G. 2009. A psychophysiological inves-
tigation of moral judgment after ventromedial prefrontal damage. Journal of Cognitive
Neuroscience, 22(8), 1888–99.
Nichols, S., and Mallon, R. 2005. Moral dilemmas and moral rules. Cognition, 100(3), 530–42.
Paxton, J. M., Bruni, T., and Greene, J. D. 2013. Are “counter-intuitive” deontological judgments
really counter-intuitive? An empirical reply to Kahane et al. (2012). Social Cognitive and
Affective Neuroscience, nst 102.
Paxton, J. M., and Greene, J. D. 2010. Moral reasoning: Hints and allegations. Topics in Cognitive
Science, 2, 511–27.
Paxton, J. M., Ungar, L., and Greene, J. D. 2012. Reflection and reasoning in moral judgment.
Cognitive Science, 36, 163–77.
Plaisier, X. S., and Konijn, E. A. 2013. Rejected by peers—Attracted to antisocial media con-
tent: Rejection-based anger impairs moral judgment among adolescents. Developmental
Psychology, 49(6), 1165.
Rand, D. G., Greene, J. D., and Nowak, M. A. 2012. Spontaneous giving and calculated
greed. Nature, 489(7416), 427–30.
Ravaja, N., Turpeinen, M., Saari, T., Puttonen, S., and Keltikangas-Jarvinen, L. 2008. The psy-
chophysiology of James Bond: Phasic emotional responses to violent video game events.
Emotion, 8, 114–20.
Ross, W. D. 1930/2002. The Right and the Good. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Shenhav, A., and Greene, J. D. 2010. Moral judgments recruit domain-general valuation mecha-
nisms to integrate representations of probability and magnitude. Neuron, 76, 667–77.
 Intuitive and Counterintuitive Morality 39

Shine, J., and Hobson, J. 1997. Construct validity of the Hare Psychopathy Checklist, Revised, on
a UK prison population. Journal of Forensic Psychiatry and Psychology, 8, 546–61.
Singer, P. 1979. Practical ethics. Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press.
Singer, P. 2005. Ethics and intuitions. Journal of Ethics, 9, 331–52.
Smart, J. J. C. 1961. An Outline of a System of Utilitarian Ethics. Melbourne: Melbourne University
Press.
Stanovich, K. 1999. Who is Rational? Studies of Individual Differences in Reasoning. Mahwah,
NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum.
Suter, R. S., and R. Hertwig. 2011. Time and moral judgment. Cognition, 119(3), 454–8.
Terbeck, S., Kahane, G., McTavish, S., Levi, N., Savulescu, J., Cowen, P., Hewstone, M. 2013.
Beta-adrenergic blockade reduces utilitarian judgment. Biological Psychology, 92(2), 323–8.
Thomson, J. J. 1976. Killing, letting die, and the trolley problem. The Monist, 59(2), 204–17.
Ugazio, G., Lamm, C., and Singer, T. 2012. The role of emotions for moral judgments depends on
the type of emotion and moral scenario. Emotion, 12(3), 579.
Unger, P. 1996. Living High and Letting Die: Our Illusion of Innocence. Oxford: Oxford University
Press.
Wiech, K., Kahane, G., Shackel, N., Farias, M., Savulescu, J., and Tracey, I. 2013. Cold or calcu-
lating? Reduced activity in the subgenual cingulate reflects decreased aversion to harming in
counterintuitive utilitarian judgment. Cognition, 126, 364–72.
Williams, B. A. O. 1965. Ethical consistency. Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society (Supplement),
39, 103–24.
Williams, B. A. O. 1973. A critique of utilitarianism. In J. J. C. Smart and B. A. O Williams (eds.),
Utilitarianism: For and Against. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Youssef, F. F., Dookeeram, K., Basdeo, V., Francis, E., Doman, M., Mamed, D., Maloo, S.,
Degannes, J., Dobo, L., Ditshotlo, P., and Legall, G. 2012. Stress alters personal moral decision
making. Psychoneuroendocrinology, 37, 491–8.
Zahn, R., Moll, J., Paiva, M., Garrido, G., Krueger, F., Huey, E. D., and Grafman, J. 2009a. The
neural basis of human social values: Evidence from functional MRI. Cerebral Cortex, 19,
276–83.
Zahn, R., de Oliveira-Souza, R., Bramati, I., Garrido, G., and Moll, J. 2009b. Subgenual cingu-
late activity reflects individual differences in empathic concern. Neuroscience Letters, 457(2),
107–10.
 3
Moral Psychology as
Accountability
Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

1. Introduction
When moral psychology exploded a decade ago with groundbreaking research, there
was considerable excitement about the potential fruits of collaboration between moral
philosophers and moral psychologists. However, this enthusiasm soon gave way to
controversy about whether either field was, or even could be, relevant to the other (e.g.,
Greene 2007; Berker 2009). After all, it seems at first glance that the primary question
researched by moral psychologists—how people form judgments about what is mor-
ally right and wrong—is independent from the parallel question investigated by moral
philosophers—what is in fact morally right and wrong, and why.
Once we transcend the narrow bounds of quandary ethics and “trolleyology,” how-
ever, a broader look at the fields of moral psychology and moral philosophy reveals sev-
eral common interests. Moral philosophers strive not only to determine what actions
are morally right and wrong, but also to understand our moral concepts, practices, and
psychology. They ask what it means to be morally right, wrong, or obligatory: What
distinguishes moral principles from other norms of action, such as those of instru-
mental rationality, prudence, excellence, or etiquette (Anscombe 1958; Williams 1985;
Gibbard 1990; Annas 1995)? Moral psychologists pursue this very question in research
on the distinction between moral and conventional rules (Turiel 1983; Nichols 2002;
Kelly et al. 2007; Royzman, Leeman, and Baron 2009) and in attempts to define the
moral domain (e.g., Haidt and Kesebir 2010). Moral psychologists also research the
question of what motivates moral behavior (e.g., Batson 2008), a question that phi-
losophers have been debating from Plato’s story of Gyges’ ring (Plato c.380 BC/1992)
to the present day (Nagel 1970; Foot 1972; Stocker 1976; Herman 1981; Gauthier 1986;
Korsgaard 1986; Smith 1994; Shafer-Landau 2003; Rosati 2006). And right in step with
the “affect revolution” in moral psychology (Haidt 2003), there has been burgeoning
philosophical interest in the nature and significance of the moral emotions (Strawson
1968; Taylor 1985; Watson 1987; Wallace 1994; D’Arms and Jacobson 2000; Velleman
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 41

2001; Hieronymi 2004; Sher 2006; Scanlon 2008; Hurley and Macnamara 2010;
Bagnoli 2011; Bell 2013; Coates and Tognazzini 2013).
These three areas of common interest—moral motivation, the moral emotions, and
the distinctiveness of morality—present an underappreciated opportunity for fruitful
collaboration between moral philosophers and moral psychologists. As a step in this
direction, this chapter argues that a recent philosophical proposal regarding the nature
of morality provides significant insights into moral psychology. The philosophical
framework we present makes substantive psychological predictions which are well
confirmed by the empirical literature.
Our central claim is that the psychology of morality, especially that of the moral
motives and emotions, is best understood within a conception of morality—morality
as accountability—that one of us has defended (Darwall 2006; 2013a; 2013b). According
to morality as accountability, moral right and wrong involve accountability conceptu-
ally.1 In taking an action to be morally wrong, for example, we take it to be something
we are justifiably held accountable for doing through distinctive emotions and atti-
tudes that P. F. Strawson called “reactive attitudes,” such as condemnation or indigna-
tion when the agent is someone else, or guilt when it is we ourselves (Strawson 1968).
Strawson argued convincingly that reactive attitudes like moral blame involve a dis-
tinctive way of regarding people, whether others or ourselves, that holds them account-
able for complying with demands we take to be legitimate. Darwall (2006) explores
the distinctively interpersonal or “second-personal” structure of these attitudes and
argues that the central moral concepts of obligation or duty, right, and wrong are all
essentially tied to second-personal attitudes and practices.
The philosophical theory of morality as accountability can be seen as a response to
the question of what it is for an action to be morally right or wrong. Questions of the
moral rightness or wrongness of an action must be carefully distinguished from other
normative, ethical, and even moral questions. For example, the question of what is the
most desirable life for a human being or what makes for human well-being is clearly a
normative issue. But even if a good human life were to include morally right conduct
as an essential element, the normative question of what makes a human life desirable
is not itself a question of moral right and wrong. Neither is the question of what is es-
timable, or worthy of emulation, pride, and praise a moral issue in this sense. Many
estimable accomplishments and traits are distinctively moral, of course, but many have
relatively little to do with morality—artistic achievements, for example. And even if

1
We are not the first to emphasize the connection between morality and accountability. In psychology,
this connection has been extensively explored in the research of Philip Tetlock (e.g., Tetlock 2002), as well
as in Jonathan Haidt’s recent book (Haidt 2012). In philosophy, this connection has been previously empha-
sized in the work of Allan Gibbard (1990), Gary Watson (1987, 1996), and R. Jay Wallace (1994), among
others. Unfortunately, we do not have the space to survey this important work here. Our aim is to add to
this literature by tying these philosophical and psychological threads together, specifically by applying the
philosophical account offered in Darwall (2006) to the psychological question of the contents of the moral
conscience and condemnation motives. Thanks to Jonathan Haidt for pressing us to clarify this point.
42 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

moral virtue and conduct were the only thing worthy of admiration, meriting admi-
ration or contempt would nonetheless remain a different thing from being morally
obligatory or prohibited.
Setting to one side these other morally relevant concepts and questions, let us focus
on the “deontic” concepts of moral obligation or duty, right, and wrong. These con-
cepts are interdefinable. If something is a moral obligation or duty, it follows that it
would be morally wrong not to do it, and conversely. When people say that something
would be “morally right,” they can mean one of two things: either that it is morally
obligatory or that it is not wrong, hence not obligatory not to do.
We are interested in what it is for an action to be morally obligatory. Since one way
of referring to an action as a moral duty or obligation is to say that it is something one
“morally ought” to do, and since a popular philosophical approach to “oughts” in gen-
eral is in terms of normative reasons favoring something, a natural thought is that what
it is for an action to be a moral duty is for there to be most moral reason to do it.
Following a line of argument similar to G. E. Moore’s famous “open question ar-
gument,” however, we can see why, however plausible this may seem on theoretical
grounds, it cannot be correct (Moore 1903/1993). It seems clear that two people can be
completely agreed that the balance of moral reasons most favors an action, but none-
theless coherently disagree about whether the action is morally required or obliga-
tory, that is, whether it would be morally wrong to fail to perform it. For example, an
act utilitarian might hold that it would be wrong not to perform a certain action that,
though it would require a massive sacrifice for the agent (say, significant harm and the
risk of death), would produce greater good overall than any other act available to her
in the circumstances. A critic might agree with the act utilitarian that the act would be
the morally best thing the agent could do, but nonetheless hold that morality does not
require an agent in such a circumstance to produce such an outcome at such a personal
cost. Such a sacrifice, the critic might hold, would be an unreasonable one for the agent
to be asked to bear to produce the outcome and, consequently, that act utilitarianism
“demands too much” to be a plausible theory of moral duty, even if it were the correct
theory of moral reasons. There can be, the critic holds, supererogatory acts that are
above and beyond the call of moral duty, whereas the act utilitarian holds there to be
no such category, thinking that our moral duty is always to do whatever will produce
the best consequences overall.2
Regardless of who, act utilitarian or critic, would be right about this, it seems ob-
vious that the two could coherently disagree about this question. But if that is so, then
our interlocutors cannot both mean by “morally obligatory” being what there is most
moral reason to do, since they could be agreed that the self-sacrificial, optimific act is
what there is most moral reason to do in the situation but disagreed about whether this
act is morally obligatory, or wrong not to do.

2
Scheffler (1982) discusses this debate at length, ultimately siding with our critic.
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 43

Darwall (2006) argues that the element that is lacking in the idea of what morality
favors but essential to the deontic ideas of moral duty, obligation, or requirement, and
moral prohibition or wrong, is that of moral demands with which we are accountable
for complying. It is no part whatsoever of the idea that there is good reason, even good
or best moral reason, to do something that the agent is in any way answerable to others
for failing to do it and justifiably held answerable with reactive attitudes such as moral
blame. This is, however, essential to the deontic ideas of moral obligation, right, and
wrong. It is a conceptual truth that conduct is morally wrong if, and only if, the agent
would justifiably be regarded with the attitude of moral blame by any agent (including
himself), were he to undertake it without excuse. What our act utilitarian and critic
were disagreeing about is whether the agent in question would be blameworthy if she
were to fail to undertake the self-sacrificial but morally optimific action without excuse.
We turn now to the notion of accountability and to the role and character of re-
active attitudes like moral blame in holding people accountable. A central theme of
Strawson’s (and of Darwall 2006) is that reactive attitudes like moral blame involve a
way of regarding someone that is distinctively “inter-personal” or “second personal.”3
Reactive attitudes differ from other critical attitudes, like contempt or disdain, in im-
plicitly making a (putatively) legitimate demand of their objects and holding their
objects accountable for complying with it (Strawson 1968, 85; see also Watson 1987
and Wallace 1994; for a dissenting view, see Macnamara 2013). Critical attitudes like
contempt and disdain also apply an implicit standard, against which their objects are
found wanting, but they do not implicitly summon their objects to hold themselves
accountable for complying with this standard in the same way that reactive attitudes
do. Unlike these other critical attitudes, moral blame comes with an implicit RSVP,
an implicit demand for accountability and acknowledgment of the legitimacy of this
demand. Whereas shame internalizes contempt, guilt reciprocates blame by acknowl-
edging the legitimacy of its implicit demand, and it is itself a form of holding oneself
accountable for complying with this demand.
It is through this analysis of the moral emotions that our philosophical proposal
makes direct contact with moral psychology. Contained in the second-personal analy-
ses of guilt and blame are specific psychological hypotheses about the cognitive pre-
suppositions and motivational consequences of these emotions. We shall now turn to
the psychological theses that we will defend throughout the remainder of this chapter,
explaining how they follow from the philosophical framework laid out above.
Following a model of emotion that is popular among both psychologists (Baumeister
et al. 2007) and philosophers (Hurley and Macnamara 2010), we take complex, con-
scious emotions such as guilt and blame to have cognitive and motivational com-
ponents in addition to their basic phenomenological and physiological “feel.” The
cognitive component of an emotion is the state of affairs the emotion represents as

3
“Inter-personal” is Strawson’s term. Darwall (2006) uses “second-personal” to emphasize that the log-
ical structure of these attitudes mimics the grammatical second person: They have an implicit addressee.
44 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

obtaining. The motivational component of an emotion is the goal or motive that the
emotion activates. A clear example of both these components is provided by fear,
which portrays its object as dangerous (cognitive component) and motivates the sub-
ject to avoid that danger (motivational component).
The second-personal analyses of guilt and blame imply hypotheses about the cog-
nitive and motivational components of these two emotions. Blame portrays its object
(some other person) as having committed a moral wrong without excuse. And guilt
makes the same “charge” concerning oneself. These are the cognitive components of
blame and guilt, respectively. We can characterize the motivational component of
both emotions as the desire to hold the wrongdoer accountable, whether that person
is oneself (in the case of guilt) or someone else (in the case of blame). Let us elaborate
on this claim. To hold someone accountable to an obligation just is to make a (puta-
tively legitimate) moral demand of that person. When a moral wrong has already been
committed, one can hold a perpetrator accountable by pressing the demand that was
flouted via expressions of blame and reproach. The implicit goal of these condemna-
tory actions is to get the perpetrator to hold himself accountable.
How can a perpetrator hold himself accountable? By regarding his actions as con-
demnable in the same way that an outside party would, and responding appropri-
ately to this fact. He can take responsibility by acknowledging and internalizing the
wrongness of his action. This process of holding oneself accountable always requires
(i) accepting that one did wrong and is blameworthy, (ii) not merely believing that, but
also having the attitude of self-blame or guilt, and (iii) internalizing the standard that
one’s wrongful action violated, and thus being motivated to comply with this standard
in the future. Since this internalization will also motivate one to counteract the wrong
that was done, holding oneself accountable will often involve (iv) acknowledging one’s
guilt to others; (v) taking steps to ensure one’s own future compliance with the violated
standard; (vi) taking steps to demonstrate one’s intention to comply with said standard
to others; (vii) accepting punishment or sanction for one’s wrongdoing; and (viii) com-
pensating and making amends with the victims of one’s wrongdoing, if there are any.
By performing some or all of these actions, the perpetrator holds himself to the very
demand that he had previously shirked.4
We can now formulate our claims about the motivational components of guilt and
blame more precisely. Guilt motivates its subject to hold herself accountable by making
the very demand of herself that she flouted in doing wrong; adequately holding oneself
accountable will involve performing some or all of the actions listed in the previous
paragraph. Blame motivates its subject to get the wrongdoer to hold himself account-
able. People pursue this motive by holding the perpetrator accountable themselves,

4
Note that holding oneself accountable sometimes involves actions that require others’ participation: e.g.
(iv), (vi), (vii), and (viii) on this list. This means that holding oneself accountable is not necessarily some-
thing one can do all by oneself.
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 45

pressing the violated demand with verbal reproach, expressions of outrage, and
punishment.
The motives that accompany blame and guilt are, we claim, the fundamental motives
driving moral behavior. Following DeScioli and Kurzban (2009), we distinguish two
primary moral motives: conscience, the motive to regulate one’s own behavior by moral
norms, and condemnation, the motive to respond to others’ moral wrongdoing with
behaviors such as reproach and punishment. Our claim is that the motivational com-
ponents of blame and guilt, as described above, are one and the same as the motives of
moral condemnation and conscience, respectively.
Regarding condemnation, this is a straightforward claim: The motive that accom-
panies blame, i.e. the motive to get the wrongdoer to hold herself accountable, is the
drive behind condemnatory behavior. Regarding conscience, it is less obvious what
our claim amounts to. This is because guilt is a backward-looking emotion, responding
to a wrong action one has already performed, while conscience is more intuitively con-
ceived as a forward-looking motivation to avoid doing wrong in one’s future actions.
However, the conscience motive and the condemnation motive can each arise in
both backward-looking and forward-looking contexts. The backward-looking con-
demnation and conscience motives are, respectively, the motivational components of
blame and guilt, driving one to respond to wrongdoing by holding the perpetrator ac-
countable to the demand that was already violated (whether that perpetrator is oneself
or someone else). The forward-looking motives of conscience and condemnation aim
to hold people to moral demands before they are violated. In forward-looking contexts,
the condemnation motive is the goal to hold others to the demands of morality in their
future conduct, while the conscience motive is the goal to hold oneself to the demands
of morality in one’s own future conduct.
We can now state our psychological theses in full, beginning with conscience.
Looking forward, the conscience goal is to fulfill one’s moral obligations, or equiv-
alently, to comply with the moral demands to which others may legitimately hold
one accountable. Looking backward, after one has already committed moral wrong
without excuse, the conscience goal is to hold oneself accountable, internalizing the
moral demand that one flouted, making amends, and demonstrating to others one’s
future intent to comply. This backward-looking conscience motive is the motivational
component of the emotion of guilt, the cognitive component of which is the belief that
one has committed moral wrong.
Looking forward, the condemnation goal is to hold others to the demand that they
not do moral wrong. Looking backward, after another person has already committed
moral wrong without excuse, the condemnation goal is to get the perpetrator to hold
herself accountable for her wrongdoing. One pursues this goal by holding the perpe-
trator accountable oneself, pressing the demand that was flouted via verbal reproach,
expressions of blame, and even punishment. This backward-looking condemnation
motive is the motivational component of the emotion of blame, the cognitive compo-
nent of which is the belief that some other person has committed moral wrong.
46 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

We do not of course claim that accountability-based motivations and attitudes are

the only mental states that can motivate moral conduct. Neither do we make any spe-
cific claims about these motives’ strengths relative to other motives in human psy-
chology. Rather, we claim only that the conscience and condemnation motives exist,
have the contents we have described, and crucially, are unique in non-coincidentally
motivating moral behavior. While any motive may, in Kant’s phrase, “fortunately
ligh[t]‌upon what is in fact . . . in conformity with duty” (Kant 1785/1996: 53, Ak. 4: 398),
only motives and attitudes, like those we will be discussing, that involve holding oneself
to standards of moral right and wrong can non-accidentally motivate an agent to avoid
what would be morally wrong in her own view.
Our theory posits a deep unity to the moral motives. Whether the object of concern
is one’s own actions or another person’s, in the future or the past, the moral motives ac-
tive in each of these contexts can all be described as motives to uphold the demands of
morality. The philosophical account of morality as accountability has brought us, with
some elaboration, to a unified psychological theory of the moral motives and emotions.
We will now argue that our psychological theses are supported by the existing exper-
imental data. In section 2, we will defend our theory of condemnation; in section 3, we
will defend our theory of conscience. In section 4, we will turn to the implications of
our framework for the distinctive nature of morality itself.

2. Moral Condemnation
2.1. Section Prospectus
What is the motive driving morally condemnatory behavior? When we condemn, re-
proach, censure, sanction, or punish someone for doing wrong, what are we trying to
accomplish?
Our answer to this question is that people are motivated to respond to perceived
moral wrongdoing with condemnatory actions primarily in order to get the per-
petrator to hold herself accountable for her wrongdoing. Call this the accounta-
bility theory of condemnation. In this section, we will argue that the accountability
theory better accounts for the experimental data on condemnation than any of the
available alternatives. We will begin by considering two intuitively plausible theo-
ries of condemnation, which we call the egoistic theory and the deterrence theory.
Due to evidence which we shall review (§2.2 and §2.3), most psychologists have
rejected both of these theories. We will then turn to the theory of condemnation
that seems to be currently most popular, which we call the retributive theory (§2.4).
Directly comparing the retributive theory with our accountability theory, we shall
argue that the evidence strongly favors the accountability theory. We conclude by
addressing a recent challenge to the idea that genuinely moral condemnation exists
at all (§2.5).
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 47

2.2. The Egoistic Theory

The egoistic theory says that moral condemnation is motivated by a goal to at-
tain a self-interested benefit of some kind. Different egoistic theories posit different
self-interested motives underlying condemnatory behavior. The three most prominent
views hold that condemners seek material benefit, reputational benefit, and mood im-
provement. We will consider each proposal in turn.
The material benefit theory says that condemnatory sanctions are applied as neg-
ative incentives with the aim of motivating others to provide material goods to the
condemner. This was once taken to be the default explanation of punishment behavior
in economic games such as the Public Goods game. However, studies of these very
games have refuted this version of the egoistic theory. Subjects are willing to pay a fee
to punish non-cooperative players even when doing so guarantees a net material loss,
since they will have no further interactions with the individuals whom they punish
(Fehr and Gächter 2000; Fehr, Fischbacher, and Gächter 2002; Turillo et al. 2002; Fehr
and Fischbacher 2004). If subjects were merely pursuing material or financial gain,
they would not pay to punish in such conditions.
The theory that condemnatory behavior aims for reputational benefit has more em-
pirical support. One study has shown that subjects will pay more of their own money
to punish a free rider when their decision will be made known to others than when it is
anonymous (Kurzban, DeScioli, and O’Brien 2007). The proposed explanation of this
result is that others will view a person more positively for punishing a non-cooperative
other, and so people condemn in order to secure this social approval.5 However, sev-
eral studies have shown that people are willing to punish at cost to themselves even
in totally anonymous conditions, which offer no opportunity for reputational gain or
loss (Turillo et al. 2002; Fehr and Fischbacher 2004; Gächter and Herrmann 2008).
The reputation-based egoistic theory cannot account for the motive to punish in these
anonymous contexts.
The final egoistic theory we will consider says that people condemn wrongdoers in
order to “let off steam,” relieving the negative affect caused by the transgression and
thus improving their mood. This hypothesis has been tested directly by Gollwitzer
and Bushman in a recent paper titled “Do Victims of Injustice Punish to Improve
their Mood?” (Gollwitzer and Bushman 2011). Two studies answer this question
with a resounding no. Both studies confronted subjects with a free-riding perpe-
trator and gave them the opportunity to punish him or her. Some of these subjects
were led to believe that attempts to improve their negative mood would be ineffec-
tive or unnecessary. If condemnation were driven by a mood regulation goal, then
subjects in this experimental condition would not be motivated to punish the per-
petrator, since doing so would be pointless. (Indeed, a previous study using the same

5
We venture that the best explanation for this result is that publicity made these subjects more motivated
to do what they perceived to be morally right, i.e. punish the free rider, since accountability to others acti-
vates the conscience motive (as we argue in §3.2.2).
48 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

experimental design has demonstrated that non-morally motivated aggression is

sometimes driven by a mood regulation goal; see Bushman, Baumeister, and Phillips
2001). However, Gollwitzer and Bushman found no significant difference in pun-
ishing behavior between the subjects in the experimental and control conditions.
This finding tells strongly against the idea that condemnation is driven by an egoistic
goal to improve one’s mood.
As each of the three most plausible egoistic proposals faces powerful empirical
objections, we conclude that we should reject the egoistic theory of condemnation as
a whole.

2.3. The Deterrence Theory

The deterrence theory of condemnation says that condemnatory behaviors are moti-
vated by the goal to deter people from future immoral behavior. This theory is given
some intuitive support by the fact that deterrence benefits seem to provide an ap-
pealing justification for condemnatory behavior, one which many people explicitly
endorse (Ellsworth and Ross 1983; Carlsmith, Darley, and Robinson 2002; Carlsmith
2008).
However, people’s actual condemnatory behavior is insensitive to potential deter-
rence benefits, a robust finding that is fatal to the deterrence theory (Baron, Gowda,
and Kunreuther 1993; Baron and Ritov 1993; Darley, Carlsmith, and Robinson 2000;
Sunstein, Schkade, and Kahneman 2000; Carlsmith, Darley, and Robinson 2002;
Carlsmith 2006; Carlsmith 2008; Carlsmith and Sood 2009; Keller et al. 2010). In most
studies testing the deterrence theory, subjects are told about a crime and are asked to
make a judgment regarding how severely the perpetrator of that crime should be pun-
ished. The experimenters vary the descriptions of the crime according to some factor
that is relevant to the deterrence benefits of the punishment, such as the publicity that
the punishment will receive. The deterrence theory predicts that subjects will judge
that a more severe punishment is appropriate when the potential deterrence benefit is
high, and that a less severe punishment is appropriate when the potential deterrence
benefit is low. The findings in all of these studies contradict this prediction: The se-
verity of punishment subjects judge to be appropriate is simply insensitive to varia-
tions in potential deterrence benefit. In some studies, subjects even assign substantial
punishments when doing so will have harmful effects in addition to not having any
deterrent effect (Baron, Gowda, and Kunreuther 1993; Baron and Ritov 1993). This ro-
bust pattern of insensitivity to deterrence benefits demonstrates that condemnatory
behavior is not motivated by the goal to deter future wrongdoing.

2.4. The Accountability Theory vs. the Retributive Theory

We take the most compelling alternative to our proposal to be what we call the re-
tributive theory of condemnation. This theory claims that condemnatory behavior is
motivated by the goal to cause harm to the perpetrator in proportion with the blame-
worthiness of the perpetrator’s wrongdoing. From the retributive perspective, the
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 49

punishment imposed on the perpetrator is an end in itself, and the sole end condemn-
ers are after. In contrast, the accountability theory views punishment as a means to the
end of getting the perpetrator to hold himself accountable for his wrongdoing. On our
view, merely punishing the perpetrator is not sufficient to satisfy the condemnation
motive—the perpetrator must also acknowledge his wrongdoing, feel remorse, make
amends, etc., in order for the condemner’s goal to be fulfilled.

2.4.1. Evidence for the Retributive Theory

The retributive theory has traditionally been presented as an alternative to the de-
terrence theory. As a result, empirical tests of the retributive theory have focused on
testing it against the deterrence theory. The results of these experiments heavily favor
the retributive theory. In addition to finding that the severity of punishment subjects
judge appropriate is not sensitive to deterrence benefits, these studies have found that
subjects’ punishment judgments are sensitive to the perceived blameworthiness of
the perpetrator (Baron, Gowda, and Kunreuther 1993; Baron and Ritov 1993; Darley,
Carlsmith, and Robinson 2000; Sunstein, Schkade, and Kahneman 2000; Carlsmith,
Darley and Robinson 2002; Carlsmith 2006; Carlsmith 2008; Carlsmith and Sood
2009; Keller et al. 2010). The more blameworthy the subjects deem the offense, the
more severe the punishment they recommend—a pattern predicted by the retributive
theory, but not by the deterrence theory.
Crucially, however, these studies do not support the retributive theory over the ac-
countability theory, or vice versa. Both theories predict that people will judge more
severe punishments to be appropriate for more blameworthy crimes. On our favored
view, punishment is a part of the larger process of holding the perpetrator account-
able. By imposing a punishment on the perpetrator, the condemner communicates to
the perpetrator the blameworthiness of his offense, thus pushing him to internalize
this blameworthiness, feel remorse, and hold himself accountable. By accepting the
punishment, the perpetrator can censure himself and thereby demonstrate his com-
mitment to the moral standard that he violated.6 Imposing and accepting punishment
are actions of the same kind as imposing and accepting verbal reproach—the former
is simply a more severe version of the latter. So, just as more blameworthy actions
warrant a harsher reproach, they also warrant harsher punishments. Hence the ac-
countability theory predicts that more blameworthy actions will motivate more severe
punishments, just as the retributive theory does. So we shall set the results confirming
this prediction aside, and turn to experiments that can tell between these two theories.

6
This characterization is supported by interview data on punishment in romantic relationships: “punish-
ment sends a signal that something is wrong and a relationship rule has been broken; it helps to ‘educate’ an
offending partner about the hurt partner and his or her needs . . . Notably, several participants also described
the function of punishment as a ‘test’ for the relationship. If a punished partner responds with empathy
and remorse, and does not retaliate in turn, then this is a reliable sign of commitment to the relationship”
(Fitness and Peterson 2008, 262).
50 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

2.4.2. Evidence for the Accountability Theory

The retributive and accountability theories make different predictions about the end
state that, when attained, satisfies the condemnation motive. If the retributive theory
is correct, the condemnation motive should be satisfied once the perpetrator has
adequately suffered for his wrongdoing. If the accountability theory is correct, the
condemnation motive should be satisfied when and only when the perpetrator has
adequately held himself accountable for his wrongdoing. Thus the two theories make
different predictions regarding cases where the perpetrator has been punished but has
not held himself accountable by acknowledging his blameworthiness and displaying
remorse.7 If the condemnation motive is satisfied under these conditions, this finding
would favor the retributive theory. If the condemnation motive is not satisfied under
these conditions, that finding would favor the accountability theory. It would provide
further support for the accountability theory if, in addition, the condemnation mo-
tive is satisfied when the perpetrator has acknowledged his blameworthiness and dis-
played remorse in addition to being punished.
To evaluate these predictions, we turn first to the research literature on forgiveness.
McCullough (2001), quoting Webster’s Dictionary, tells us that to forgive is “to give up
resentment against or the desire to punish” (Forgive 1983, 720). If forgiveness is the
giving up of blame, then it should typically result from the satisfaction and resultant
deactivation of the condemnation motive.8 This means that the accountability and re-
tributive theories’ predictions regarding the satisfaction conditions of the condem-
nation motive entail predictions regarding the conditions under which forgiveness
typically occurs. Looking at the forgiveness literature through this lens, the account-
ability theory’s predictions are overwhelmingly supported. One of the most robust
findings from this research is that forgiveness usually occurs when and only when the
perpetrator has adequately demonstrated remorse by acknowledging guilt, apolo-
gizing, and/or offering compensation (McCullough, Worthington, and Rachal 1997;
McCullough et al. 1998; Gold and Weiner 2000; Bottom, Gibson, and Daniels 2002;
de Jong, Peters, and De Cremer 2003; Schmitt et al. 2004; Zechmeister et al. 2004;
Kelley and Waldron 2005; Bachman and Guerrero 2006; McCullough et al. 2009; Fehr,
Gelfand, and Nag 2010; Hannon et al. 2010; Leonard, Mackie, and Smith 2011; Tabak
et al. 2011). In a meta-analysis of over 175 studies, Fehr, Gelfand, and Nag (2010) found
that the extent to which the perpetrator apologizes predicts the degree of the victim’s
forgiveness with a total correlation coefficient of r = .42. This was one of the strongest
effects they found. The hypothesis implied by the retributive theory, that forgiveness
is predicted by the severity of the punishment received by the offender, did not have

7
The two theories also make different predictions for the case where the perpetrator hasn’t been punished
(in any usual sense) but has adequately held himself accountable (including to others).
8
Since it is possible to voluntarily forgive a perpetrator who has neither been punished nor held herself
accountable, this will not always be the case. However, as with the deliberate relinquishment of other unsat-
isfied goals, forgiving before one’s condemnation motive has been satisfied is a difficult endeavor requiring
considerable self-control; we should thus expect such cases to be relatively rare.
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 51

enough support to even make it onto the list of 22 predictive factors tested in Fehr
et al.’s meta-analysis.
A closer look at the studies demonstrating the effects of apology on forgiveness
shows that apologies only elicit forgiveness when they are perceived as a sincere ex-
pression of the perpetrator’s remorse and commitment to improved conduct. A mere
apology is less effective than an apology combined with substantive compensation
(Bottom, Gibson, and Daniels 2002). In fact, without adequate amends, an apology
can backfire, resulting in less forgiveness (Zechmeister et al. 2004). A study that pulled
apart the various elements of an apology showed that forgiveness was most likely when
the perpetrator admitted fault, admitted the damage that was done, expressed remorse,
and offered compensation; only then could the perpetrator ask for forgiveness without
this request backfiring (Schmitt et al. 2004). These studies show that apologies lead to
forgiveness when and only when they are seen as demonstrating that the perpetrator
has fully held himself accountable for his wrongdoing. Given the premise that forgive-
ness is usually caused by the satisfaction of the condemnation motive, this implies that
the condemnation goal aims to get the perpetrator to hold himself accountable.
Beyond the forgiveness literature, we find even more direct experimental tests of the
retributive and accountability theories’ predictions. A study titled “The Paradoxical
Consequences of Revenge” reports the following surprising result: Though people ex-
pect to feel better after they have punished someone who has wronged them, they in
fact feel worse than they would if they had not punished at all (Carlsmith, Wilson, and
Gilbert 2008). Carlsmith et al. put subjects in a Public Goods game staged to have
an offender who encouraged others to cooperate and then did not cooperate herself.
Some subjects were given the opportunity to punish this free rider (punishment condi-
tion) while other subjects had no opportunity to punish (no-punishment condition).
After doling out punishment, the punishment condition subjects had no further inter-
actions with or communication with the perpetrator; so, crucially for our purposes,
there was no opportunity for the perpetrator to take responsibility or signal remorse.
After the study, subjects in the punishment condition reported significantly more neg-
ative affect than subjects in the no-punishment condition. In addition, subjects who
had punished the free rider reported ruminating about the offender more than sub-
jects who had not been given the opportunity to punish.
Carlsmith et al.’s discussion focuses on the implications of these results for our un-
derstanding of affective forecasting. However, we think the study has more direct
relevance to the retributive theory. According to the retributive theory, merely pun-
ishing the offender should be sufficient to fulfill the condemnation goal. Research
on goal pursuit has shown that two important signatures of goal fulfillment are
positive affect and inhibition of goal-relevant concepts; in contrast, negative af-
fect and increased accessibility of goal-relevant concepts are signals of goal frus-
tration (Chartrand 2001; Förster, Liberman, and Higgins 2005; Förster, Liberman,
and Friedman 2007; Liberman, Förster, and Higgins 2007; Denzler, Förster, and
Liberman 2009). Therefore, the negative affect and ruminating thoughts experienced
52 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

by Carlsmith et al.’s subjects after punishing strongly indicates that merely punishing
the offender did not fulfill their motive to condemn, contrary to the retributive theo-
ry’s predictions.
Two other studies report a similar pattern (Gollwitzer and Denzler 2009; Gollwitzer,
Meder, and Schmitt 2010). In both studies, subjects were given the opportunity to
punish a confederate who had treated them unfairly. After doling out punishment,
one group of subjects received a message from the offender communicating his under-
standing that he deserved the punishment he had received (the “understanding” condi-
tion), while the other group either received no communication or received an actively
unrepentant message from the offender. A manipulation check showed that subjects
perceived the “understanding” message to “not only [contain] an admittance of harm
and fault, but also an expression of remorse, an apology, and, most strikingly, a com-
pensation offer” (Gollwitzer, Meder, and Schmitt 2010, 370). In other words, the “un-
derstanding” condition subjects took their offender to be holding himself accountable.
Confirming the accountability theory’s predictions, Gollwitzer et al.’s subjects
showed clear signs of goal fulfillment when they received the “understanding” mes-
sage, but not when they merely punished the offender. In the first study (Gollwitzer
and Denzler 2009), subjects showed significantly decreased automatic accessibility
of aggression-related words after receiving the “understanding” message; as we have
said, this is a strong indicator of goal fulfillment. Subjects who merely punished the
offender showed no such decrease in accessibility, contrary to the retributive theory’s
prediction. In the second study (Gollwitzer, Meder, and Schmitt 2010), subjects re-
ported how satisfied they felt after punishing the offender. Subjects who received the
“understanding” message expressed significantly greater feelings of satisfaction than
subjects in the “no understanding” condition, who, crucially, were no more satisfied
than those who had not punished the offender at all. Contra the retributive theory, mere
punishment did not satisfy subjects if it was not accompanied by the offender’s holding
himself accountable. Confirming the accountability theory, punishment did satisfy
subjects if, and only if, it was accompanied by a message that those subjects saw as
showing that the perpetrator was taking responsibility—admitting fault, expressing
remorse, and apologizing.
Empirical tests of the predictions made by the accountability and retributive theo-
ries confirm the predictions of the accountability theory while disconfirming the pre-
dictions of the retributive theory. We have also seen (in §2.2 and §2.3) that the egoistic
and deterrence theories of condemnation face significant empirical challenges as well.
On this basis, we claim that the accountability theory is the best-supported theory
of moral condemnation currently available. This concludes our argument for the ac-
countability theory of condemnation.

2.5. The Existence of Genuine Moral Condemnation

We conclude our discussion of moral condemnation by considering a recent challenge
to the existence of genuinely moral condemnation offered by C. Daniel Batson and
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 53

colleagues (Batson et al. 2007; Batson, Chao, and Givens 2009; O’Mara et al. 2011). In
a series of studies, Batson et al. have found that people experience and express great
outrage in response to moral violations when the victim is themselves, someone in
their group, or someone with whom they empathically identify, but show much less
outrage at moral wrongdoing when the victim is someone else, outside of their group,
with whom they do not empathize (Batson et al. 2007; Batson, Chao, and Givens
2009; O’Mara et al. 2011; see also the similar results in Yzerbyt et al. 2003; Bernhard,
Fischbacher, and Fehr 2006; and Gordijn et al. 2006). They conclude from this data
that the outrage experienced by their subjects cannot be moral outrage, because moral
outrage would not differentiate in this way between offenses against oneself and one’s
group members on the one hand, and offenses against strangers on the other.
While we do not dispute Batson et al.’s findings, we think the conclusion they
draw from these findings is mistaken. Moral outrage can take both personal and
impersonal forms: The personal resentment felt by a victim of wrongdoing is no
less a form of moral blame than the impersonal indignation felt by a third-party by-
stander (Strawson 1968; Darwall 2012). The fact that people feel personal moral out-
rage more intensely than they feel impersonal moral outrage does not impugn the
moral content of either emotion. Rather, we think this result is best explained by the
simple fact that stimuli must be emotionally salient to produce a strong emotional
response. Wrongs committed against oneself or members of one’s group are more
emotionally salient, so quite understandably, they produce a more intense response
of moral outrage. A similar point holds for altruistic motivation: It can both be the
case that people are sometimes genuinely driven by an altruistic motive to improve
another’s well-being for its own sake (Batson and Shaw 1991) and that people are
much more likely to experience this altruistic motive when another person’s wel-
fare is made emotionally salient to them by empathic perspective-taking (Batson
and Shaw 1991) or identifiability (Small and Loewenstein 2003). In general, the fact
that manipulations of emotional salience affect the intensity of a motive or emo-
tion should not affect the conclusions we draw about the content of that motive or
emotion.
We think Batson et al. are right to emphasize the importance of distinguishing
between non-moral anger and genuinely moral condemnation. However, we do
not think that impersonality is the feature that distinguishes moral outrage from
non-moral anger. Instead, we propose that the distinction between moral and
non-moral anger is best understood in terms of the differing motivations that accom-
pany these emotions. As we have argued in this section, moral anger drives its sub-
ject toward a unique goal: to make the wrongdoer hold himself accountable to the
moral demand he flouted. This goal does not seem to be shared by non-moral anger,
which aims instead at regulating mood (Bushman, Baumeister, and Phillips 2001),
acquiring social status (Griskevicius et al. 2009; Wenzel et al. 2008), or simply inflict-
ing harm for its own sake (Denzler, Förster, and Liberman 2009). By showing that
the condemnation motive has the essentially moral aim of holding a perpetrator to a
54 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

moral demand, as opposed to the morally neutral aims of attaining egoistic benefit,
deterrence, or retribution, we have provided a basis for a principled distinction be-
tween moral and non-moral anger. This is a crucial point: Previous major reviews on
the moral emotions have treated anger as a unitary psychological state (Haidt 2003;
Hutcherson and Gross 2011), and thus have missed a distinction of fundamental im-
portance for moral psychology.9

3. Moral Conscience
3.1. Section Prospectus
What is the motive driving morally conscientious behavior? When we “do the right
thing,” what are we trying to accomplish?
Our answer to this question is that morally conscientious behavior is driven by
moral conscience, an intrinsic desire to comply with moral demands to which one may
be legitimately held accountable, or equivalently, to comply with one’s moral obliga-
tions. This is the accountability theory of moral conscience.
The most popular alternative theory of moral conscience is a view we call the ap-
proval theory. Approval theorists are skeptical about the existence of genuine moral
conscience, maintaining that instead of being motivated to in fact comply with our
moral obligations, we are motivated only to appear as if we are complying with our
moral obligations (Batson 2008). The approval theory denies that human beings have
any intrinsic desire to fulfill their moral obligations, instead claiming that moral be-
havior is driven by an instrumental desire to appear moral in order to gain the egoistic
benefits of good repute. The accountability theory, in contrast, holds that while people
may well be motivated to appear moral and gain a good reputation, these are not the
only motives driving moral behavior; in addition, human beings have an intrinsic de-
sire to uphold their moral duties.
The approval theory is composed of two major theses. First, it claims that morally
conscientious behavior is motivated by what we will call the approval motive, a desire
to gain the moral approval and avoid the moral disapproval of one’s peers. Second, the
approval theory claims that the moral conscience motive does not exist. In contrast,
the accountability theory is not similarly committed to denying the existence of the
approval motive. We think it is obvious that human beings desire approval and fear
disapproval, and that this motive will sometimes contribute to the production of moral
behavior. Our controversial further claim is that human agents also desire to uphold

9
An illuminating exception to this trend is Lemay, Overall, and Clark (2012), whose distinction between
“hurt” and “anger” closely corresponds to our own proposed distinction between moral and non-moral
anger, with what they call “hurt” corresponding to what we call “moral anger,” and what they call “anger”
corresponding to what we call “non-moral anger.” Our proposal moves one step beyond Lemay et al.’s in
hypothesizing that the moral/non-moral anger distinction applies not only to the condemnatory emotions
of victims, but to those of third parties as well.
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 55

morality for its own sake: People are sometimes motivated by genuine moral con-
science. So the disagreement between the accountability and approval theories boils
down to the question of whether moral conscience exists.
Some might worry that the approval theory as we have described it is a straw man
opponent, since we have saddled this theory with the very strong negative claim that
moral conscience does not exist. A more plausible version of the approval theory
might acknowledge that the moral conscience motive exists, but claim that it plays a
minor role in producing moral behavior compared with the far more powerful ap-
proval motive. (A view like this is advocated in Haidt 2012.) This hybrid view presents a
more formidable opponent, which our arguments do not directly address.10 However,
we think the more radical version of the approval theory we address is worth arguing
against, even if it is a straw man. Just as philosophers argue against skepticism about
our knowledge of the external world, not because anyone actually holds this view, but
in order to find a more secure foundation for this knowledge, it is worthwhile to argue
against skepticism about moral conscience even if no one actually holds this view, in
order to find a more secure foundation for our theory of moral conscience. To this end,
we will focus on the stronger version of the approval theory, which denies the existence
of moral conscience.11
The accountability theory does not merely affirm the existence of moral conscience,
however: It also provides a theory of the content of this conscience motive. A more
orthodox view of moral conscience takes the idea of moral obligation as primitive,
saying that what it is for an agent to represent a rule as a moral obligation is just for
her to include it in her internal list of moral principles. An agent determines what
principles make it onto this “moral rule list” by exercising her individual faculty of
moral judgment. Regarding what distinguishes the rules that an agent takes to be her
moral obligations from any other rules, all that seems to be said is that these rules are
somehow internally stamped with a “morality label” that picks them out as the rules
relevant to moral conscience. On this view, the conscience goal aims to have one’s be-
havior conform to those rules that one has internally labeled as morally obligatory.
Contrast this orthodox view of moral conscience with the accountability theory.
Rather than leaving the concept of moral obligation as primitive, the accountability
theory provides an analysis of what it is to represent a rule as a moral obligation. As
stated in the introduction, we hold that to regard a rule as a moral obligation just is
to regard it as a demand to which any agent may legitimately hold one accountable
with the reactive attitude of blame if one violates the demand without excuse. Thus
we can elaborate upon the content of the conscience motive as follows: The goal to

10
However, our arguments do have some significance for the hybrid view. We argue in §3.2 that patterns
of behavior that are usually ascribed to the approval motive can be explained at least as well by appeal to the
conscience motive. Our arguments thus undermine any argument based in this data for the view that the
approval motive is more powerful than the conscience motive, since the data may be explained by the con-
science motive as well.
11
Thanks to Jonathan Haidt for raising this concern.
56 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

comply with one’s moral obligations is one and the same as the goal to comply with
those demands to which one may legitimately be held accountable. As we shall see
(especially in §3.2.2), this elaborated theory of the conscience motive has explanatory
resources that the more orthodox view of conscience does not.
It is important to distinguish the conscience motive as the accountability theory
construes it from the motive posited by the approval theorist. The approval motive
can be described as the motive to comply with those demands to which one is actu-
ally being held accountable by others; or to avoid incurring others’ blame and disap-
proval. In contrast, the conscience motive we posit is the motive to comply with those
demands to which one would legitimately be held accountable by others; or to avoid
warranting others’ blame and disapproval. The crucial difference is between wanting to
avoid being blamed (approval motive) and wanting to avoid being blameworthy (con-
science motive).
The present section will be an extended argument in favor of the accountability
theory over the approval theory. The second part of the section (§3.2) will be dedicated
to rebutting arguments for the approval theory; the final part (§3.3) will present a posi-
tive argument for the accountability theory based in data on guilt and shame.
Before we proceed, however, we wish to mention and set aside a third view of moral
conscience that, although initially appealing, is ultimately untenable. This is the idea
that the moral conscience motive is a motive of altruistic compassion for others based
in empathy. Though an empathy-based altruistic motive has been shown to exist and
often leads to morally right actions such as helping those in need (Batson and Shaw
1991), this motive does not have the right kind of content to either count as a moral
conscience motive or explain all cases of morally conscientious behavior. The goal of
empathy-based altruism is to help the person for whom empathy is felt, considered
independently of the morality of doing so; thus this motive has no intrinsic moral con-
tent. In line with this conceptual point, at least one study has experimentally disso-
ciated the empathy-based altruistic motive to help a specific person from the moral
conscience motive to treat people fairly (Batson et al. 1995). This study also illustrates
our second point, that there are many kinds of morally conscientious behavior that
are not plausibly explained by altruistic concern for others’ welfare, such as people’s
concern for fairness, hierarchy, authority, promissory and contractual obligations, and
religious strictures. Thus, though empathy-based altruism may well sometimes help
to motivate moral behavior, it cannot itself be the moral conscience motive. What the
moral conscience motive is, and whether it exists, are the questions to which we now
turn.

3.2. Arguments for the Approval Theory

In this section, we will present what we take to be the two strongest arguments for the
approval theory, and argue that the accountability theory has the resources to rebut
both arguments.
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 57

3.2.1. First Argument: Moral Hypocrisy and Moral Licensing

The most explicit and direct arguments for the approval theory in the literature are
based upon two empirical findings: the moral hypocrisy effect and the moral licensing
effect. The moral hypocrisy effect is the finding that, under certain conditions, subjects
will strive to appear moral without undertaking the costs of actually acting morally
(Batson et al. 1997; Batson, Thompson, and Seuferling 1999; Batson and Thompson
2001; Batson, Thompson, and Chen 2002; Batson, Collins, and Powell 2006; Batson
2008). The moral licensing effect is the finding that subjects will behave less mor-
ally immediately after engaging in behavior that makes them appear moral (Monin
and Miller 2001; Cain, Loewenstein, and Moore 2005; Khan and Dhar 2006; Effron,
Cameron, and Monin 2009; Sachdeva, Iliev, and Medin 2009; Mazar and Zhong 2010;
Kouchaki 2011; Effron, Miller, and Monin 2012; Effron, Monin, and Miller 2013; Merritt
et al. 2012). Both of these findings appear to strongly favor the approval theory because
they seem to show that people are more motivated to appear moral than they are to ac-
tually be moral.
Though this prima facie appearance is strong, we think that upon reflection, these
two findings do not in fact support the approval theory over the accountability theory.
To see why, consider the difference between the motive to appear moral to others and
the motive to appear moral to oneself. If the moral licensing and hypocrisy effects
showed that subjects are less motivated to act morally when they merely appear moral
to others, this would provide unambiguous support for the approval theory. Such a
result would show that the motive driving moral behavior is satisfied when social ap-
proval has been secured, even if the agent is aware that she has not fulfilled her moral
obligations. This would imply that the motive driving moral behavior is a motive to
secure social approval, not a motive to fulfill one’s moral obligations.
On the other hand, if the moral licensing and hypocrisy effects show instead that
subjects are less motivated to act morally only when they appear moral to themselves,
this result is compatible with the existence of moral conscience and thus with the ac-
countability theory. For an agent to appear moral to herself just is for it to seem to her
that she has fulfilled her moral obligations. If the agent is motivated by genuine moral
conscience, this motive will be satisfied when it appears to her that she has fulfilled
her moral obligations. As we have already noted (in §2.4.2), it is a domain-general
feature of motivation that a goal is suppressed or “turned off ” when it appears to the
agent that the goal has been fulfilled (Förster, Liberman, and Higgins 2005; Förster
Liberman, and Friedman 2007; Liberman, Förster, and Higgins 2007; Denzler, Förster,
and Liberman 2009). Thus we can predict that when it appears to an agent that she
has fulfilled her moral obligations, her conscience motive will be fulfilled and thus
suppressed immediately thereafter. This would make room for more selfish motives
to govern the agent’s behavior. Thus by affirming the existence of genuine moral con-
science, the accountability theory can predict and explain why, when an agent appears
moral to herself, she will act less morally immediately afterwards.
58 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

So, it seems that whether the moral hypocrisy and moral licensing effects ground an
argument for the approval theory over the accountability theory depends crucially on
whether these effects involve appearing moral to others or appearing moral to oneself.
The research on these effects strongly supports the latter conclusion: Moral hypocrisy
and moral licensing occur when and only when subjects appear moral to themselves,
not to others. We will now review this research, beginning with moral hypocrisy.
In the moral hypocrisy paradigm, subjects are given the opportunity to assign tasks
to themselves and another participant, where one task is clearly much more enjoyable
than the other. These subjects are told that the fairest choice is to flip a coin, giving
oneself and the other participant equal chances of receiving the better task. About half
of subjects choose to flip the coin; but crucially, these subjects still overwhelmingly
assign themselves the better task (90 percent; Batson et al. 1997). This is the moral hy-
pocrisy finding: These subjects flip the coin, which makes them appear moral, but do
not obey the coin flip’s results when it gives them the less enjoyable task, thus avoiding
the costs of actually being moral.
Despite their unfair behavior, subjects who flip the coin subsequently rate their own
behavior as having been significantly more moral than subjects who do not flip the
coin (Batson 2008). By flipping the coin, these subjects are somehow fooling them-
selves into thinking that they did the right thing. Batson and colleagues predicted that
drawing subjects’ attention to their own behavior would eliminate the moral hypoc-
risy effect by blocking this self-deception. This is what they found: When subjects in
this paradigm are placed in front of a mirror (a manipulation that has been shown to
increase self-awareness), those who flipped a coin gave themselves the more enjoyable
task only 50 percent of the time, abiding by the flip’s results (Batson, Thompson, and
Seuferling 1999).
We can sum up these findings as follows: When people are not attending to their
behavior, they may convince themselves that they have behaved morally when in fact
they have not (moral hypocrisy). However, as soon as someone pays enough attention
to her behavior to notice that it is immoral (the mirror effect), she is motivated to ad-
just her behavior to conform to her moral standards. Clearly, Batson et al.’s moral hy-
pocrisy effect depends on subjects’ appearing moral to themselves, not to others; thus
it does not provide evidence that favors the approval theory over the accountability
theory.
The evidence on moral licensing points in the same direction. The original moral
licensing paradigm showed that subjects are more likely to make implicitly racist or
sexist hypothetical hiring decisions after being given an opportunity to explicitly dis-
agree with racist or sexist statements (Monin and Miller 2001). The affirmations of
anti-racist/anti-sexist values that produced this licensing effect were performed in a
written questionnaire that subjects were told was to be private and anonymous; so,
these subjects should not have seen their affirmations as having any influence over
their appearance to others. A follow-up study showed that the moral licensing ef-
fect emerges just as powerfully when the value-affirming survey (the experimental
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 59

manipulation) and the job selection survey (the dependent measure) are administered
by two different experimenters. These findings seem to establish that the moral licens-
ing effect is not explained by subjects’ establishing their “moral credentials” to others,
since they could not reasonably take their anonymous value affirmations to have any
effect on anyone else’s opinion of them.
Instead, the moral licensing effect seems best explained by the value affirmations
causing subjects to appear moral to themselves. At least two studies have found that
the moral licensing effect is statistically mediated by a positive change in how morally
good subjects judge themselves to be (Sachdeva et al. 2009; Kouchaki 2011). One study
obtained a moral licensing effect merely by having subjects write a story about them-
selves that contained morally positive words, thus affirming their own moral goodness
(Sachdeva et al. 2009). Privately writing such a story has no effect on one’s appear-
ance to others, so it must produce licensing by making subjects appear moral to them-
selves. Thus, we submit that the moral licensing effect, like the moral hypocrisy effect,
is caused by subjects’ appearing moral to themselves, not to others, and thus is quite
compatible with the existence of moral conscience.
Thus we conclude that the approval theory is not supported over the accountability
theory by the experiments demonstrating moral hypocrisy and moral licensing, as
both effects are quite compatible with the existence of moral conscience. In fact, these
findings can be seen as supporting the accountability theory over the approval theory,
rather than vice versa. For while the accountability theory has a ready explanation for
why appearing moral to oneself should decrease subsequent moral motivation (since it
fulfills the moral conscience goal), the approval theory does not. We should not expect
a priori that the goal to attain the moral approval of others should be satisfied when
one appears moral only to oneself; rather, it seems an approval-seeking agent would
remain vigilant until her moral credentials were public.
Batson explains the importance of securing self-approval as follows: “If I can con-
vince myself that serving my own interests does not violate my principles, then I can
honestly appear moral and so avoid detection without paying the price of actually
upholding the principles” (Batson 2008, 53). This hypothesis might be able to explain
why self-approval is necessary for the satisfaction of the approval motive, but would
not explain why it is sufficient. If deceiving yourself into approving of your own actions
is a means to attaining the moral approval of others, then merely attaining self-approval
should not be sufficient to satisfy the approval motive, as the moral licensing studies
indicate it is. The approval motive should only be satisfied once one has gained others’
approval in addition to one’s own.
More generally, we don’t need to attribute such a nefariously self-manipulating
motive to human beings to explain their susceptibility to the sort of self-deception
Batson’s studies have revealed. A simpler explanation for this self-deception is that the
moral conscience motive is only one motive among many, including selfish motives,
which compete for control over cognition and behavior. The dominant motive at any
time biases attention and cognition so as to suppress alternative, incompatible motives
60 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

(Shah, Friedman, and Kruglanski 2002). So if, as seems likely, selfish motives to gain
money and avoid tedious, difficult tasks are originally dominant in the experimental
context, they will bias attention to avoid goal-discrepant thoughts such as “it would be
unfair to disobey the coin flip and give myself the better task.” Only when moral con-
siderations are sufficiently attention-grabbing to bring the conscience motive to the
fore—as Batson et al.’s mirror ensured—will these selfish cognitive biases give way to
morally motivated thought and action. We thus submit that the accountability theory
gives a better explanation of the moral hypocrisy and moral licensing findings than the
approval theory can provide.

3.2.2. Second Argument: The Dependence of Conscience on

Social Norms
A more general, and more worrisome, argument for the approval theory goes as fol-
lows. If people are motivated by genuine moral conscience, as the accountability theory
claims, then we should expect their moral behavior to be best predicted by their beliefs
about what is morally right and wrong. If, on the other hand, morally conscientious
behavior is solely driven by the motive to gain social approval, as the approval theory
claims, then we should expect people’s moral behavior to be best predicted by whether
and how their actions are being judged by others. A survey of the experimental liter-
ature overwhelmingly confirms the approval theory’s prediction that moral behavior
depends in this way on social context, while providing little support for the idea that
explicit moral beliefs predict moral behavior. Across many studies with various meth-
odologies, the data indicates that whether subjects are motivated to conform to a
moral standard depends primarily upon whether there are other people watching and
holding them to that standard. In other words, H. L. Mencken seems to have been on
target when he declared that “conscience is the inner voice that warns us somebody
may be looking” (Mencken 1949). And thus, the argument goes, the approval theory is
confirmed, and the accountability theory falsified.
We do not dispute the empirical premises of this argument. The data, which we will
review presently, clearly indicates that moral behavior is powerfully influenced by the
presence or absence of actual social accountability. However, we will argue that the
accountability theory can explain this data at least as well as the approval theory can.
The first line of relevant findings shows that people’s behavior in many morally rel-
evant domains is strongly predicted by their perceptions of the norms of approval and
disapproval that hold in their social environment. This result has been demonstrated
across many domains of moral behavior, including charitable donation (Reingen 1982),
pro-environmental behavior (Reno, Cialdini, and Kallgren 1993; Kallgren, Reno, and
Cialdini 2000; Schultz et al. 2007; Goldstein, Cialdini, and Griskevicius 2008), con-
traception use (Fekadu and Kraft 2002), voting (Gerber, Green, and Larimer 2008;
Gerber and Rogers 2009), intergroup cooperation (Paluck 2009), and a wide range
of criminal behaviors (e.g. vandalization, Zimbardo 1969; tax evasion, Steenbergen,
McGraw, and Scholz 1992; and many others, Grasmick and Green 1980; Tittle 1980;
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 61

Kahan 1997). Summarizing the results on criminal behavior, Dan Kahan observes: “the
perception that one’s peers will or will not disapprove exerts a much stronger influence
than does the threat of a formal sanction on whether a person decides to engage in a
range of common offenses—from larceny, to burglary, to drug use” (1997, 354).
These findings are corroborated by laboratory experiments on cooperation in eco-
nomic games, especially the public goods game. Cooperation in these games increases
dramatically when the participants are allowed to punish others for free riding by sub-
tracting from their money (Fehr and Gächter 2000). One might think that these sub-
jects are cooperating simply out of self-interest, to avoid losing money by incurring
sanctions. However, further studies have indicated that punishment motivates coop-
eration by means of its expression of disapproval rather than its financial incentives.
One line of studies shows that holding the free rider accountable by merely express-
ing indignation is more effective than material punishment in motivating cooperation
(Ostrom, Walker, and Gardner 1992; Masclet et al. 2003; Noussair and Tucker 2005;
Ule et al. 2009; Janssen et al. 2010; see also Orbell, Van de Kragt, and Dawes 1988).
In addition, punishment without moral disapproval is ineffective in motivating coop-
eration. Fehr and Rockenbach (2003) found that when a punishment is imposed to
enforce an obviously illegitimate, selfish demand, subjects will cooperate less than con-
trol subjects who faced no sanctions at all. These findings indicate that what motivates
subjects to cooperate are not material punishments, but rather the condemnation they
express.
The approval theorist will say that the above results are best explained by the fact
that agents are concerned only with their peers’ approval. If people were genuinely
motivated by conscience, the approval theorist may reason, they would follow their
moral convictions regardless of whether doing so attracts the approval or disapproval
of others.
Perhaps this conditional would hold true of an ideally rational, cognitively unlim-
ited agent motivated solely by moral conscience. But if we consider imperfect crea-
tures like ourselves, who have highly limited cognitive capacities and must negotiate
between many competing motives, we can see why moral behavior might depend on
social norms even if it is motivated by genuine moral conscience.
The defender of moral conscience can argue that since human beings are fallible
judges of moral rectitude, it makes rational sense for us to look to others for guid-
ance as to what is morally right and wrong. Human beings are epistemically dependent
upon and highly deferential to others regarding descriptive matters even as mundane
as the relative lengths of lines on paper (Asch 1955), and so it should be no surprise that
they are similarly deferential in matters of moral judgment (Berkowitz and Walker
1967). Since people’s praise and blame are good indicators of their moral beliefs, doing
what others tend to praise and avoiding what others tend to blame will be a good heu-
ristic strategy for doing what is right and avoiding what is wrong. Therefore, unless
the stakes are high enough to merit going beyond this heuristic and engaging in ef-
fortful deliberation to form an independent moral judgment, a genuine conscience
62 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

motive will often produce conformity to the social–moral norms expressed by others’
approval and disapproval.
However, this line of thought cannot on its own provide a fully satisfactory response
to the approval theorist’s skeptical argument. For the dependence of moral behavior on
social norms cannot be fully explained in terms of moral belief. Sometimes, social ac-
countability motivates behavior that violates a person’s explicit moral beliefs. The most
famous and disturbing demonstration of this fact is provided by Stanley Milgram’s obe-
dience experiments, in which a majority of subjects were willing to follow the experi-
menter’s orders to deliver painful electric shocks to another participant. When asked
about this situation, most people say that it is morally wrong to continue to shock the
victim past the point of danger, and insist that they would defy the experimenter’s or-
ders out of moral conviction. But when this conviction is put to the test, most people
will obey the experimenter to the point of torturing another person, rather than acting
on their moral belief that doing so is wrong (Milgram 1974).
Further evidence that the influence of social accountability overreaches that of
moral belief is provided by Kwame Anthony Appiah’s fascinating recent study of moral
revolutions (Appiah 2010). Appiah investigates three rapid, society-wide changes in
moral behavior: the abandonment of dueling in nineteenth-century England, the
abandonment of footbinding in China, and the abolition of slavery. He summarizes his
observations as follows:
Arguments against each of these practices were well known and clearly made a good deal before
they came to an end . . . Whatever happened when these immoral practices ceased, it wasn’t, so it
seemed to me, that people were bowled over by new moral arguments. Dueling was always mur-
derous and irrational; footbinding was always painfully crippling; slavery was always an assault
on the humanity of the slave. (Appiah 2010, xii)

Instead of being abandoned on the basis of moral argument, Appiah contends that
these practices were defeated by social disapproval. The adoption of dueling by
working-class men made it appear vulgar and ridiculous, forcing aristocratic gentle-
men to disdain the practice that once embodied their elite code of honor. Similarly,
the centuries-old Chinese practice of binding women’s feet suddenly disappeared once
China was mocked for it on the international stage. The British labor class spearheaded
the abolitionist movement because they saw slavery as an insult to the dignity of their
profession, manual labor.
What ended these immoral practices were real, on-the-ground norms of social ap-
proval and disapproval. These social norms determined moral behavior independently
from moral belief: People did not act on their moral beliefs that dueling and footbind-
ing were wrong until these practices were also socially condemned. Doesn’t this show
that it was the fear of disapproval, not genuine moral conscience, that motivated these
revolutions in moral behavior?
Not necessarily. Since the conscience motive is just one desire among many that
compete for control over an agent’s behavior, it will only fully govern behavior when
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 63

some feature of the agent’s situation makes moral considerations sufficiently salient.
The accountability theory holds that moral obligations are represented as legitimate
interpersonal demands enforced by warranted attitudes of blame. So, what could be
better placed to make one’s moral obligations salient than actually expressed interper-
sonal demands and blame? Being actually held to moral standards by others makes
one’s accountability for complying with warranted demands much more salient; being
actually blamed by others gives one a vivid experience of one’s blameworthiness. So,
even if conscience is a desire to avoid blameworthiness rather than actual blame, and
to comply with those demands that are justified rather than those that are actually
made, actual blame and actual demands can spur moral behavior by means of making
motivationally salient the legitimate demands to which one is subject and the blame-
worthiness that their violation would entail.
In short, we claim that moral behavior depends on one’s actual context of social
­accountability because salient cues of social accountability are usually required to
activate the conscience motive sufficiently for it to control behavior. There is some
independent confirmation for the hypothesis that cues of social accountability auto-
matically spur conscience into action. Two studies have found that merely presenting
an image of two eyes elicits significantly more moral behavior from subjects. One study
found that subjects playing the Dictator Game on a computer with stylized eyes in the
background are significantly more generous than controls (Haley and Fessler 2005).
The second study replicated this result in a real-life situation: Subjects were given the
opportunity to serve themselves freely available coffee, which they were asked to pay
for in an “honesty box.” When a poster displaying a pair of eyes was placed behind the
coffee dispenser, subjects paid almost three times as much for their coffee as when a
control poster was displayed (Bateson, Nettle, and Roberts 2006).
The empirical premises of the approval theorist’s skeptical argument can all be alter-
natively explained by the mechanism that underlies these priming studies. Consider
first the studies showing that moral behavior tracks perceptions of social approval.
Over and above the non-negligible influence of social norms on moral belief, these
norms will exert independent influence on moral behavior. The awareness that others
will disapprove of littering, for instance, will make motivationally salient the fact that
littering is wrong, and thereby activate a conscience-based desire not to litter (Reno
Cialdini, and Kallgren 1993; Kallgren, Reno, and Cialdini 2000). Similarly, the blame
expressed by punishments of free riding in the public goods game makes vivid the
fact that free riding is blameworthy, and thereby activates a conscience-based desire
to cooperate.
A similar explanation can be applied to Appiah’s historical findings. Though there
were well-known moral arguments against dueling, footbinding, and slavery, the fact
that these practices were socially condoned made these abstract moral principles easy to
forget. (The practice of eating meat may be a modern-day analogue.) Furthermore, these
practices were so culturally entrenched that refraining from them attracted active social
disapproval. This generated an appearance of obligation to participate in the practice that
64 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

was far more motivationally salient than any countervailing moral arguments. These
practices ended when the social sanctions for non-participation broke down, as when
participation in dueling was no longer a mark of high social status, and when the prac-
tices themselves came to attract social condemnation, as when China was mocked for
footbinding on the international stage. The first change dissipated the powerful appear-
ance of an obligation to participate in the practice; the second change made the moral
reprehensibility of the practice salient enough to motivate disengagement from it.
Consider, finally, the Milgram experiments. Milgram’s subjects were willing to un-
dertake the aversive task of delivering shocks because of the forceful demands of the
experimenter, to whom they were held personally accountable. Even if the subjects
believed these demands to be on balance unjustified, they nonetheless were in the grip
of a strong appearance of their being justified (cf. Gibbard 1985, 15–17). These subjects
disobeyed the experimenter, however, once their accountability to the shock victim
was made more salient. In the first study, the subjects who did disobey the experi-
menter did so only once the victim protested by banging on the wall. When the victim
was placed in the same room as the subjects, rendering those subjects directly ac-
countable to the victim as well as to the experimenter, obedience of the experimenter
decreased by almost 40 percent, to a minority (Milgram 1974). And when a confeder-
ate subject, also ordered to deliver shocks, vocally defied the experimenter, thereby
undermining the authority of his demands, subjects overwhelmingly defied the exper-
imenter as well (36 out of 40; Milgram 1965). In sum, though subjects in the Milgram
paradigm violated their own reflective moral convictions, this may be because their
conscience motives were hostage to the powerful moral appearances generated by the
demands of the experimenter.12
We therefore conclude that the dependence of morally conscientious behavior on
social norms is compatible with the accountability theory’s claim that such behavior
is motivated by genuine moral conscience. First, social norms of approval and dis-
approval can serve as a heuristic guide to moral rightness and wrongness, thus influ-
encing people’s moral behavior via their moral beliefs. Second, and more importantly,
being held accountable to an actual demand by one’s peers automatically activates the
conscience motive to comply with legitimate demands. In the absence of social ac-
countability, moral considerations may not be salient enough for the conscience mo-
tive to overpower other amoral motives (as in the cultures Appiah studied). And when
agents are held accountable to demands they reflectively believe to be unjustified, this
generates a strong appearance of moral obligation, which may be more motivationally
potent than reflective moral belief (as with Milgram’s subjects). Thus the accountability
theory can explain the data reviewed in this section, and thereby rebut the second ar-
gument for the approval theory. The demonstrated dependence of moral behavior on
social accountability is compatible with both the accountability theory and the approval
theory, and so does not support one over the other.

12
For further discussion of the role of accountability in the Milgram studies, see Darwall (2006, 162–71).
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 65

Note, however, that this data does support the accountability theory over accounts of
moral conscience that do not essentially implicate social accountability. The orthodox
view of conscience we discussed in §3.1, which takes moral norms to be represented as
mere intrapersonal standards rather than essentially interpersonal demands, cannot offer
the same explanation of this data that the accountability theory can. Only by positing a
conceptual link between moral obligations and social accountability can one predict that
the conscience motive is selectively activated by cues of social accountability; and this pre-
diction was essential to our explanation of the Milgram and Appiah findings. In other
words, it is in virtue of the accountability theory’s unique thesis that moral obligations are
represented as legitimate interpersonal demands that this theory is able to rebut the ap-
proval theorist’s arguments for skepticism about moral conscience. Insofar as one affirms
the existence of moral conscience, then, one must acknowledge its essential link to social
accountability.

3.3. Argument for the Accountability Theory: Guilt as Backward-Looking

Moral Conscience
The major lesson of the discussion so far seems to be that the accountability and approval
theories are hard to pull apart. The data that has previously been taken to support the ap-
proval theory—the moral hypocrisy and moral licensing effects, and the dependence of
moral behavior on social norms—can be explained with equal adequacy by the account-
ability theory. So, the data reviewed so far seems equally compatible with the existence of
moral conscience as construed by the accountability theory, and the brand of skepticism
about moral conscience offered by the approval theory.
However, the data we have so far considered has focused exclusively on forward-looking
moral behavior, where agents are concerned with avoiding future violations of moral
norms. Prospects for answering our question look more promising if we concentrate on
how agents respond after they have committed moral wrong. Though they are difficult to
pull apart in forward-looking contexts, the accountability theory and approval theories
make sharply divergent predictions regarding this backward-looking moral behavior.
Consider, first, the approval theory. From the perspective of the approval motive,
wrongful behavior is a PR disaster to be managed. After doing wrong, approval-driven
agents should seek to mitigate the negative consequences of their wrongdoing for their
reputation. Strategies for accomplishing this end include distancing oneself from the
wrongdoing, providing excuses, pinning the blame on someone else, or simply avoid-
ing social attention altogether.
In contrast, the accountability theory holds that agents who have done wrong will
also be driven by a moral conscience motive to hold themselves accountable for their
wrongdoing.13 This will involve taking responsibility for the wrongful action rather
than trying to deflect responsibility to someone else. It will involve seeking out the

13
It is compatible with the accountability theory that people who have done wrong may simultaneously
experience both the moral conscience motive to hold themselves accountable and the approval motive to
66 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

victim of one’s actions to apologize, express remorse, and make amends, perhaps by
giving compensation. It will also involve a re-energized vigilance against immoral be-
havior, driven by the recommitment to moral standards involved in holding oneself
accountable for violating those standards.
Thus the moral conscience and social approval motives should produce very dif-
ferent patterns of behavior after an agent has committed a moral wrong. We submit
that both behavioral patterns occur, and respectively accompany the emotions of guilt
and shame. Guilt is the emotional reaction to wrongdoing characteristic of the moral
conscience motive, and it leads to the behaviors involved in holding oneself account-
able. Shame is the emotional reaction to wrongdoing characteristic of the social ap-
proval motive, and it leads to the behaviors involved in managing one’s reputation.
These claims are confirmed by empirical research on guilt and shame.
The literature on guilt and shame is enormous, so we will simply state the most com-
mon findings without detailing the evidence behind them (for a helpful review, see
Tangney, Stuewig, and Mashek 2007). We begin with guilt. First and foremost, guilt
leads its subject to take responsibility for her wrongdoing (McGraw 1987; Tangney et al.
1992; Roseman, Wiest, and Swartz 1994; Baumeister, Stillwell, and Heatherton 1995;
Mandel and Dhami 2005; Fisher and Exline 2006; Tracy and Robins 2006; Tangney,
Stuewig, and Mashek 2007). Second, guilt motivates its subject to make amends with
the victim of wrongdoing by apologizing (Roseman et al. 1994; Baumeister et al. 1995),
making reparations (Roseman, Wiest, and Swartz 1994; Lickel et al. 2005; Brown
et al. 2008; Zebel et al. 2008; Gino, Gu, and Zhong 2009; Čehajić-Clancy et al. 2011;
de Hooge et al. 2011), striving to correct future behavior (Baumeister, Stillwell, and
Heatherton 1995; Tangney et al. 1996; Amodio, Devine, and Harmon-Jones 2007;
Hopfensitz and Reuben 2009; Orth, Robins, and Soto 2010; Stillman and Baumeister
2010), and even self-punishing (Bastian, Jetten, and Fasoli 2011; Nelissen 2012; Inbar
et al. 2013). Guilt is characterized by other-directed empathy and concern for the
victim of wrongdoing (Niedenthal, Tangney, and Gavanski 1994; Leith and Baumeister
1998; Tangney, Stuewig, and Mashek 2007; Basil, Ridgway, and Basil 2008; Yang, Yang,
and Chiou 2010). Finally, guilt, whether dispositional or occurrent, leads its subject to
behave more morally in general (Regan, Williams, and Sparling 1972; Cunningham,
Steinberg, and Grev 1980; Montada and Schneider 1989; Tangney, Wagner, Hill-Barlow,
Marschall, and Gramzow 1996; Quiles and Bybee 1997; Millar 2002; Stuewig and
McCloskey 2005; Tangney, Stuewig, and Mashek 2007; Hopfensitz and Reuben 2009;
Kochanska et al. 2009; Cohen et al. 2011; Polman and Ruttan 2012; for a dissenting
view, see de Hooge et al. 2011).
In stark contrast with guilt, shame leads its subject to avoid responsibility for her
wrongdoing by distancing herself from the event and blaming others for her wrong-
doing (Tangney et al. 1992; Tangney, Miller, et al. 1996; Ferguson et al. 1999; Johns,

manage the damage to their reputations. Remember: We only claim that the moral conscience motive exists,
not that the approval motive doesn’t.
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 67

Schmader, and Lickel 2005; Lickel et al. 2005). Rather than motivating apology and
reconciliation, shame leads to negative interpersonal consequences such as aggression
and social withdrawal (Tangney et al. 1992; Tangney, Wagner, et al. 1996; Orth et al.
2010; Cohen et al. 2011). Rather than eliciting empathy and other-directed concern,
shame is associated with a focus on one’s self-image and public reputation (Niedenthal
et al. 1994; Tangney 1995; Smith et al. 2002; Bagozzi, Verbeke, and Gavino 2003; Lickel
et al. 2005; Tangney, Stuewig, and Mashek 2007). As shame is centered on one’s overall
reputation, it causes its subject to focus on her general traits; while guilt, centered on
one’s accountability for a particular wrongful action, draws its subject’s attention to
her actions rather than her overall traits (Niedenthal, Tangney, and Gavanski 1994).
Finally, unlike guilt, neither dispositional nor occurrent shame has positive asso-
ciations with moral behavior (Tangney, Wagner, et al. 1996; Quiles and Bybee 1997;
Tangney, Stuewig, and Mashek 2007, 354; Cohen et al. 2011).
In sum, while shame motivates those behaviors we would expect to be produced by
the approval motive, guilt has been shown in many empirical studies to produce ex-
actly the behaviors we would expect to be produced by a genuine conscience motive.
Thus we take the existence of a genuine backward-looking moral conscience motive,
and its independence from the approval motive, to be demonstrated by the evidence
showing the existence of guilt and its independence from shame.
Does this mean that we should accept the existence of forward-looking moral
conscience as well? We think so. In fact, we hold that backward-looking and
forward-looking moral conscience are simply manifestations of a single moral con-
science motive in different contexts. The conscience goal has the same content in
both contexts—to fulfill one’s moral obligations and so do one’s part in upholding
morality—but achieving this goal requires different actions depending on whether
one has already done wrong, or merely needs to avoid future wrongdoing. Thus evi-
dence for the existence of backward-looking moral conscience is pari passu evidence
for the existence of forward-looking moral conscience. This unity thesis regarding
backward-looking and forward-looking conscience is supported by the data just
reviewed showing that guilt leads to more moral behavior in general, even in areas
unrelated to the guilt-inducing action (see especially Regan, Williams, and Sparling
1972). If backward-looking and forward-looking conscience are two manifestations of
the same motive, then the activation of the conscience motive in a backward-looking
context should also lead to more moral forward-looking behavior. We thus conclude
that the experimental evidence on guilt demonstrates the existence of moral con-
science in general.
This completes our argument for the accountability theory of conscience. We have
argued that genuine moral conscience exists: The objections that have motivated
moral conscience skepticism are not sound (§3.2), and the empirical research on
guilt and shame demonstrates the existence of the conscience motive while dissociat-
ing it from the egoistic motive to gain social approval (§3.3). Furthermore, we have
argued that the content of the conscience motive should be understood in terms of
68 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

social accountability. Moral obligations are represented as legitimate interpersonal

demands; thus the conscience motive is a motive to comply with warranted interper-
sonal demands to which one may be legitimately held accountable. This unique insight
of the accountability theory explains the widely confirmed observation that moral
behavior depends on social context, and specifically depends upon the demands to
which agents are actually held accountable by their peers (§3.2.2). Conscience moti-
vates us to be moral, and to be moral is to be accountable.

4. What is Distinctive about Morality?

We have contended that conceiving of morality in terms of accountability provides
a unified understanding of the emotions, attitudes, and motives that are targeted on
acting rightly and avoiding moral wrong. The implicit goal of all moral motivation is
to hold people—oneself or others—accountable for compliance with moral require-
ments. Moral emotions and attitudes all aim to uphold morality, conceived as demands
with which we are accountable to one another for complying as equal moral persons.
In this final section, we wish to consolidate these points by refocusing on what is dis-
tinctive about morality as an ethical conception, and, consequently, on what distin-
guishes the psychological items we have discussed that concern it.
It is important to emphasize again that facts about morality and moral right and
wrong are normative and thus distinct from any descriptive psychological or social
fact. Morality, in this normative sense, is what moral judgment and motivation are
about.
In a recent article on “Morality,” Jonathan Haidt and Selin Kesebir define “moral sys-
tems” as “interlocking sets of values, virtues, norms, practices, identities, institutions,
technologies, and evolved psychological mechanisms that work together to suppress
or regulate selfishness and make cooperative social life possible” (Haidt and Kesebir
2010, 800). By “values” and “norms,” Haidt and Kesebir evidently mean psycho-social
phenomena. In this sense, a value or norm consists in people valuing something or in
their holding or accepting some norm. To hold or accept a norm or value, however, is to
be committed to something normative. It is to hold that something or other is valuable
or, for example, that some kinds of conduct are morally wrong. In this latter case, it is
to hold a normative belief or attitude about morality, for example, that some kind of
conduct really is morally wrong. We might think of morality, in the sense we have been
discussing, as consisting in valid moral norms that make moral judgments and beliefs
true or false.
Moreover, as we also noted at the outset, not all normative beliefs and attitudes con-
cern morality. What makes for a desirable life or promotes human welfare, for example,
is a normative question, but it is not, in itself, a moral issue. Even if acting morally is an
essential part of well-being, the proposition that it is so is not a proposition of morality.
These observations raise two questions regarding the distinctiveness of morality.
First, what distinguishes moral facts from other domains of normative fact? Second,
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 69

what distinguishes the psychological attitudes, emotions, and motivations that are
concerned with morality—our moral psychology—from other, non-moral normative
and evaluative attitudes? Since the attitudes that make up our moral psychology are
attitudes about morality, our answer to the first of these questions will constrain our
answer to the second.
Haidt and Kesebir’s definition of “moral systems” offers an answer to our second,
descriptive question. However, we think that this definition fails to capture what is
distinctive about moral psychology, because it fails to capture what is distinctive about
morality as a normative concept. Morality is a more specific normative notion than that
of just any norms and values that are concerned with “suppress[ing] or regulat[ing]
selfishness and mak[ing] cooperative social life possible.”
Take, for example, norms of esteem and honor that define a hierarchy of status in
an honor society. We might imagine these working to regulate selfishness and foster
forms of cooperation. However, the normative ideas that would be involved would
be those of the honorable and the estimable, of what warrants honor, deference, and
esteem, on the one hand, and contempt or disdain, on the other. These are different
normative ideas from those involved in morality, as can be seen quite vividly by con-
sidering Nietzsche’s critique of morality in On the Genealogy of Morality (Nietzsche
1887/2006). Although Nietzsche sharply criticizes morality’s concepts of moral “good”
and “evil,” he has no objection to the concepts of “good” and “bad” of an “aristocratic”
ethos that structures a hierarchy of status and honor. According to Nietzsche’s ety-
mology, the term “good” originated with the “nobles” themselves to connote qualities
that fit someone for high status and to contrast with qualities that are lowly and base
(Nietzsche 1887/2006, 11).
We don’t have to accept Nietzsche’s etymology to recognize the conceptual distinc-
tion he is marking between ideas of the noble and the base, on the one hand, and those
of moral right and wrong, good and evil, on the other. This normative conceptual dis-
tinction is reflected, moreover, in the psychological difference between contempt and
shame, on the one hand, and blame or condemnation and guilt, on the other. What is
base or low is what warrants contempt and shame, or at least the form of shame that
portrays one to oneself as contempt portrays one to the person who views one with
contempt, namely, as contemptible, low, or base. Culpable wrongdoing, on the other
hand, is what warrants the accountability-seeking emotions of condemnation or guilt,
where guilt portrays one to oneself as condemnation portrays one to someone who
condemns one, namely, as worthy of condemnation or moral blame.
In theory, an aristocratic honor code might hold to be contemptible or low the very
same actions that morality condemns as morally wrong. Take Haidt and Kesebir’s
examples of selfishness and uncooperativeness. Morality condemns excessive self-
ishness or free riding on the cooperative efforts of others as morally wrong. But we
can easily imagine an aristocratic ethos holding selfish free riding to be contemptible
or base also. Our point is that whereas morality condemns such conduct in terms of
accountability, as blameworthy lacking excuse, the normative notions involved in an
70 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

honor code are fundamentally different. The attitudes and emotions they bring into
play, contempt and shame, differ from the accountability-seeking attitudes impli-
cated in morality. When a noble looks down on a serf with contempt, he hardly aims
to have the serf hold himself accountable for his contemptible state. The emotion that
responds to contempt is not guilt, but shame, which, as we have noted (§3.3), shows it-
self in very different ways than guilt does.
Moreover, just as moral norms differ conceptually from those of honor and esteem,
so also are they conceptually distinct from norms of purity and disgust. It is a favorite
claim of Haidt’s that liberals tend to think of morality in terms of fairness and equal-
ity, whereas conservatives also include loyalty, respect for authority, and purity among
morality’s “foundations” (Haidt and Kesebir 2010, 821–3). Whereas liberals are skep-
tical of “disgust-based” notions of purity, Haidt claims that disgust is a moral emotion
and, therefore, that purity is no less a foundation of morality than are equality and
fairness.
For purposes of discussion, we can simply stipulate that an action that violates a
purity taboo, consensual incest, for example, is morally wrong, indeed that it is wrong
for that very reason. Our point is that the proposition that incest is morally wrong is a
different kind of normative claim than the proposition that it is impure, or violates a
taboo, or that it is disgusting. For present purposes, we can even allow that there is
a genuine normative concept of the disgusting—of what justifies disgust or to which
disgust is a fitting response—that is distinct from the concept of what actually causes
disgust. Our point remains that the proposition that it is morally wrong to do some-
thing disgusting is an additional moral claim that goes beyond the claim that such
an action warrants disgust. It is the claim that the disgusting action also warrants the
accountability-seeking attitudes of condemnation and guilt.14
Consideration of these examples shows that Haidt and Kesebir’s functional defini-
tion of morality is too broad. Norms of honor and contempt, or of purity and disgust,
count as “moral systems” by their definition, insofar as they help to suppress selfish-
ness and promote cooperation. However, lumping these together into a single category
with moral norms of blame and guilt elides an important distinction: between norms
that simply evaluate people, such as those of honor and purity, and those that hold
people responsible, in the sense of asking for a response. It is this latter feature that, we
claim, makes morality distinctive.
Thus we propose an alternative definition of morality. Morality, understood as a
normative phenomenon, is that set of demands to which we may legitimately hold
one another accountable with blame, and hold ourselves accountable with guilt. Moral
attitudes, emotions, and motives are those the contents of which essentially refer to
morality so understood. A particular society’s morality, understood as a descriptive

14
We can even agree that there is such a thing as moral disgust. However, it seems that any such response
itself presupposes the concepts of moral right and wrong and, therefore, on our analysis, the independent
idea of actions warranting the accountability-seeking emotions of condemnation and guilt.
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 71

phenomenon, is that set of norms to which the members of the society actually hold
one another accountable with blame, and hold themselves accountable with guilt.
We should stress that according to morality as accountability, what makes a set of
normative beliefs and practices moral beliefs and practices is not their contents—the
actions they prescribe and proscribe—but the distinctively accountability-seeking
attitudes and responses they take those actions to warrant. The definitions of “mo-
rality” to which Haidt and Kesebir object are all content-based definitions, such as
Turiel’s definition of moral judgments as “prescriptive judgments of justice, rights, and
welfare pertaining to how people ought to relate to each other” (Turiel 1983, 3). Haidt
and Kesebir’s objection is that these characterizations of morality typically limit the
potential contents of moral beliefs to those endorsed by Western liberals. Our account
avoids this objection, since it is content independent.
To illustrate, notice that we can agree with Haidt and Kesebir that conservatives’
beliefs and attitudes are no less moral, that is beliefs about morality, than are liberals’,
regardless of whose beliefs are more correct. What is more, we can say what the differ-
ence between the conservative and the liberal amounts to: a disagreement about what
standards we can hold each other accountable to. A liberal might be just as disgusted
by some behavior as a conservative, but disagree with a conservative’s belief that the
conduct is morally wrong, since only the latter thinks that the behavior warrants blame
as well as disgust.
What is distinctive about morality as a normative idea, therefore, is neither its
content nor its performing the functions of regulating social order, curbing selfish-
ness, or enabling social cooperation in just any way. It is the specific way morality
purports to regulate. Morality’s distinctiveness, and its distinctive form of social
regulation, are explained by its conceptual tie to mutual accountability and to the
accountability-seeking attitudes of blame and guilt. We have been arguing that appre-
ciating this fact enables a unified and explanatory psychological account of moral
thought, emotion, and motivation.

Acknowledgments
We thank Jonathan Haidt, Joshua Knobe, and three anonymous reviewers for helpful
comments and criticism.

References
Amodio, D. M., Devine, P. G., and Harmon-Jones, E. 2007. A dynamic model of guilt: Implications
for motivation and self-regulation in the context of prejudice. Psychological Science, 18(6),
524–30. <http://pss.sagepub.com/content/18/6/524.short>
Annas, J. 1995. Prudence and morality in ancient and modern ethics. Ethics, 105(2), 241–257.
<http://www.jstor.org/stable/2382344>
72 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

Anscombe, G. E. M. 1958. Modern moral philosophy. Philosophy, 33(124), 1–19. <http://www.

jstor.org/stable/3749051>
Appiah, K. A. 2010. The Honor Code: How Moral Revolutions Happen. New York: W.W. Norton
& Company.
Asch, S. E. 1955. Opinions and social pressure. Scientific American, 193(4), 31–5.
Bachman, G. F., and Guerrero, L. K. 2006. Forgiveness, apology, and communicative responses
to hurtful events. Communication Reports, 19(1), 45–56. <http://www.tandfonline.com/doi/
abs/10.1080/08934210600586357#.UhbMBmShO3M>
Bagnoli, C. (ed.) 2011. Morality and the Emotions. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Bagozzi, R. P., Verbeke, W., and Gavino, J. C. J. 2003. Culture moderates the self-regulation of
shame and its effects on performance: The case of salespersons in the Netherlands and the
Philippines. Journal of Applied Psychology, 88(2), 219–33. <http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/
apl/88/2/219/>
Baron, J., Gowda, R., and Kunreuther, H. 1993. Attitudes toward managing hazardous
waste: What should be cleaned up and who should pay for it? Risk Analysis, 13(2), 183–92.
<http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1539-6924.1993.tb01068.x/abstract>
Baron, J., and Ritov, I. 1993. Intuitions about penalties and compensation in the con-
text of tort law. Journal of Risk and Uncertainty, 7(1), 17–33. <http://link.springer.com/
chapter/10.1007/978-94-011-2192-7_2#page-1>
Basil, D. Z., Ridgway, N. M., and Basil, M. D. 2008. Guilt and giving: A process model of em-
pathy and efficacy. Psychology and Marketing, 25(1), 1–23. <http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/
doi/10.1002/mar.20200/full>
Bastian, B., Jetten, J., and Fasoli, F. 2011. Cleansing the soul by hurting the flesh: The guilt-reducing
effect of pain. Psychological Science, 22(3), 334–5. <http://pss.sagepub.com/content/22/3/334>
Bateson, M., Nettle, D., and Roberts, G. 2006. Cues of being watched enhance cooperation in
a real-world setting. Biology Letters, 2, 412–14. <http://rsbl.royalsocietypublishing.org/con-
tent/2/3/412.short>
Batson, C. D. 2008. Moral masquerades: Experimental exploration of the nature of moral mo-
tivation. Phenomenology and the Cognitive Sciences, 7, 51–66. <http://link.springer.com/
article/10.1007/s11097-007-9058-y>
Batson, C. D., Chao, M. C., and Givens, J. M. 2009. Pursuing moral outrage: Anger at torture.
Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, 45(1), 155–60. <http://www.sciencedirect.com/
science/article/pii/S0022103108001522>
Batson, C. D., Collins, E., and Powell, A. A. 2006. Doing business after the fall: The virtue of moral
hypocrisy. Journal of Business Ethics, 66(4), 321–35. <http://link.springer.com/article/10.1007/
s10551-006-0011-8#page-1>
Batson, C. D., Kennedy, C. L., Nord, L. A., Stocks, E. L., Fleming, D. A., Marzette, C. M., Lishner,
D. A., Hayes, R. E., Kolchinsky, L. M., Zerger, T. 2007. Anger at unfairness: is it moral out-
rage? European Journal of Social Psychology, 37(6), 1272–85. <http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/
doi/10.1002/ejsp.434/abstract>
Batson, C. D., Klein, T. R., Highberger, L., and Shaw, L. L. 1995. Immorality from empathy-induced
altruism: When compassion and justice conflict. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology,
68(6), 1042–54. <http://psycnet.apa.org/psycinfo/1995-32987-001>
Batson, C. D., Kobrynowicz, D., Dinnerstein, J., Kampf, H., and Wilson, A. 1997. In a very dif-
ferent voice: Unmasking moral hypocrisy. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 72(6),
1335–48. <http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/psp/72/6/1335/>
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 73

Batson, C. D., and Shaw, L. L. 1991. Evidence for altruism: Toward a pluralism of prosocial
motives. Psychological Inquiry, 22, 107–22. <http://www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.1207/s15
327965pli0202_1?journalCode=hpli20#.UhbYwWShO3M>
Batson, C. D., and Thompson, E. R. 2001. Why don’t moral people act morally? Motivational
considerations. Current Directions in Psychological Science, 102, 54–7. <http://cdp.sagepub.
com/content/10/2/54.short>
Batson, C. D., Thompson, E. R., and Chen, H. 2002. Moral hypocrisy: Addressing some alter-
natives. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 83(2), 330–9. <http://psycnet.apa.org/
journals/psp/83/2/330/>
Batson, C. D., Thompson, E., and Seuferling, G. 1999. Moral hypocrisy: Appearing moral to one-
self without being so. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 77(3), 525–37. <http://psyc-
net.apa.org/journals/psp/77/3/525/>
Baumeister, R. F., Stillwell, A. M., and Heatherton, T. F. 1995. Personal narratives about guilt: Role
in action control and interpersonal relationships. Basic and Applied Social Psychology,
17(1), 173–98. <http://www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.1080/01973533.1995.9646138#.
UjBfUGShO3M>
Baumeister, R. F., Vohs, K. D., DeWall, C. N., and Zhang, L. 2007. How emotion shapes be-
havior: feedback, anticipation, and reflection, rather than direct causation. Personality
and Social Psychology Review, 11(2), 167–203. <http://psr.sagepub.com/cgi/content/
abstract/11/2/167>
Bell, M. 2013. Hard Feelings: The Moral Psychology of Contempt. New York: Oxford University
Press.
Berker, S. 2009. The normative insignificance of neuroscience. Philosophy & Public Affairs,
37(4): 293–329. <http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1088-4963.2009.01164.x/full>
Berkowitz, L., and Walker, N. 1967. Laws and moral judgments. Sociometry, 30(4), 410–22.
<http://www.jstor.org/stable/2786186>
Bernhard, H., Fischbacher, U., and Fehr, E. 2006. Parochial altruism in humans. Nature, 442,
912–15.
Bottom, W., Gibson, K., and Daniels, S. 2002. When talk is not cheap: Substantive penance and
expressions of intent in rebuilding cooperation. Organization Science, 13(5), 497–513. <http://
www.jstor.org/stable/3086074>
Brown, R., González, R., Zagefka, H., Manzi, J., and Cehajic, S. 2008. Nuestra culpa: Collective
guilt and shame as predictors of reparation for historical wrongdoing. Journal of Personality
and Social Psychology, 94(1), 75–90. <http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/psp/94/1/75/>
Bushman, B. J., Baumeister, R. F., and Phillips, C. M. 2001. Do people aggress to improve their
mood? Catharsis beliefs, affect regulation opportunity, and aggressive responding. Journal of
Personality and Social Psychology, 81(1), 17–32. <http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/psp/81/1/17/>
Cain, D. M., Loewenstein, G., and Moore, D. A. 2005. The dirt on coming clean: Perverse effects
of disclosing conflicts of interest. The Journal of Legal Studies, 34(1), 1–25. <http://www.jstor.
org/stable/10.1086/426699>
Carlsmith, K. M. 2006. The roles of retribution and utility in determining punishment. Journal
of Experimental Social Psychology, 42(4), 437–51. <http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/
article/pii/S0022103105000892>
Carlsmith, K. M. 2008. On justifying punishment: The discrepancy between words and
actions. Social Justice Research, 21(2), 119–37. <http://link.springer.com/article/10.100
7%2Fs11211-008-0068-x>
74 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

Carlsmith, K. M., Darley, J. M., and Robinson, P. H. 2002. Why do we punish? Deterrence and
just deserts as motives for punishment. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 832, 284–
99. <http://psycnet.apa.org/index.cfm?fa=search.displayrecordanduid=2002-17391-003>
Carlsmith, K. M., and Sood, A. M. 2009. The fine line between interrogation and retribution.
Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, 45(1), 191–6. <http://www.sciencedirect.com/
science/article/pii/S0022103108001704>
Carlsmith, K. M., Wilson, T. D., and Gilbert, D. T. 2008. The paradoxical consequences of re-
venge. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 95(6), 1316–24. <http://psycnet.apa.org/
journals/psp/95/6/1316/>
Čehajić-Clancy, S., Effron, D. A., Halperin, E., Liberman, V., and Ross, L. D. 2011. Affirmation,
acknowledgment of in-group responsibility, group-based guilt, and support for reparative
measures. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 101(2), 256–70. <http://psycnet.apa.
org/journals/psp/101/2/256/>
Chartrand, T. L. 2001. Mystery moods and perplexing performance: Consequences of suc-
ceeding and failing at a nonconscious goal. Manuscript submitted for publication. <http://
www.chicagobooth.edu/research/workshops/marketing/archive/WorkshopPapers/char-
trand.pdf>
Coates, D. J., and Tognazzini, N. A. (eds.). 2013. Blame: Its Nature and Norms. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Cohen, T. R., Wolf, S. T., Panter, A. T., and Insko, C. A. 2011. Introducing the GASP scale: A new
measure of guilt and shame proneness. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 100(5),
947–66. <http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/psp/100/5/947/>
Cunningham, M., Steinberg, J., and Grev, R. 1980. Wanting to and having to help: Separate
motivations for positive mood and guilt-induced helping. Journal of Personality and Social
Psychology, 38(2), 181–92. <http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/psp/38/2/181/>
Darley, J. M., Carlsmith, K. M., and Robinson, P. H. 2000. Incapacitation and just deserts as
motives for punishment. Law and Human Behavior, 246, 659–83. <http://psycnet.apa.org/
journals/lhb/24/6/659/>
D’Arms, J., and Jacobson, D. 2000. Sentiment and value. Ethics, 110 (4): 722–48. <http://www.
jstor.org/stable/10.1086/233371>
Darwall, S. 2006. The Second-Person Standpoint: Morality, Respect, and Accountability.
Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Darwall, S. 2012. Bipolar obligation. In R. Shafer-Landau (ed.), Oxford Studies in Metaethics,
vol. 7, pp. 333–67. Oxford: Oxford University Press. <http://www.oxfordscholarship.com/
view/10.1093/acprof:oso/9780199653492.001.0001/acprof-9780199653492-chapter-11>
Darwall, S. 2013a. Morality, Authority, and Law: Essays in Second-Personal Ethics I.
Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Darwall, S. 2013b. Honor, History, and Relationship: Essays in Second-Personal Ethics II.
Oxford: Oxford University Press.
de Hooge, I. E., Nelissen, R. M. A., Breugelmans, S. M., and Zeelenberg, M. 2011. What is moral
about guilt? Acting “prosocially” at the disadvantage of others. Journal of Personality and
Social Psychology, 100(3), 462–73. <http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/psp/100/3/462/>
de Jong, P. J., Peters, M. L., and De Cremer, D. 2003. Blushing may signify guilt: Revealing effects
of blushing in ambiguous social situations. Motivation and Emotion, 27(3), 225–49. <http://
link.springer.com/article/10.1023/A:1025059631708#page-2>
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 75

Denzler, M., Förster, J., and Liberman, N. 2009. How goal-fulfillment decreases aggression.
Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, 45(1), 90–100. <http://www.sciencedirect.com/
science/article/pii/S0022103108001716>
DeScioli, P., and Kurzban, R. 2009. Mysteries of morality. Cognition, 112(2), 281–99. <http://
www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0010027709001140>
Effron, D. A., Cameron, J. S., and Monin, B. 2009. Endorsing Obama licenses favoring Whites.
Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, 45(3), 590–3. <http://www.sciencedirect.com/
science/article/pii/S0022103109000316>
Effron, D. A., Miller, D. T., and Monin, B. 2012. Inventing racist roads not taken: The licensing ef-
fect of immoral counterfactual behaviors. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 103(6),
916–32. <http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/psp/103/6/916/>
Effron, D. A., Monin, B., and Miller, D. T. 2013. The unhealthy road not taken: Licensing in-
dulgence by exaggerating counterfactual sins. Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, 493,
573–8.<http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0022103112001783>
Ellsworth, P. C., and Ross, L. 1983. Public opinion and capital punishment: A close examination
of the views of abolitionists and retentionists. Crime & Delinquency, 29(1), 116–69. <http://
cad.sagepub.com/content/29/1/116>
Fehr, E., and Fischbacher, U. 2004. Third-party punishment and social norms. Evolution
and Human Behavior, 25(2), 63–87. <http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/
S1090513804000054>
Fehr, E., and Gächter, S. 2000. Cooperation and punishment in public goods experiments. The
American Economic Review, 90(4), 980–94. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/117319>
Fehr, E., Fischbacher, U., and Gächter, S. 2002. Strong reciprocity, human cooperation, and the
enforcement of social norms. Human Nature, 13(1), 1–25. <http://link.springer.com/article/10
.1007%2Fs12110-002-1012-7?LI=true>
Fehr, R., Gelfand, M. J., and Nag, M. 2010. The road to forgiveness: A meta-analytic synthesis
of its situational and dispositional correlates. Psychological Bulletin, 136(5), 894–914. <http://
papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=1612494>
Fehr, E., and Rockenbach, B. 2003. Detrimental effects of sanctions on human altruism. Nature,
422(6928), 137–40. <http://www.nature.com/nature/journal/v422/n6928/full/nature01474.
html>
Fekadu, Z., and Kraft, P. 2002. Expanding the theory of planned behavior: The role of social
norms and group identification. Journal of Health Psychology, 7(1), 33–43. <http://hpq.sage-
pub.com/content/7/1/33.short>
Ferguson, T. J., Stegge, H., Miller, E. R., and Olsen, M. E. 1999. Guilt, shame, and symptoms
in children. Developmental Psychology, 35(2), 347–57. <http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/
dev/35/2/347/>
Fisher, M. L., and Exline, J. J. 2006. Self-forgiveness versus excusing: The roles of remorse, effort,
and acceptance of responsibility. Self and Identity, 5(2), 127–46. <http://www.tandfonline.
com/doi/abs/10.1080/15298860600586123#.UjBgqWShO3M>
Fitness, J., and Peterson, J. 2008. Punishment and forgiveness in close relationships: An evo-
lutionary, social-psychological perspective. In J. P. Forgas and J. Peterson (eds.), Social
Relationships: Cognitive, Affective, and Motivational Processes, pp. 255–69. New York: Taylor
& Francis Group, LLC.
76 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

Foot, P. 1972. Morality as a system of hypothetical imperatives. The Philosophical Review, 81, 305–
16. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/2184328>
“Forgive.” 1983. In Webster’s New Universal Unabridged Dictionary. New York: Dorset & Baker.
Förster, J., Liberman, N., and Friedman, R. S. 2007. Seven principles of goal activation: A sys-
tematic approach to distinguishing goal priming from priming of non-goal constructs.
Personality and Social Psychology Review, 11(3), 211–33.
Förster, J., Liberman, N., and Higgins, E. T. 2005. Accessibility from active and fulfilled goals.
Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, 41(3), 220–39. <http://www.sciencedirect.com/
science/article/pii/S0022103104000733>
Gächter, S., and Herrmann, B. 2008. Reciprocity, culture and human cooperation: Previous
insights and a new cross-cultural experiment. Philosophical Transactions of the Royal
Society B: Biological Sciences, 364(1518), 791–806. <http://rstb.royalsocietypublishing.org/
content/364/1518/791>
Gauthier, D. 1986. Morals by Agreement. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Gerber, A. S., Green, D. P., and Larimer, C. W. 2008. Social pressure and voter turnout: Evidence
from a large-scale field experiment. The American Political Science Review, 102(1), 33–48.
<http://dx.doi.org/10.1017/S000305540808009X>
Gerber, A. S., and Rogers, T. 2009. Descriptive social norms and motivation to vote: Everybody’s
voting and so should you. The Journal of Politics, 71(1), 178–91. <http://dx.doi.org/10.1017/
S0022381608090117>
Gibbard, A. 1985. Moral judgment and the acceptance of norms. Ethics, 96(1), 5–21. <http://www.
jstor.org/stable/2381318>
Gibbard, A. 1990. Wise Choices, Apt Feelings: A Theory of Normative Judgment. Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press.
Gino, F., Gu, J., and Zhong, C. B. 2009. Contagion or restitution? When bad apples can motivate
ethical behavior. Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, 45(6), 1299–302. <http://www.sci-
encedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0022103109002005>
Gold, G. J., and Weiner, B. 2000. Remorse, confession, group identity, and expectancies about
repeating a transgression. Basic and Applied Social Psychology, 22(4), 291–300. <http://www.
tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.1207/S15324834BASP2204_3#.UhbEMmShO3M>
Goldstein, N. J., Cialdini, R. B., and Griskevicius, V. 2008. A room with a viewpoint: Using social
norms to motivate environmental conservation in hotels. The Journal of Consumer Research,
35(3), 472–82. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1086/586910>
Gollwitzer, M., and Bushman, B. J. 2011. Do victims of injustice punish to improve their mood?
Social Psychological and Personality Science, 00(0), 1–9. <http://spp.sagepub.com/content/ear
ly/2011/12/08/1948550611430552>
Gollwitzer, M., and Denzler, M. 2009. What makes revenge sweet: Seeing the offender suffer or
delivering a message? Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, 45(4), 840–4. <http://www.
sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S002210310900050X>
Gollwitzer, M., Meder, M., and Schmitt, M. 2010. What gives victims satisfaction when they seek
revenge? European Journal of Social Psychology, 41(3), 364–74. <http://onlinelibrary.wiley.
com/doi/10.1002/ejsp.782/abstract>
Gordijn, E. H., Yzerbyt, V., Wigboldus, D., and Dumont, M. 2006. Emotional reactions to
harmful intergroup behavior. European Journal of Social Psychology, 36(1), 15–30. <http://
onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1002/ejsp.296/abstract>
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 77

Grasmick, H. G. and Green, D. E. 1980. Legal punishment, social disapproval and internali-
zation as inhibitors of illegal behavior. The Journal of Criminal Law and Criminology, 71(3),
325–35. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/1142704>
Greene, J. D. 2007. The secret joke of Kant’s soul. In W. Sinnott-Armstrong (ed.), Moral
Psychology, vol. 3: The Neuroscience of Morality: Emotion, Disease, and Development, pp.
359–71. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. <http://www.wjh.harvard.edu/~jgreene/GreeneWJH/
Greene-KantSoul.pdf>
Griskevicius, V., Tybur, J. M., Gangestad, S. W., Perea, E. F., Shapiro, J. R., and Kenrick, D. T. 2009.
Aggress to impress: Hostility as an evolved context-dependent strategy. Journal of Personality
and Social Psychology, 96(5), 980–94. <http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/psp/96/5/980/>
Haidt, J. 2003. The moral emotions. In R. J. Davidson, K. R. Scherer, and H. H. Goldsmith (eds.),
Handbook of Affective Sciences, pp. 852–70. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Haidt, J., and Kesebir, S. 2010. Morality. In S. T. Fiske, D. T. Gilbert, and G. Lindzey (eds.),
Handbook of Social Psychology, 5th edn., pp. 797–832. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons, Inc.
<http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1002/9780470561119.socpsy002022/abstract>
Haidt, J. 2012. The Righteous Mind: Why Good People Are Divided by Politics and Religion.
New York: Random House, Inc.
Haley, K. J., and Fessler, D. M. T. 2005. Nobody’s watching? Subtle cues affect generosity in an
anonymous economic game. Evolution and Human Behavior, 26(3), 245–56. <http://www.sci-
encedirect.com/science/article/pii/S1090513805000036>
Hannon, P. A., Rusbult, C. E., Finkel, E. J., and Kamashiro, M. 2010. In the wake of be-
trayal: Amends, forgiveness, and the resolution of betrayal. Personal Relationships, 17(2), 253–
78. <http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1475-6811.2010.01275.x/full>
Herman, B. 1981. On the value of acting from the motive of duty. The Philosophical Review, 90(3),
359–82. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/2184978>
Hieronymi, P. 2004. The force and fairness of blame. Philosophical Perspectives, 18(1), 115–148.
<http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1520-8583.2004.00023.x/full>
Hopfensitz, A., and Reuben, E. 2009. The importance of emotions for the effectiveness of social
punishment. The Economic Journal, 119(540), 1534–59. <http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/
doi/10.1111/j.1468-0297.2009.02288.x/abstract>
Hurley, E. and Macnamara, C. 2010. Beyond belief: Toward a theory of the reactive attitudes.
Philosophical Papers, 39(3), 373–99. <http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/05568641.2010.538915>
Hutcherson, C. A., and Gross, J. J. 2011. The moral emotions: A social–functionalist account
of anger, disgust, and contempt. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 100(4), 719–37.
<http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/psp/100/4/719/>
Inbar, Y., Pizarro, D. A., Gilovich, T., and Ariely, D. 2013. Moral masochism: On the connection
between guilt and self-punishment. Emotion, 13(1), 14–18. <http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/
emo/13/1/14/>
Janssen, M. A., Holahan, R., Lee, A., and Ostrom, E. 2010. Lab experiments for the study of
social-ecological systems. Science, 328(5978), 613–17. <http://www.sciencemag.org/con-
tent/328/5978/613.full.html>
Johns, M., Schmader, T., and Lickel, B. 2005. Ashamed to be an American? The role of identi-
fication in predicting vicarious shame for anti-Arab prejudice after 9–11. Self and Identity,
4(4), 331–48. <http://www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.1080/15298860500145822#.
UjZIKWShO3M>
78 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

Kahan, D. M. 1997. Social influence, social meaning, and deterrence. Virginia Law Review, 83(2),
349–95. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/1073780>
Kallgren, C. A., Reno, R. R., and Cialdini, R. B. 2000. A focus theory of normative conduct: When
norms do and do not affect behavior. Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin, 26,
1002–1012. <http://psp.sagepub.com/content/26/8/1002.short>
Kant, I. 1785/1996. Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals. In Practical Philosophy, trans. and
ed. M. J. Gregor. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. References are to page numbers of
the Preussische Akademie edition.
Keller, L. B., Oswald, M. E., Stucki, I., and Gollwitzer, M. 2010. A closer look at an eye for
an eye: laypersons’ punishment decisions are primarily driven by retributive motives.
Social Justice Research, 23(2–3), 99–116. <http://link.springer.com/article/10.1007/
s11211-010-0113-4#page-1>
Kelley, D. L., and Waldron, V. R. 2005. An investigation of forgiveness-seeking communication
and relational outcomes. Communication Quarterly, 53(3), 339–58. <http://www.tandfonline.
com/doi/abs/10.1080/01463370500101097#.UhbLlGShO3M>
Kelly, D., Stich, S., Haley, K. J., Eng, S. J., and Fessler, D. M. T. 2007. Harm, affect, and the moral/
conventional distinction. Mind and Language, 22(2), 117–31. <http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/
doi/10.1111/j.1468-0017.2007.00302.x/full>
Khan, U., and Dhar, R. 2006. Licensing effect in consumer choice. Journal of Marketing Research,
43, 259–66. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/30163392>
Kochanska, G., Barry, R. A., Jimenez, N. B., Hollatz, A. L., and Woodard, J. 2009. Guilt and
effortful control: Two mechanisms that prevent disruptive developmental trajectories.
Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 97(2), 322–33. <http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/
psp/97/2/322/>
Korsgaard, C. 1986. Skepticism about practical reason. The Journal of Philosophy, 83(1), 5–25.
<http://www.jstor.org/stable/2026464>
Kouchaki, M. 2011. Vicarious moral licensing: The influence of others’ past moral actions on
moral behavior. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 101(4), 702–15. <http://psycnet.
apa.org/journals/psp/101/4/702/>
Kurzban, R., DeScioli, P., and O’Brien, E. 2007. Audience effects on moralistic punishment.
Evolution and Human Behavior, 28(2), 75–84. <http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/
article/pii/S1090513806000481>
Leith, K. P., and Baumeister, R. F. 1998. Empathy, shame, guilt, and narratives of interpersonal
conflicts: Guilt-prone people are better at perspective taking. Journal of Personality, 66(1),
1–37. <http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/1467-6494.00001/abstract>
Lemay, E. P., Overall, N. C., and Clark, M. S. 2012. Experiences and interpersonal consequences
of hurt feelings and anger. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 103(6), 982–1006.
<http://psycnet.apa.org/psycinfo/2012-25103-001/>
Leonard, D. J., Mackie, D. M., and Smith, E. R. 2011. Emotional responses to intergroup apology
mediate intergroup forgiveness and retribution. Journal of Experimental Social Psychology,
47(6), 1198–206. <http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0022103111001272>
Liberman, N., Förster, J., and Higgins, E. T. 2007. Completed vs. interrupted priming: reduced
accessibility from post-fulfillment inhibition. Journal of Experimental Social Psychology,
43(2), 258–64. <http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0022103106000266>
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 79

Lickel, B., Schmader, T., Curtis, M., Scarnier, M., and Ames, D. R. 2005. Vicarious shame and
guilt. Group Processes & Intergroup Relations, 8(2), 145–57. <http://gpi.sagepub.com/con-
tent/8/2/145.short>
McCullough, M. E. 2001. Forgiveness: Who does it and how do they do it? Current Directions in
Psychological Science, 106, 194–197. <http://cdp.sagepub.com/content/10/6/194.short>
McCullough, M. E., Rachal, K. C., Sandage, S. J., Worthington, E. L., Brown, S. W., and Hight,
T. L. 1998. Interpersonal forgiving in close relationships: II. Theoretical elaboration and meas-
urement. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 756, 1586–603. <http://psycnet.apa.org/
journals/psp/75/6/1586/>
McCullough, M., Root, L., Tabak, B., and Witvliet, C. 2009. Forgiveness. In C. R. Snyder
and S. J. Lopez (eds.), Oxford Handbook of Positive Psychology, 2nd edn., pp. 427–36.
New York: Oxford University Press.
McCullough, M. E., Worthington, E. L., and Rachal, K. C. 1997. Interpersonal forgiving in close
relationships. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 732, 321–36. <http://psycnet.apa.
org/journals/psp/73/2/321/>
McGraw, K. M. 1987. Guilt following transgression: An attribution of responsibility approach.
Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 532, 247–56. <http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/
psp/53/2/247/>
Macnamara, C. 2013. Taking demands out of blame. In D. J. Coates and N. A. Tognazzini (eds.),
Blame: Its Nature and Norms, pp. 141–61. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Mandel, D. R., and Dhami, M. K. 2005. “What I did” versus “what I might have done”: Effect
of factual versus counterfactual thinking on blame, guilt, and shame in prisoners. Journal
of Experimental Social Psychology, 41(6), 627–35. <http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/
article/pii/S0022103105000107>
Masclet, D., Noussair, C., Tucker, S., and Villeval, M. C. 2003. Monetary and nonmonetary pun-
ishment in the voluntary contributions mechanism. The American Economic Review, 93(1),
366–80. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/3132181>
Mazar, N., and Zhong, C. B. 2010. Do green products make us better people? Psychological
Science, 21(4), 494–8. <http://pss.sagepub.com/content/21/4/494.short>
Mencken, H. L. 1949. A Mencken Chrestomathy. New York: Knopf.
Merritt, A. C., Effron, D. A., Fein, S., Savitsky, K. K., Tuller, D. M., and Monin, B. 2012. The
strategic pursuit of moral credentials. Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, 48(3), 774–7.
<http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0022103111003076>
Milgram, S. 1965. Liberating effects of group pressure. Journal of Personality and Social
Psychology, 1(2), 127–34. <http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/psp/1/2/127/>
Milgram, S. 1974. Obedience to Authority: An Experimental View. New York: Harper & Row
Publishers, Inc.
Millar, M. 2002. Effects of a guilt induction and guilt reduction on door in the face.
Communication Research, 29(6), 666–80. <http://crx.sagepub.com/content/29/6/666.short>
Monin, B., and Miller, D. T. 2001. Moral credentials and the expression of prejudice. Journal of
Personality and Social Psychology, 81(1), 33–43. <http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/psp/81/1/33/>
Montada, L., and Schneider, A. 1989. Justice and emotional reactions to the disadvantaged.
Social Justice Research, 3(4), 313–44. <http://link.springer.com/article/10.1007/BF01048081>
Moore, G. E. 1993. Principia Ethica, ed. T. Baldwin. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Nagel, T. 1970. The Possibility of Altruism. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
80 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

Nelissen, R. M. A. 2012. Guilt induced self-punishment as a sign of remorse. Social Psychological

and Personality Science, 3(2), 139–44. <http://spp.sagepub.com/content/3/2/139.short>
Nichols, S. 2002. Norms with feeling: Towards a psychological account of moral judg-
ment. Cognition, 84(2), 221–36. <http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/
S0010027702000483>
Niedenthal, P. M., Tangney, J. P., and Gavanski, I. 1994. “If only I weren’t” versus “if only
I hadn’t”: distinguishing shame and guilt in counterfactual thinking. Journal of Personality
and Social Psychology, 67(4), 585–95. <http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/psp/67/4/585/>
Nietzsche, F. 1887/2006. On the Genealogy of Morals and Other Writings: Revised Student Edition,
trans. C. Diethe, ed. K. Ansell-Pearson. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Noussair, C., and Tucker, S. 2005. Combining monetary and social sanctions to promote co-
operation. Economic Inquiry, 43(3), 649–60. <http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1093/ei/
cbi045/full>
O’Mara, E. M., Jackson, L. E., Batson, C. D., and Gaertner, L. 2011. Will moral outrage stand up?
Distinguishing among emotional reactions to a moral violation. European Journal of Social
Psychology, 41(2), 173–9. <http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1002/ejsp.754/abstract>
Orbell, J. M., Van de Kragt, A. J., and Dawes, R. M. 1988. Explaining discussion-induced coop-
eration. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 54(5), 811–19. <http://psycnet.apa.org/
journals/psp/54/5/811/>
Orth, U., Robins, R. W., and Soto, C. J. 2010. Tracking the trajectory of shame, guilt, and pride
across the life span. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 99(6), 1061–71. <http://psyc-
net.apa.org/journals/psp/99/6/1061/>
Ostrom, E., Walker, J., and Gardner, R. 1992. Covenants with and without a sword: Self-governance
is possible. The American Political Science Review, 86(2), 404–17. <http://www.jstor.org/
stable/1964229>
Paluck, E. L. 2009. Reducing intergroup prejudice and conflict using the media: A field experi-
ment in Rwanda. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 96(3), 574–87. <http://psycnet.
apa.org/journals/psp/96/3/574/>
Polman, E., and Ruttan, R. L. 2012. Effects of anger, guilt, and envy on moral hypocrisy.
Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin, 38(1), 129–39. <http://psp.sagepub.com/con-
tent/38/1/129.short>
Plato. c.380 BC 1992. Republic, rev. edn., trans. G. M. A. Grube and C. D. C. Reeve. Indianapolis:
Hackett.
Quiles, Z. N., and Bybee, J. 1997. Chronic and predispositional guilt: Relations to mental health,
prosocial behavior, and religiosity. Journal of Personality Assessment, 69(1), 104–26. <http://
www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.1207/s15327752jpa6901_6#.UjYH8mShO3M>
Regan, D. T., Williams, M., and Sparling, S. 1972. Voluntary expiation of guilt: A field exper-
iment. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 24(1), 42–5. <http://psycnet.apa.org/
journals/psp/24/1/42/>
Reingen, P. H. 1982. Test of a list procedure for inducing compliance with a request to do-
nate money. Journal of Applied Psychology, 67(1), 110–18. <http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/
apl/67/1/110/>
Reno, R. R., Cialdini, R. B., and Kallgren, C. A. 1993. The transsituational influence of social
norms. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 64(1), 104–12. <http://psycnet.apa.org/
journals/psp/64/1/104/>
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 81

Rosati, C. S. 2006. Moral motivation. In E. N. Zalta (ed.), The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy,
Fall 2008 edn. <http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall2008/entries/moral-motivation/>
Roseman, I. J., Wiest, C., and Swartz, T. S. 1994. Phenomenology, behaviors, and goals differen-
tiate discrete emotions. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 67(2), 206–21. <http://
psycnet.apa.org/journals/psp/67/2/206/>
Royzman, E. B., Leeman, R. F., and Baron, J. 2009. Unsentimental ethics: Towards a
content-specific account of the moral-conventional distinction. Cognition, 112(1), 159–74.
<http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0010027709000900>
Sachdeva, S., Iliev, R., and Medin, D. L. 2009. Sinning saints and saintly sinners: The paradox
of moral self-regulation. Psychological Science, 20(4), 523–8. <http://pss.sagepub.com/con-
tent/20/4/523.short>
Scanlon, T. 2008. Moral Dimensions: Permissibility, Meaning, Blame. Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press.
Scheffler, S. 1982. The Rejection of Consequentialism: A Philosophical Investigation of the
Considerations Underlying Rival Moral Conceptions. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Schmitt, M., Gollwitzer, M., Förster, N., and Montada, L. 2004. Effects of objective and sub-
jective account components on forgiving. The Journal of Social Psychology, 144(5), 465–86.
<http://psycnet.apa.org/psycinfo/2004-18244-002>
Schultz, P. W., Nolan, J. M., Cialdini, R. B., Goldstein, N. J., and Griskevicius, V. 2007. The con-
structive, destructive, and reconstructive power of social norms. Psychological Science, 18(5),
429–34. <http://pss.sagepub.com/content/18/5/429.short>
Shafer-Landau, R. 2003. Moral Realism: A Defence. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Shah, J. Y., Friedman, R., and Kruglanski, A. W. 2002. Forgetting all else: On the antecedents and
consequences of goal shielding. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 83(6), 1261–80.
<http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/psp/83/6/1261/>
Sher, G. 2006. In Praise of Blame. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Small, D. A., and Loewenstein, G. 2003. Helping a victim or helping the victim: Altruism
and identifiability. Journal of Risk and Uncertainty, 26(1), 5–16. <http://link.springer.com/
article/10.1023/A:1022299422219#page-1>
Smith, M. 1994. The Moral Problem. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing Ltd.
Smith, R. H., Webster, J. M., Parrott, W. G., and Eyre, H. L. 2002. The role of public exposure
in moral and nonmoral shame and guilt. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 83(1),
138–59. <http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/psp/83/1/138/>
Steenbergen, M. R., McGraw, K. M., and Scholz, J. T. 1992. Taxpayer adaptation to the 1986 tax
reform act: Do new tax laws affect the way taxpayers think about taxes? In J. Slemrod (ed.),
Why People Pay Taxes: Tax Compliance and Enforcement. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan
Press.
Stillman, T. F., and Baumeister, R. F. 2010. Guilty, free, and wise: Determinism and psychopathy
diminish learning from negative emotions. Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, 46(6),
951–60. <http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0022103110001289>
Stocker, M. 1976. The schizophrenia of modern ethical theories. The Journal of Philosophy,
73(14), 453–66. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/2025782>
Strawson, P. F. 1968. Freedom and resentment. In P. F. Strawson and G. Ryle (eds.), Studies in the
Philosophy of Thought and Action, pp. 71–96. London: Oxford University Press.
82 Brendan Dill and Stephen Darwall

Stuewig, J., and McCloskey, L. A. 2005. The relation of child maltreatment to shame and guilt
among adolescents: Psychological routes to depression and delinquency. Child Maltreatment,
10(4), 324–36. <http://cmx.sagepub.com/content/10/4/324.short>
Sunstein, C. R., Schkade, D., and Kahneman, D. 2000. Do people want optimal deterrence? The
Journal of Legal Studies, 29(1), 237–53. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1086/468069>
Tabak, B. A., McCullough, M. E., Luna, L. R., Bono, G., and Berry, J. W. 2011. Conciliatory
gestures facilitate forgiveness and feelings of friendship by making transgressors appear
more agreeable. Journal of Personality, 80(2), 503–36. <http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/
doi/10.1111/j.1467-6494.2011.00728.x/abstract>
Tangney, J. P. 1995. Recent advances in the empirical study of shame and guilt. American
Behavioral Scientist, 38(8), 1132–45. <http://psycnet.apa.org/psycinfo/1996-11309-001>
Tangney, J. P., Miller, R. S., Flicker, L., and Barlow, D. H. 1996. Are shame, guilt, and embarrass-
ment distinct emotions? Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 70(6), 1256–69. <http://
psycnet.apa.org/psycinfo/1996-01769-013>
Tangney, J. P., Stuewig, J., and Mashek, D. J. 2007. Moral emotions and moral behavior. Annual
Review of Psychology, 58(1), 345–72. <http://www.annualreviews.org/doi/abs/10.1146/
annurev.psych.56.091103.070145>
Tangney, J. P., Wagner, P., Fletcher, C., and Gramzow, R. 1992. Shamed into anger? The relation
of shame and guilt to anger and self-reported aggression. Journal of Personality and Social
Psychology, 624, 669–675. <http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/psp/62/4/669/>
Tangney, J. P., Wagner, P. E., Hill-Barlow, D., Marschall, D. E., and Gramzow, R. 1996. Relation
of shame and guilt to constructive versus destructive responses to anger across the life­
span. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 70(4), 797–809. <http://psycnet.apa.org/
journals/psp/70/4/797/>
Taylor, G. 1985. Pride, Shame, and Guilt: Emotions of Self-Assessment. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Tetlock, P. E. 2002. Social functionalist frameworks for judgment and choice: intuitive politi-
cians, theologians, and prosecutors. Psychological Review, 109(3), 451–71. <http://search.pro-
quest.com.libproxy.mit.edu/docview/614376835?accountid=12492>
Tittle, C. R. 1980. Sanctions and Social Deviance: The Question of Deterrence. New York: Praeger
Publishers.
Tracy, J. L., and Robins, R. W. 2006. Appraisal antecedents of shame and guilt: Support for a the-
oretical model. Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin, 32(10), 1339–51. <http://psp.sage-
pub.com/content/32/10/1339.short>
Turiel, E. 1983. The Development of Social Knowledge: Morality and Convention.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Turillo, C. J., Folger, R., Lavelle, J. J., Umphress, E. E., and Gee, J. O. 2002. Is virtue its own re-
ward? Self-sacrificial decisions for the sake of fairness. Organizational Behavior and Human
Decision Processes, 89(1), 839–65. <http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/
S0749597802000328>
Ule, A., Schram, A., Riedl, A., and Cason, T. N. 2009. Indirect punishment and generosity toward
strangers. Science, 326(5960), 1701–4. <http://www.sciencemag.org/content/326/5960/1701.
full.html>
Wallace, R. J. 1994. Responsibility and the Moral Sentiments. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press.
 Moral Psychology as Accountability 83

Watson, G. 1987. Responsibility and the limits of evil: Variations on a Strawsonian theme. In
F. D. Schoeman (ed.), Responsibility, Character, and the Emotions: New Essays in Moral
Psychology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Watson, G. 1996. Two faces of responsibility. Philosophical Topics, 24(2), 227–48. <http://
www.pdcnet.org/pdc/bvdb.nsf/purchase?openform&fp=philtopics&id=philtop
ics_1996_0024_0002_0227_0247>
Wenzel, M., Okimoto, T. G., Feather, N. T., and Platow, M. J. 2008. Retributive and restorative
justice. Law and Human Behavior, 32(5), 375–89. <http://www.psycontent.com/content/
v55835755422w77v/>
Williams, B. 1985. Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy. London: Fontana Press.
Velleman, J. D. 2001. The genesis of shame. Philosophy and Public Affairs, 30(1), 27–52. <http://
onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1088-4963.2001.00027.x/full>
Yang, M.-L., Yang, C.-C., and Chiou, W.-B. 2010. When guilt leads to other orientation and
shame leads to egocentric self-focus: Effects of differential priming of negative affects on
perspective taking. Social Behavior and Personality: An International Journal, 38(5), 605–14.
<http://www.ingentaconnect.com/content/sbp/sbp/2010/00000038/00000005/art00004>
Yzerbyt, V., Dumont, M., Wigboldus, D., and Gordijn, E. 2003. I feel for us: The impact of cat-
egorization and identification on emotions and action tendencies. British Journal of Social
Psychology, 42(4), 533–49. <http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1348/014466603322595266/
abstract>
Zebel, S., Zimmermann, A., Tendayi Viki, G., and Doosje, B. 2008. Dehumanization and guilt
as distinct but related predictors of support for reparation policies. Political Psychology, 29(2),
193–219. <http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1467-9221.2008.00623.x/full>
Zechmeister, J. S., Garcia, S., Romero, C., and Vas, S. N. 2004. Don’t apologize unless you mean
it: A laboratory investigation of forgiveness and retaliation. Journal of Social and Clinical
Psychology, 23(4), 532–64. <http://guilfordjournals.com/doi/abs/10.1521/jscp.23.4.532.40309>
Zimbardo, P. G. 1969. The human choice: Individuation, reason, and order versus deindividua-
tion, impulse, and chaos. In W. J. Arnold and D. Levine (eds.), 1969 Nebraska Symposium on
Motivation, pp. 237–307. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press.
 4
Remnants of Character
David Shoemaker

In compiling his list of pleas that we take to warrant exemptions from the commu-
nity of morally responsible agents, P. F. Strawson included the following: “ ‘He’s only
a child,’ ‘He’s a hopeless schizophrenic,’ ‘His mind has been systematically perverted,’
and ‘That’s purely compulsive behavior on his part.’ ”1 He also mentioned as exempt
those who are “peculiarly unfortunate in . . . formative circumstances.”2 These are
descriptions of agents we typically exclude from the whole range of reactive attitudes
like resentment, he noted, insofar as they are “psychologically abnormal” or “morally
undeveloped.”3 But what is the precise nature of the abnormality or underdevelopment
at stake here, and why does it exempt? Strawson did not explore any of the details of
these cases in a way that would help us very much in answering such questions.4 The
consequence of this incompleteness is that we also did not get from him an adequate
account of the specific features or capacities that might be necessary for full-fledged, or
paradigm, responsible agency.
To explain, Strawson claims that our reactive attitudes are unified in virtue of their
targeting agents’ quality of will, which is “the good or ill will or indifference of others
towards us, as displayed in their attitudes and actions.”5 So in resenting someone for
elbowing me in the gut, say, I am holding him responsible not for his action but for his
ill will toward me in performing that action. If his elbow hit me by accident (and I per-
ceive this), my resentment would (appropriately) be suspended, given that I no longer
perceive his quality of will to be poor—even though the pain in my gut remains the
same as it would have had he elbowed me with ill intent. Appealing to quality of will

1
P. F. Strawson, “Freedom and Resentment,” in Gary Watson (ed.), Free Will, 2nd edn. (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2003), 78.
2
Strawson, “Freedom and Resentment,” 79.
3
Strawson, “Freedom and Resentment,” 79.
4
He fully owns up to this point. As he puts it (p. 79), “I must deal here in crude dichotomies and ignore the
ever-interesting and ever-illuminating varieties of case.” It is partially my aim in this chapter to explore one
of those illuminating varieties.
5
Strawson, “Freedom and Resentment,” 80; emphasis in original.
 Remnants of Character 85

thus seems to do the relevant work in explaining why we excuse agents from the reac-
tive attitudes in individual cases (but continue to regard them as responsible agents
more generally).
However, the theory begins to unravel once we consider more closely the above sorts
of marginal cases, those in which the agents are allegedly exempt from the world of
responsible agency altogether.6 Exemptions implicate general incapacities, and so on
Strawson’s theory, if quality of will is the essence of paradigm responsible agency, then
marginal agents ought to be exempted in virtue of their being incapacitated with re-
spect to it. But what does it mean to lack the capacity for “good or ill will or indiffer-
ence”? And why precisely do our marginal agents lack it? To see the worry more clearly,
consider those who are schizophrenic and those who suffer from compulsions (e.g.,
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder or kleptomania). Both fall under the broad rubric of
the “psychologically abnormal,” but they each seem to have very different abnormali-
ties: The former seem unable to recognize certain reasons (they lack a “moral sense”7),
whereas the latter seem unable to act on certain reasons. In addition, not any old psy-
chological abnormality eliminates the capacity for quality of will, as we do not exempt
those with genius-level IQs, photographic memories, or extraordinary empathic skills.
So it would seem that only some subset of psychological abnormalities is exempting,
and different abnormalities exempt for different reasons. And the same must be true
for “moral underdevelopment”: some children as young as 3 years old can make the
so-called “moral/conventional distinction,”8 so insofar as they are exempt it must be
for some other, more relevant, feature. But what is that feature, when is it developed,
and why is it relevant? It looks as if we have to investigate each marginal case individu-
ally and in detail in order to discover the distinct sufficient conditions for exemption,
and so to discover the necessary conditions for paradigm agency.
Nevertheless, even if we can identify the different exempting conditions via this
process, we have a further problem to contend with, namely, our attitude toward
so-called exempt agents in many marginal cases isn’t wholehearted. As Gary Watson
noted in making a different point, “A child can be malicious, a psychotic can be hos-
tile, a sociopath indifferent, a person under great strain can be rude, a woman or man
‘unfortunate in formative circumstances’ can be cruel.”9 Watson’s point was that these
exempted agents still exhibit quality of will in some sense, so a plausible theory of re-
sponsibility cannot be constructed solely by appeal to quality of will; other factors (e.g.,
history, autonomy, authenticity, control, knowledge, etc.) are needed to tell the whole

6
For more on this distinction between excusing and exempting conditions in Strawson’s account, see
Gary Watson, Agency and Answerability (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 223–5.
7
Strawson, “Freedom and Resentment,” 86.
8
See J. Smetana, “Preschool children’s conceptions of transgressions: effects of varying moral and con-
ventional domain-related attributes,” Developmental Psychology, 21 (1985), 18–29; J. Smetana, “Preschool
children’s conceptions of moral and social rules,” Child Development, 52 (1981), 1333–6; and M. Hollos, P. Leis,
and E. Turiel, “Social reasoning children and adolescents,” Journal of Cross Cultural Psychology, 17 (1986),
352–74.
9
Watson, Agency and Answerability, 228.
86 David Shoemaker

story of exemptions. As I have argued elsewhere, I believe there is a better response

to this conundrum, one appealing to a wider, pluralistic understanding of “quality of
will.”10 Here, though, I simply want to focus on the ambivalence Watson’s cases bring
out: Children, while surely exempt from certain types of “harsher” responses like re-
sentment, are not neatly exempt from other sorts of negative response insofar as they
are malicious; the hostility of the psychotic still generates some negative responses in
us, even if we recognize others to be inappropriate; and while resenting psychopaths
does seem pointless, their indifference may still be deeply objectionable in ways that
rouse other sorts of responses we may not deem inappropriate. The way it feels to many
is that even if these marginal agents are not responsible in an important sense, they
might nevertheless be responsible in another.
There are thus two burdens that those, like me, who are attracted to a Strawsonian
approach to responsibility must take up. First, we must explain why, precisely, the
listed marginal agents are exempt, i.e., what is their specific psychological abnormality,
or the nature of their moral underdevelopment, such that it grounds their exemption?
Second, we must also explain (or explain away) the ambivalence such cases may arouse
in us, the feeling that while the agents are exempt in one sense, they may not be in
another.
Several have already taken up some of these burdens for the marginal cases Strawson
explicitly mentioned.11 My aim in this chapter is to take up these burdens for a marginal
case Strawson did not mention but surely would have, had he been writing today. It is
the now tragically familiar case of dementia. There are three important reasons to ex-
plore it. First, those who suffer dementia dramatically illustrate just the phenomena at

10
David Shoemaker, “Qualities of Will,” Social Philosophy & Policy, 30 (2013), 95–120.
11
Gary Watson explored the troubling case of Robert Harris, a horrifying murderer with a horrifying
childhood, in Agency and Answerability, 219–59. See also Susan Wolf, “Sanity and the metaphysics of re-
sponsibility,” in Watson, Free Will, 372–87. For a more empirical exploration of the ambivalence felt towards
those with morally deprived backgrounds, see David Faraci and David Shoemaker, in both “Insanity, re-
sponsibility, and the deep self: The case of JoJo,” Review of Philosophy & Psychology, 1 (2010), 319–32; and
“Huck vs. JoJo: The moral ignorance (a)symmetry,” forthcoming in Oxford Studies in Experimental
Philosophy 1 (Oxford: Oxford University Press). The case of children has been explored in Watson, Agency
and Answerability, 229–31; and Michael Tiboris, Youth and Diminished Responsibility (doctoral dissertation,
University of California San Diego, 2012). Psychopathy has been explored by many, including me. See, e.g.,
Gary Watson, “The trouble with psychopaths,” in R. Jay Wallace, Rahul Kumar, and Samuel Freeman (eds.),
Reasons and Recognition: Essays on the Philosophy of T. M. Scanlon (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011),
307–31; Neil Levy, “The responsibility of the psychopath revisited,” Philosophy, Psychiatry, & Psychology,
14 (2007), 129–38; Heidi Maibom, “The mad, the bad, and the psychopath,” Neuroethics, 1 (2008), 167–84;
Ishtiyaque Haji, “Psychopathy, ethical perception, and moral culpability,” Neuroethics, 3 (2010), 135–50; Matt
Talbert, “Blame and responsiveness to moral reasons: Are psychopaths blameworthy?” Pacific Philosophical
Quarterly, 89 (2008), 516–35; and David Shoemaker, “Moral address, moral responsibility, and the bounda-
ries of the moral community,” Ethics, 118 (2007), 70–108, as well as “Attributability, answerability, and ac-
countability: Toward a wider theory of moral responsibility,” Ethics, 121 (2011), 602–32. For discussion of
the insane, see T. M. Scanlon, “The significance of choice,” in Sterling McMurrin (ed.), The Tanner Lectures
on Human Values, 8 (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1988), 149–216. For discussion of those under
great strain, or who are “not themselves,” see Watson, Agency and Answerability, 231–3; and Erin Kelly, “What
is an Excuse?” in D. Justin Coates and Neal Tognazzini (eds.), Blame: Its Nature and Norms (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2012), 244–62.
 Remnants of Character 87

issue. The various impairments constituting dementia come in degrees, and in its early
stages dementia does not tend to exempt its sufferers from responsibility (although
its various symptoms may excuse them from time to time), while in its end stages de-
mentia sufferers are completely exempt from responsibility of any kind. In its middle
stages, however, dementia often leaves its victims in just the sort of marginal position
I have articulated: On the one hand, they do seem incapacitated for good or ill will in
some important sense, yet on the other hand, they still occasionally display qualities
like “meanness” or “kindness.” Our exemptions of them during this “perverse sweet
spot”12 do not feel wholehearted. Second, the case of dementia has been quite underex-
plored in the philosophical literature to this point, and to the extent it has been investi-
gated, it has been with respect to topics other than interpersonal moral responsibility.13
But given the prolific and insidious role that dementia has come to play in disabling or
altering many, many relationships, it is high time for a detailed philosophical inves-
tigation into how and why it does so, particularly with respect to the responsibility
responses that tend to structure such relationships in the first place. Finally, I think
there are some details specific to dementia that reveal several unrecognized or under-
appreciated conditions of responsibility, as well as some suggestive insights into the
nature of character.
In what follows, then, I will first provide the details about the impairments specific
to dementia, and then I will discuss which of these are, and which are not, relevant to
the exemptions of those who suffer from it during the “perverse sweet spot.”14 I will
pay particular attention to the role of memory loss and the way it has been thought to
implicate loss of identity. I reject this implication, so I will explain why and then ar-
ticulate the reason dementia does exempt (when it does) as well as what this suggests
for the conditions of paradigm agency. In the second part of the chapter, I will take up
the question of whether those with dementia might nevertheless be responsible in a
different sense, vindicating our ambivalence about them. What matters, I will suggest,
is that they are still capable of revealing features—remnants—of their characters in a
way that appropriately grounds certain responsibility responses to them. Of course,
these might just be fragments or shards of a disintegrated character, and so not genuine
character revelations any more. In grappling with this worry, I will suggest a new way
of thinking about character that may have significant explanatory power for theorizing
about some forms of responsibility. Before concluding, I will respond to a few objec-
tions about my overall story, drawn in part from those few others who have taken the
details of dementia seriously.

12
I owe this apt phrase to the editors. My thanks to them also in pressing me to be clearer about the stage
under discussion.
13
See Annette Dufner, “Should the late stage demented be punished for past crimes?” Criminal Law
and Philosophy, 7 (2013), 137–50; and Agnieszka Jaworska, “Respecting the margins of agency: Alzheimer’s
patients and the capacity to value,” Philosophy & Public Affairs, 28 (1999), 105–38.
14
And it should be understood that, throughout, I am talking about the moderate stages of dementia,
those illustrating the “perverse sweet spot.” I will, however, occasionally issue reminders of this fact.
88 David Shoemaker

Varieties of Dementia
“Dementia” is a catchall term for a number of different symptoms caused by a wide
variety of brain disorders. The official DSM-5 statement on it has replaced the term
“dementia” with “major or minor neurocognitive disorder,” and its diagnostic criteria
for the generic major form are as follows:
A. Evidence of significant cognitive decline from a previous level of performance
in one or more cognitive domains (complex attention, executive function,
learning and memory, language, perceptual-motor, or social cognition) . . .
B. The cognitive deficits interfere with independence in everyday activities . . .
C. The cognitive deficits do not occur exclusively in the context of a delirium.
D. The cognitive deficits are not better explained by another mental disorder (e.g.,
major depressive disorder, schizophrenia).15
By far the most insidious and widespread purveyor of these evils is Alzheimer’s dis-
ease, which affects one in ten Americans over the age of 65, and nearly half of those over
the age of 85. It is a progressive dementia, one that eventually impairs all of the afore-
mentioned brain functions, and because of its familiar presence in many of our lives
(and because of its rough similarity to many of those forms with a different etiology),
it is the form on which I will focus here.16 What makes this form of dementia distinc-
tive is that, in its major form, it requires both memory impairment and impairment
in at least one other of the specified cognitive domains: language function (aphasia),
the ability to activate or execute intact motor capacities (apraxia), complex attention,
impaired social cognition, or a disturbance in planning, organizing, sequencing, or
abstracting abilities (executive functioning).17
Here is the uncontroversial datum with which I will begin: There is a stage in the
progression of the disease, once the dementia is sufficiently advanced, where dementia
sufferers (DSs) typically stop being held responsible (e.g., blamed), and we think this
cessation to be appropriate. In the first part of my investigation, I will try to figure out
what individual or combined incapacities could render this practice appropriate and
why. In the second, I will argue that there is nevertheless a remnant of a different kind
of responsibility even in advanced DSs, derived from their remnants of character.

15
American Psychiatric Association, Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition,
DSM-5 (Washington, DC: American Psychiatric Association, 2013), Code 331.83.
16
While many forms of dementia do have numerous features in common, one form of dementia—fronto-
temporal dementia (FTD)—involves some striking differences. Specifically, patients with FTD seem to be-
have much like psychopaths. They have lost a kind of emotional empathy that makes it very difficult for them
to make a variety of moral judgments. See Mario Mendez et al., “An investigation of moral judgement in
frontotemporal dementia,” Cognitive and Behavioral Neurology, 18 (2005), 193–7. While FTD patients would
also be exempt from accountability, it would be for different reasons than those I will articulate for most of
the standard cases of dementia, so I will set their cases aside here. For a clue into how I would view them,
though, see my “Moral address, moral responsibility, and the boundaries of the moral community.”
17
DSM-5, Code 331.9.
 Remnants of Character 89

Impairments and Incapacitations

Why does the plea “She’s demented” exempt its subject when it does, and what does
this exemption consist in? It is not a mere excusing condition, an explanation for why
an otherwise responsible agent shouldn’t be held responsible just here and now. It in-
stead reflects the agent’s general status as external to the moral community in some
respect. On the Strawsonian story, it reflects the fact that its subject is no longer ap-
propriately susceptible to the classic set of reactive attitudes: resentment, indignation,
and guilt on the negative side, and gratitude on the positive side.18 Adopting standard
terminology, we can gloss this point as follows: To be exempt from the moral com-
munity is to not be accountable, where being accountable is just a function of being
appropriately liable to being held to account via expression of the reactive attitudes.19
What grounds the general suspension of reactive attitudes to some agents, on Watson’s
Strawsonian story, is that their incapacities generate intelligibility constraints on the
demand for good will implicit in the expressions of reactive emotions.20 So even if one
has the capacity for quality of will in some sense, one might still be exempt to the extent
that one cannot understand this demand. Without the possibility of such comprehen-
sion, the intelligibility of making such a demand in the first place is absent. If we think,
therefore, that the expressed reactive emotions involved in holding someone account-
able are communications of the basic moral demand, then if middle-stage DSs are ex-
empt from being held accountable, they must be so in virtue of some condition that
makes them unable to comprehend these sorts of emotional communications.
But if this is the right story, then the various individual dementia symptoms we
have discussed start to seem irrelevant. Why, precisely, would those specific inabili-
ties undermine the agent’s ability to comprehend the sorts of moral demands being
expressed via reactive responses? Impairments in my ability to name objects, or rec-
ognize faces, or move my arms, or organize and plan do not seem to implicate my
ability to understand your emotional communications to me at all. Of course, it might
seem that impairments in social cognition or language would do the trick, but this is
also not clear. Impairments to one’s social cognition, after all, do not necessarily in-
volve impairments to one’s understanding of emotional demands; rather, they could

18
As Angela Smith has pointed out to me (in private correspondence), the status of DSs may actually be
more complicated (and interesting) than this. During the middle stages of Alzheimer’s dementia, DSs have
“good days” and “bad days,” so they may actually alternate between being inside and outside the moral com-
munity, rather than being outside, full stop. Smith is surely right about this possibility, so I should be clear
that I am interested solely in the issue of why it is that DSs are exempt from the classic set of reactive attitudes
when they are exempt. Exemptions, after all, may be global or local, and for some DSs they may merely be
local (obtaining only on the bad days). On DSs’ good days, getting off the hook (when they do!) will be a
matter of merely being excused.
19
See, e.g., R. Jay Wallace, Responsibility and the Moral Sentiments (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1994), and Michael McKenna, Conversation and Responsibility (New York: Oxford University Press,
2012).
20
Watson, Agency and Answerability, 228–9. See also, McKenna, Conversation and Responsibility, esp.
ch. 4.
90 David Shoemaker

just involve impairments to one’s ability to avoid various priming or attribution biases
in reasoning or to one’s solving of cooperative problems. And impairments to one’s
language abilities are typically verbal or signal impairments, not necessarily emotional
impairments, that is, losses in one’s ability to understand the point of emotional demands
like resentment.
The only impairment left, then, is that to memory, which must occur on any diag-
nosis of Alzheimer’s dementia.21 Could memory loss alone thus be the key to exemp-
tions from accountability?

Memory, Identity, and Accountability

In John Locke’s famous inaugural discussion of the issue, moral responsibility (what
Locke did call “accountability”) was thought to be linked inexorably with the dia-
chronic identity of persons. What makes me the person I am at any given time, for
Locke, is my self-reflecting consciousness, so my identity as a person across time con-
sists in an extension of that consciousness to other times: To the extent that I now can
have a consciousness of some past experience or action in the same way I did in having
experienced or performed it initially, I am identical to that experiencer or agent.22 My
consciousness of some past action, then, makes it mine: “whatever has the conscious-
ness of present and past actions, is the same person to whom they both belong.”23 And
only actions that belong to me in this way are those for which I am “justly account-
able.”24 To explain: When I am held accountable now for some past action, I, a per-
sisting agent, must now have some sort of intimate connection to that past (typically
momentary) action. This relation, whatever it amounts to, is what action-ownership
consists in, and it is surely at least necessary for accountability: It could not at all be
­appropriate to hold me to account for some action that wasn’t mine.25
So what is “consciousness,” precisely, the element Lockean action-ownership con-
sists in? Most theorists take Locke’s to be a story about memory, so to the extent that
I can remember some past action, it is rendered mine for purposes of being held ac-
countable. But if past-directed consciousness really is just memory, then it is neither

21
Technically, the impairment is to memory and learning, but as this impairment is conjunctive, and as
I think what does the real exempting work of the two is memory, I will simply focus on it.
22
This way of putting it clearly begs the question if what’s being given is a criterion of personal identity: “I
was the one who performed some past action just in case I have a consciousness of my having performed it.”
But Locke’s own formulation (again, if it’s taken to be a criterion of personal identity) does clearly beg the
question: “For as far as any intelligent being can repeat the idea of any past action with the same conscious-
ness it had of it at first, and with the same consciousness it has of any present action; so far it is the same per-
sonal self.” John Locke, “Of identity and diversity,” in John Perry (ed.), Personal Identity (Berkeley: University
of California Press, 1975), 40; emphasis mine.
23
Locke, “Of identity and diversity,” 45; emphasis mine.
24
Locke, “Of identity and diversity,” 45.
25
It will probably not be sufficient, however, as sometimes I may be excused from actions that are never-
theless mine in some sense.
 Remnants of Character 91

necessary nor sufficient for action-ownership.26 Consider necessity: If, while drunk,
I beat someone up for no good reason, that action is still mine even if I have absolutely
no recollection of it after sobering up. Consider sufficiency: If a single memory trace
of my beating someone up were transplanted into someone else’s brain, that person
would not yet own that action for purposes of being held accountable. Insofar as mem-
ory cannot be a criterion of action-ownership, impairments to memory alone cannot
exempt from accountability.
It is important to notice that the objections to Locke just raised are to the alleged
connection between memory and action-ownership, the latter of which Locke seem-
ingly failed to distinguish from identity, thinking that whatever makes some past
action mine is just what makes that past agent me. But even if memory cannot de-
liver action-ownership, couldn’t it still deliver identity? No, for the reason Bishop
Butler famously articulated: Memory cannot be constitutive of identity precisely be-
cause memory presupposes identity. My memory of some past action merely reveals
that its agent was me, given that I can remember only my own actions.27 Ingenious
science-fiction-based responses to this charge aside,28 it has persistent resonance
primarily because memory still seems to be of merely epistemic, not metaphysical,
value: It just reveals me to myself, rather than serving to unite my past and present
stages. This is the real Butlerian lesson, I think, and contemporary attempts to incor-
porate memory into psychological criteria of personal identity keep on missing it.
What they conflate is a criterion of identity with a sense of identity, and memory, it
seems, is only relevant to the latter.29
If we have eliminated memory from contention in delivering either the conditions
of action-ownership or the conditions of identity, it would seem like it plays no serious
role at all, then, in the conditions for exempting DSs. But as it turns out, memory plays
quite a crucial, albeit subtle and complicated, role. It is a role exclusive to accounta-
bility, though, not action-ownership or identity itself, and—while it cannot alone ex-
empt—when taken in combination with other symptoms of dementia, as well as the
sense of identity, it is the key to accountability exemptions.

Memory and Accountability

As earlier detailed, on Watson’s Strawsonian story of accountability, agents are exempt
to the extent that emotional expressions to them of the basic demand are unintelligible,

26
The arguments in this paragraph are drawn from my “Responsibility and the self,” in Shaun Gallagher
(ed.), Oxford Handbook of the Self (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011); and “Responsibility without
identity,” Harvard Review of Philosophy, 18 (2012), 109–32.
27
See Joseph Butler, “Of personal identity,” in Perry, Personal Identity, 99–105.
28
See, e.g., Derek Parfit, Reasons and Persons (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984), 219–23, for the
“q-memories” solution, which itself is drawn from Sydney Shoemaker, “Persons and Their Pasts,” American
Philosophical Quarterly, 7 (1970), 269–85.
29
On the notion of the sense of identity, see Stanley B. Klein and Shaun Nichols, “Memory and the sense of
personal identity,” Mind, 121 (2012), 677–702.
92 David Shoemaker

and so pointless as forms of communication. If impairments to memory are to play a

role in exemptions, then, they would have to render this sort of communication unin-
telligible. In what follows, I will try to explain how this might be so.
Let us start by revising the sort of scenario that eliminated memory as a necessary
condition of attributability. Suppose that I take a sleeping pill that takes an hour to
knock me out, and I know that its only side-effect is that I will not later remember
anything that happens during the half hour prior to its knocking me out.30 Crucially,
this pill does not alter my ordinary cognitive, deliberative, or volitional abilities in the
least. Suppose, then, that during that last half hour after taking the pill one night, my
simmering hatred for my slightly noisy neighbor reaches its boiling point, so I decide
to beat him up before going to bed. The fact that I genuinely don’t remember doing
this the next day is irrelevant to the fact that that action is mine for accountability pur-
poses. Indeed, my neighbor will surely, and appropriately, resent me for beating him
up (and communicate that resentment), and bystanders will appropriately be indig-
nant with me for my behavior. My lack of memory of the incident doesn’t at all get me
off the accountability hook.
Why not? Locke’s objection to my being held to account (punished, in his language)
in such a scenario is that there would then be no difference “between that punish-
ment, and being created miserable. . .”31 This is supposed to emphasize the importance
of personal identity in this arena: To punish someone who has no consciousness of
some past action would be just as immoral as bringing someone into existence who
has no connection whatsoever to the crime and then incarcerating him. Now it’s cer-
tainly true that, from the internal perspective of each such person, there would be no
difference: Both would feel unfairly put-upon. But from our perspective, the external
perspective, there would still be a huge difference, given that there were still plenty of
other connections between the first guy and the crime, in particular, causal continuity
of all the other psychological elements—cognitive, deliberative, and volitional—that
contributed to the commission of the crime in the first place (and so would have con-
tributed to my beating my neighbor up regardless of whether I had taken the sleeping
pill).32 In such a case, where the only thing missing was memory of the crime, Butler’s
point would again come to the fore: All that would be lost would be the agent’s epi-
stemic access to the crime (his sense of identity with the criminal agent), but nothing
about its being his crime would necessarily go missing. One can thus deserve a particu-
lar fate without having any consciousness of what made it one’s fate.
But if expressions of the reactive emotions are communicative, and the agent doesn’t
remember what he did to render appropriate such reactions, how could their intelli-
gibility be sustained through this sort of memory loss? The answer lies, I think, in the

30
So I do remember taking the pill. This case is an adaptation of one presented by Parfit, Reasons and
Persons (pp. 287–8) to very different effect.
31
Locke, “Of identity and diversity,” 51.
32
I say much more about this sort of “volitional continuity” in “Responsibility without identity.”
 Remnants of Character 93

fact that there are multiple communicative functions involved in the deployment of
the Strawsonian reactive attitudes. Watson discusses only the very general function of
communicating the basic demand for goodwill to the targets of expressions of reac-
tive emotions, but “communicating the basic demand” can involve both backward- and
forward-looking aspects, despite the fact that, in most explications, Strawsonians (and
Strawson himself) have focused only on the former.33 In expressing my resentment to
you, I certainly communicate my anger over your violation of the basic demand, in
which case I am drawing your attention to the action you own, pointing out how it in-
volved the expression of ill will to me, and conveying how this makes me feel. In doing
so, I am (at the least) demanding that you acknowledge what you did to me, and this is
backward-looking.34 But I also communicate something in addition, namely, “Here’s a
reminder of the basic demand for goodwill, and you will be well-served to heed it in the
future.” In other words, not only may I be communicating my anger over your violation
of the basic demand for goodwill (and so demanding that you acknowledge your vio-
lation), but also I may be dramatically reiterating what that basic demand is so that you
may better keep it in mind for any of our future dealings. Consequently, even if your loss
of memory of some past action undermines the first communicative function, it does
nothing to undermine the second. To the extent that expression of the reactive emotions
may be intelligible as long as it fulfills either communicative function, it can still be in-
telligible strictly with respect to its forward-looking aspects when directed at the person
who has genuinely forgotten performing the action that sparked such a response.35
One might worry that bringing in a forward-looking communicative function
returns us to the objectionable social efficiency (consequentialist) justification for our
responsibility practices to which Strawson initially objected as lacking in humanity.36

33
Victoria McGeer, in a very recent article (“P. F. Strawson’s consequentialism,” forthcoming in Oxford
Studies in Agency and Responsibility 2), does stress the forward-looking functions, but she is in the distinct
minority, and she may also be guilty of going too far in the other direction. I favor an account that empha-
sizes the importance of both functions.
34
I discuss and defend this “acknowledgment” theory of the communicative function of
responsibility-anger in both “Qualities of Will” and Responsibility from the Margins (unpublished book
manuscript).
35
To what end, though? In this case, for instance, is it just to get the agent to think twice about taking the
sleeping pill in the future? After all, he simply doesn’t remember having disregarded the demand in this case.
So is the communication of the demand just aimed at getting him to steer clear of conditions that will cause
him to forget whether he has complied with the demand? This would be an awfully strange communicative
function. I don’t think the communication is problematic in this way, however, because, first, it’s not as if
the agent could securely deny that he violated the demand, given his memory of taking a pill whose effects
he knew about. He doesn’t know for sure what he did after taking the pill, so the most he can say is that he
simply can’t remember violating the basic demand. Indeed, as I will argue shortly, the ability he has to iden-
tify with that demand-violating agent allows him to take on the mantle of demand-violator despite his lack
of memory. But more importantly for our purposes here, the idea is that, when he has taken the pill in the
future, it won’t affect his memory of pre-pill events, so he will be able to remember having received the stern
reiteration of the demand even while under the pill’s spell, and it will hopefully have the effect of getting him to
adhere to the demand at that time.
36
See, e.g., Strawson, “Freedom and resentment,” 89–90. See also McGeer, “P. F. Strawson’s
consequentialism.”
94 David Shoemaker

But Strawson’s objections to these justifications of “Optimists” were to their emphases

on policy and social regulation, which, while rendering responsibility compatible with
determinism, nevertheless required an objectivity of attitude, a viewing of their targets
as objects to be manipulated and controlled, and it was here that humanity was lacking.
What was lost, precisely, was the engagement between humans in genuine interper-
sonal relationships. But to live within these relationships (and who could live without
them, being human?) is to be committed to the personal reactive attitudes of resent-
ment, gratitude, and the like, and only by attending to such attitudes can we “recover
from the facts as we know them a sense of . . . all we mean, when, speaking the language
of morals, we speak of desert, responsibility, guilt, condemnation, and justice.”37 Now
these are indeed all backward-looking concepts. But even if all we mean in speaking
of these concepts is captured by the backward-looking communicative features of the
reactive attitudes, this does not mean that all we mean in expressing these attitudes is
captured by their backward-looking communicative features. For it is obvious that we
issue forward-looking demands and expectations of our friends and loved ones in-
tended to get them to change their behavior precisely as ways of engaging with them
personally. In reminding my friend of the terms of our relationship, I am reminding
him of what continuing our interpersonal engagement must consist in, and this is a re-
minder to which I expect autonomous compliance. To the extent that he is my friend,
I do not merely want to directly and immediately cause his behavior to conform to my
demand for goodwill, to wield my emotional arsenal solely to manipulate and control
him; instead, I want to cause him to remember my demand precisely as the demand
of a friend when he is deciding how to treat me in the future, in the hope that he will
consider such a demand to matter to him in his autonomous deliberations. This is the
difference between treating him as an object to be manipulated and a person to be
beseeched. The forward-looking communicative feature of reactive attitudes, there-
fore, may be (indeed, must be) included in our analysis of them, and we can easily do so
without losing our humanity in the process.
This isn’t yet to say, however, that their backward-looking communicative function
is actually missing in the sleeping pill case. To see why it might not be, it is very impor-
tant to note that, while responses to wrongdoing (say) by their very nature take place
after the fact of wrongdoing, there can be considerable variation in how long after the
fact they take place, and this delay may sometimes cause confusion in our views of the
conditions rendering such responses appropriate. Imagine two variations on our case,
then. In the first variation (A) my neighbor and some bystanders respond immediately
after the assault with reactive emotions (with resentment and indignation, respec-
tively). In the second variation (B) they don’t respond until the next morning (perhaps
the assaulted neighbor is unconscious until morning, and then he tells others straight
away upon waking up). At the time of their response in (A), I still remember the

37
Strawson, “Freedom and resentment,” 91; emphasis in original.
 Remnants of Character 95

assault, but at the time of their response in (B) I do not. In (A), my neighbor’s expressed
resentment presumably has both communicative features: It serves to communicate
his anger at my violation of the basic demand for goodwill as well as to dramatically
reiterate that demand as something to be paid closer consideration in the future.38
Why, though, could this not also be the case with the neighbor’s expressed resentment
the next morning in (B)? If the backward-looking aim of the expressed resentment is
to communicate his anger at me for assaulting him and get me to acknowledge what
I did, that aim can be met as long as there is some sort of essential connection between
me in the morning and the action the night before, something that ties the assault to
me-now. Memory is typically what would reveal this connection to me, providing me
with the sense of identity. But my neighbor’s communicated message could also well
resonate with me in memory’s absence, particularly if I can still fully identify with the
assaulter of the night before, i.e., to fully understand what it was like for him at the time
from the inside, to feel what he was feeling, and to appreciate, endorse, and recognize
the force of the considerations that moved him. Where my current volitional structure
is continuous with, and causally dependent on, his, I can actually “see myself ” doing
what he did in a way that both provides me with a relevant sense of identity and renders
my actual memory of having done so redundant. This is how the communicated mes-
sage of my neighbor can still intelligibly maintain its backward-looking force. And as
it obviously meets the conditions of its forward-looking aspect as well—I can under-
stand the emotional force of his expression of the demand in a way that can get me to
reshape my present and future deliberations about how to treat him—such emotional
expression may fulfill both of its communicative functions in the sleeping pill scenario
regardless of the time at which it is deployed.
Turn, then, to the memory impairments of dementia. To this point, I have focused
solely on memory loss with respect to some specific past action. But the memory im-
pairment of dementia is much broader, applying to one’s actions, experiences, and
judgments, and it constitutes an ongoing problem. One can never be sure that what
is experienced will ever be remembered again. But now we can see how both com-
municative aims of expressions of the reactive emotions may be undermined in such
patients. If I can neither remember what I did nor be expected to remember your
remonstrations of me when engaged in future deliberation, then it looks as if it might
well be pointless (as a form of communication) for you to express your reactive emo-
tions to me in the first place.
Now one could try to tell a story about identification like the one told above to rescue
at least the backward-looking communicative function. After all, at the time of remon-
stration, couldn’t the memory-impaired patient at least identify with the past agent,

38
As it turns out, I won’t remember it, but that’s irrelevant to whether his expression serves its
forward-looking communicative function, to dramatically impress on me the importance of the basic de-
mand in a way that I can understand and take up with respect to its forward-looking dimension at the time of
the expression. More on this point below.
96 David Shoemaker

even if she couldn’t remember precisely what she did, such that she-now could still be
tied to the action in a way that makes her victim’s expressed resentment (at this later
point in time) a sensible form of communication to her? She could, I have suggested,
without any additional impairments. But memory impairments alone are insufficient
for a diagnosis of dementia, remember; needed in addition are impairments to at least
one of the other five psychological abilities. While the impairments of Alzheimer’s ul-
timately run in varying degrees across all of the named abilities, what I want to suggest
likely does the real work in exempting moderately demented patients from accounta-
bility—when they are so exempt—is, in addition to general memory impairment, im-
pairment to executive functioning. The reason is that this general capacity includes
more specific capacities to engage in identification of the sort I have already argued
is necessary for expressions of the reactive emotions, in the absence of memory, to
achieve both their backward- and forward-looking communicative aims; in particular,
it includes the deliberative and abstraction capacities that are implicated in the ability
to place oneself in different circumstances, either in the position of some future af-
fected self or in the position of some past acting agent. To the extent that one’s ability to
imaginatively project oneself forward or backward in this way is damaged, though, so
too will be the point of any communication presupposing that ability.39
Nevertheless, the varying degrees of the impairments of dementia might seem to
provide possible counterexamples to the story I am telling here. For instance, someone
might have no (or very mild) executive impairments while having wholly pervasive
memory impairments. These memory impairments might be sufficient to destroy any
real notion of the agent’s self and so may also single-handedly seem to undermine the
possibility of identification with past or future selves. Alternatively, someone’s mem-
ory might be more or less intact but she might have such severe executive capacity
impairment that any sort of reflection, abstraction, planning, sequencing, etc. is off the
table, and so it is this impairment that single-handedly undermines the possibility of
remembering what she did. These are both possible scenarios, but they actually serve
to make my point, which is that it is a capacity for the sense of one’s agential identity that
is necessary for accountability.40 This sense may be provided by memory or identifi-
cation (involving robust projective imagination). Now while it is most fully achieved
via a combination of memory and identification, sometimes severe enough damage to
one or the other of these capacities alone may be sufficient to undermine both. But in

39
Again, I am focused only on that “perverse sweet spot” in which DSs have crossed the threshold of
non-accountability, yet they remain agents toward which we may still have what can be described as ongoing
“responsibility responses.”
40
Why “agential” and not “personal” identity? The latter typically refers to diachronic numerical identity, a
unique (one–one) relation between a person at t1 and a person at t2. The sense of identity to which I am refer-
ring could easily attach to a one–many relation, however. Just think of two fission products remembering the
pre-fission self: They would both have access to what it felt like “from the inside” to perform various actions.
I want to allow, then, that “agential identity” may not have the same metaphysical constraints as numerical
identity. The “sense” in question also refers to memories of, and identifications with, agents, for those are the
entities to whom our responsibility responses are relevant.
 Remnants of Character 97

any event, it is the overall capacity for the sense of one’s agential identity that has been
undermined, and that’s my focus.
Consequently, if you can neither remember some past action nor identify with its
agent, the backward-looking communicative aim of my expression of resentment to
you over your having violated the basic demand cannot be met. And if you will not
remember my expression of resentment in your future deliberations, nor are you able
to deliberate effectively in the formulation of a plan now to adhere to my resentful de-
mand in the future (by projecting yourself into that future), the forward-looking aim
of that expression cannot be met. With both communicative functions of expressions
of the reactive emotions effectively blunted by a proposed target’s dementia, holding
that agent accountable would be inappropriate. And to the extent the relevant psycho-
logical impairments obtain, the agent cannot sensibly be regarded as a member of the
moral community susceptible to these expressions. This is why DSs are exempt from
accountability.

Attributability and the Remnants of Character

And yet . . . Even when DSs are exempt from accountability in the middle stages of the
disease, it may still seem true of them that they express ill—or good!—will in their
actions in some sense. Even if there is no communicative point to our emotional
remonstrations of them, it still seems to be true that they are, occasionally, mean,
kind, generous, sour, pinched, or cheerful. And the fact that they are this way may
render various responsibility responses to them fitting, even if some “accountability”
responses to them remain unfitting, and so even if it would be inappropriate to express
the fitting responses with the communicative aims earlier discussed.
Consider a case independently of dementia. Suppose that, while I can recognize the
interests of others, I never take them seriously as reasons. Indeed, I often deliberately
discount the interests of others. I am a cruel person, and you may both judge me to
be cruel and respond to me with contempt. These seem clearly to be responsibility
responses. They may not be the sort of responses we have been discussing (e.g., holding
to account via expressed resentment), but they are nevertheless responses to my char-
acter qua practical agent, and they will typically ground various other (responsibility)
responses to me, such as your avoiding me, or your not trusting me, or your failing to
respond to my greetings with your normal good cheer.41 Gary Watson has labeled this
form of responsibility attributability.42 On Watson’s construal, for Φ to be attributable
to one is for Φ to reflect one’s deep self, where this is constituted by one’s evaluative

41
These are responses in line with the Scanlonian understanding of blame. See T. M. Scanlon, Moral
Dimensions (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2008), ch. 4.
42
On the original distinction between accountability and attributability, see Watson, Agency and
Answerability, 259–88. In my “Attributability, answerability, and accountability,” I articulate a third distinct
face of responsibility (answerability), and I also present the more ecumenical understanding of attributabil-
ity I am about to introduce here.
98 David Shoemaker

system, the set of one’s evaluative ends and commitments.43 I have elsewhere argued
for a broader, more ecumenical model of the deep self, one that includes both eval-
uative commitments and the emotional dispositions constituting one’s set of cares.44
I will simply stipulate that ecumenical account here. The important point, though, is
this: Responses to attributability-responsibility, after qualitative assessments of Φ itself
are in (i.e., was Φ good or bad?), are typically aretaic, including emotional responses
targeting agential character (e.g., admiration, disdain, contempt), and predications
describing features of the agent’s character given the attribution of Φ to him or her, e.g.,
“cowardly,” “brave,” “miserly,” “cruel,” “callous,” “generous,” “kind,” and so forth.45
This approach leaves the door open for DSs to be attributability-responsible too.
Their dementia, even if advanced, may not necessarily undermine their ability to have
a motivational structure that grounds various attributions, and so aretaic emotional
responses and predications. Here examples of positive behavior may initially be more
resonant. Suppose that when I visit my demented grandfather, he reaches for a choco-
late in the candy jar and brings it over to me, despite the great physical effort it requires.
After accomplishing this, he is on to the next things: moving a bowl on his kitchen
counter half an inch to the left, gazing out the window at a preening cardinal, turning
to ask me who I am. My expressing real gratitude to him at that point has no communi-
cative point (it may well be highly confusing).46 He cannot remember what he just did,
he will not remember how I respond to what he just did, he cannot identify with that
moments-ago agent, and he cannot deliberate about the future (and so identify with
some expected future self). He lacks the sense of his agential identity required to be ac-
countable. Nevertheless, what he did was kind—perhaps he took the fact that it would
give me pleasure to be a reason to bring me a chocolate—and if he does this generally, it
reflects on a kindness that is a trait of his character: He is kind.
These sorts of predications are anything but unfamiliar to us. Our demented par-
ents can be loving, patient, generous, considerate, or brave. And these assessments
are deployed more confidently when they are traits continuous with those from their
pre-demented days. “She was always patient like this,” we may say when watching our
mothers with our own attention-deficient children. “He’s still so considerate,” we may
say about my grandfather to another chocolate-receiving guest.
Of course, matters aren’t always so rosy. Many demented parents and grandpar-
ents remain just as cranky or cantankerous as ever. Some are stingy, some are callous,
some are narcissistic, some are difficult, some are inconsiderate, and some are even
cruel. And these too may be longstanding traits, persisting through the dementia and

43
Watson, Agency and Answerability. See also his “Free Agency,” in Agency and Answerability, 13–32.
44
See especially “Ecumenical responsibility,” forthcoming in Randolph Clarke, Michael McKenna,
and Angela M. Smith (eds.), The Nature of Moral Responsibility (Oxford: Oxford University Press); and
Responsibility from the Margins.
45
Watson, Agency and Answerability, 266, 270–1.
46
I, along with a few others, take gratitude to be the positive correlate of resentment. See also Scanlon,
Moral Dimensions, 151.
 Remnants of Character 99

expressed repeatedly in actions and attitudes. One can still be an old jerk despite the
ravages of Alzheimer’s. It may be communicatively pointless to blame such a person
for being an old jerk, but it still may be true that he is one.
Of those psychological features relevant to our enterprise, then, character seems
the last to go. Dementia, even advanced, may leave intact enough of who one was to
ground a continuing, albeit limited, range of assessments of genuine responsibility. It
is to these remnants of character that they attach, just as it is to these remnants of char-
acter that we—their children, friends, and caregivers—often cling. While DSs are no
longer members of the accountability community—we can no longer make intelligible
normative demands of them—they are not outside the world of responsibility alto-
gether. And insofar as the attributability of which they are eligible may still inform and
shape the ways in which we continue to respond (and not just react) to them, it could
well constitute the last remaining threads of our interpersonal relationships with them.

Traits of Character and Commitment Clusters

To this point I have been discussing character remnants, persisting psychological traits
of practical agents that may continue to ground attributability responses even through
several stages of dementia. Our confidence in the appropriateness of these responses is
typically bolstered by the ongoing familiarity of the traits in question. But what of the
more challenging (and equally familiar) cases in which the formerly kind demented
person’s actions start to seem “mean,” say, in a way never seen before?47 Perhaps she
now lashes out with contempt at the petty flaws of others, whereas prior to her disease
she was always patient and indulgent. Is this new meanness attributable to her? And if
so, what does this say about the nature of character generally?
There seem to be only three ways to answer such questions, and the challenge posed
by such cases is that these answers either seem implausible or not very amenable to the
thesis I have advanced. First, we might say that this agent developed a new character
trait—meanness—after the onset of dementia. This is a rather implausible possibility,
however: If character traits are constituted by one’s cares and commitments, then de-
veloping new cares and commitments would require a kind of abstraction, planning,
and anticipation that may no longer be possible (or at least not possible to a sufficient
degree) once the various executive impairments have taken place. Second, we might
say that this agent had the mean character trait all along but that her meanness is just
now being revealed for the first time, given that the dementia robbed her of her con-
trol over its expression. But this is implausible too, as it would have required a kind of
control throughout her life up until now that is beyond the range of most humans (and
so the implausibility comes in thinking of just how many DSs display such “revealed”
meanness in contrast to the likely numbers of those who could realistically exercise

47
Thanks to Angela Smith for raising this important worry. “Mean” is in scare quotes precisely because
what’s at issue now is whether such behavior really is mean at all, a reflection of a character trait.
100 David Shoemaker

such control throughout their lives). Further, even if the dementia undermined the
kind of control capacity heretofore necessary to resist expressing one’s meanness, this
sort of expression does not typically occasion the kind of rue occasioned by other
instances of losing control. For example, Alzheimer’s patients who lose control over
their bodily functions are deeply ashamed. But there is typically no such shame or even
regret experienced when meanness is expressed by the formerly kind. This would sug-
gest that the “suddenly disinhibited” character trait story is unlikely (although I will
return to a variation of this possibility later).
This seems to leave us with our last option, the one that is not amenable to my ac-
count of the attributability-responsibility of DSs: Perhaps what happens in such cases
is that dementia has just ravaged the agent’s character, so that what behaviors now
occur are simply first-order desire-based responses to stimuli, responses which then
yield the sorts of immediate joys or frustrations associated with the simple desire satis-
faction or dissatisfaction of young children and even some non-human animals. This
would mean that the DS’s so-called “meanness” isn’t meanness at all, as it is just dis-
connected from her “real” self (which Alzheimer’s has destroyed anyway) and so we
should not respond to it as such. But then, one might say, why shouldn’t we think the
same thing of those “traits” that do seem to persist, viewing the agent’s behavior in-
stead as bearing only an accidental resemblance to her character-grounded behavior
of old, not flowing from any real self simply because no such self exists anymore?
I think the key to responding to this important challenge is to delve more deeply
into the nature of character. I have simply stipulated that it consists in one’s set of cares
and commitments, and while this may be uncontroversial, it is so only because the
nature of the cares and commitments has been left somewhat open (and so may invite
very different interpretations). So let me start there. I take cares to be dispositions to
respond in sync emotionally to the up-and-down fortunes of the cared-for object.48
Commitments (to the extent they are distinct from cares) are dispositions to behave or
react in certain ways with respect to the advancement or defense of the ends or objects
one has judged good or worthy of defense.
Now I explicitly agree that the formation of new cares and commitments is prob-
ably unlikely once dementia has set in, given the impairments to executive capacities.
But already-formed cares and commitments don’t necessarily require such executive
capacities to persist, insofar as they are essentially dispositions, triggered by various
thoughts and perceptions that may survive executive impairment. Both caring and
commitment dispositions may easily be triggered by a perception that the object of
one’s care or commitment is being threatened, say, and the habitual nature of char-
acter traits thereby revealed may produce action that is fairly immediate and direct,
with little or no need for any real kind of deliberation. When a loved one is in peril,
the impulse to save him or her tends to move one fairly automatically, unmediated by

48
See my “Caring, Identification, and Agency,” Ethics, 114 (2003), 88–118.
 Remnants of Character 101

executive thinking or planning. To have the latter would indeed be to have one thought
too many.49
It thus seems quite possible that some cares and commitments may persist through
several stages of dementia.50 But some cares and commitments may well not do so.
Obvious candidates will include commitments whose objects or appropriate response
behaviors require certain abstraction or planning capacities. Religious commitments,
for instance, may fall by the wayside with the onset or advancement of dementia,
insofar as they demand an ability to conceive a very abstract object of devotion.51
Prudential caring may be lost as well: It may no longer matter to the DS that her lack
of regular exercise will affect her ability to play with her grandchildren in a few years.
Certain kinds of moral commitments may fade away too: A committed Kantian would
be unlikely to maintain his theoretical stance once the ability to universalize his max-
ims—or see the point of doing so—was lost.
One may still be a morally good person absent the ability to theorize about morality,
however. Kindness, for instance, doesn’t require thoughts about either the nature or
the demands of kindness; it may merely require the disposition to respond in helpful
ways to certain people. At issue, then, is how to make sense of meanness in DSs who
were never mean, on the assumption that it is probably not a new character trait. My
suggestion is that, when such behavior isn’t merely expressed frustration, it may flow
from remnants of certain caring or commitment clusters, some of whose members
have been lost via dementia.
To explain, the pressure for psychological integrity and the elimination of cognitive
dissonance usually produces harmonious relations among our cares and commitments,

49
See Bernard Williams, “Persons, character, and morality,” in Amelie Oksenberg Rorty (ed.), The
Identities of Persons (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1976), 197–216.
50
One might well wonder about the extent to which commitments could persist like this. For one thing,
it would seem that we need to be much more active with respect to them than cares, and that this sort of ac-
tivity isn’t compatible with their being merely habitual. In addition, commitments would seem to require
certain sorts of sophisticated cognitive machinery, involving the making of evaluative judgments, and these
sorts of capacities would be unlikely to survive dementia. And even if they did, it is difficult to see how such
judgments could persist across time in a habitual manner. (Thanks to Justin D’Arms for raising a version of
this worry.) I don’t think this is necessarily the case, however. As I go on to discuss in the text, I agree that
there will certainly be many commitments that are lost via dementia, but these will tend to be those that have
pretty abstract objects. Commitments having more concrete objects could still persist as a matter of habit,
though. Consider a commitment to eating good food. This explicitly requires a judgment of worth, but it
may have been so internalized that it persists through dementia, and it is also dispositional, called up in the
agent upon being presented with food of any kind. Nevertheless, even if I am wrong about this, the traits with
their source in the agent’s caring (which are emotional dispositions that may operate independently from
judgments of worth) can still persist habitually through dementia, and insofar as these may be sufficient to
ground some traits of motivational character, they may be sufficient to ground attributability-responsibility.
51
For this sort of example, see Jaworska, “Respecting the margins of agency,” 124. Jaworska talks here in
terms of values, and she also notes the ways in which some values may persist through dementia (see her
n. 41 on p. 124), but her notion of values and my notion of the cares and commitments constituting character
traits are importantly similar in many respects. I am indebted to her discussion, and I say more about the
positioning of my account relative to hers later in this chapter.
102 David Shoemaker

and they often function to temper or bolster each other. Caring for something52 could
manifest itself in a very wide variety of attitudes and behaviors; which ones are mani-
fested is typically delimited by other cares in one’s psychological network. To take an
example, if the only thing I cared about were my wife, and there were no other psy-
chological elements on which my volitional structure depended, then my behavior to
protect her or advance her interests would know no bounds: I would constantly attend
to her, fend off threats with spectacular violence if need be, do whatever was necessary
(and I mean whatever was necessary) to advance her interests, and so forth. But as it
happens, I also care about morality, my own needs and desires, and other people. These
other cares serve to restrict the wide variety of ways in which my caring for my wife is
manifested. Losing those other cares, however, would correspondingly loosen those
restrictions. Were I to stop caring about other people, the degree to which I attended to
my wife’s interests would dramatically increase. Were I to stop caring about morality,
the kinds of things I would do to advance her interests would considerably widen to
include the nefarious. Were I to stop caring about myself, the circle of acceptable be-
havior would surely expand even further to the illegal and self-destructive.
Our cares and commitments seem to operate in clusters, then, and it is some of these
clusters that best pick out what we think of as “character traits.” So courage might be
thought of as involving (at least) a strong care about the defense of certain people (or
ideals), tempered by a care about survival (so as not to be reckless) that is neverthe-
less somewhat weaker than it is in other agents. And kindness might be thought of as
involving (at least) a strong caring about helping others in need, tempered by (typi-
cally weaker) cares about one’s own well-being (so that one doesn’t just give all one’s
resources away).
What this account suggests might be going on in the case of DSs with seemingly
new character traits, then, is that some members of a previously harmonious cluster of
cares and commitments were lost to dementia, and this loss served to unshackle their
volitional possibilities in a way that generated mean behaviors. But these behaviors
would not be flowing from new character traits; rather, they would be flowing from
persisting clusters of cares and commitments with fewer members. And the lost mem-
bers would most likely be those requiring the executive capacities typically ravaged
by dementia: the abilities to abstract and plan. Consider a real-life case of someone
who was both deeply religious and loved his wife dearly. Pre-dementia he never would
have considered suicide (viewing it as seriously immoral), but post-dementia, when
his wife died, he repeatedly expressed the wish to die.53 To the extent he lost his religion
to the dementia, the restrictions were removed on the scope of acceptable behavior in
response to the loss of his remaining object of care. Or consider someone who was fi-
nancially responsible pre-dementia, but post-dementia went out and bought the fancy
truck he had always wanted, a purchase that would require great financial sacrifices for
52
From here on out, I will talk only in terms of cares, but this should be read as a gloss on “cares and
commitments.”
53
Jaworska, “Respecting the margins of agency,” 107.
 Remnants of Character 103

him and his family.54 To the extent he may have lost his ability to engage in prudential
planning, the prior restrictions on buying his dream vehicle were removed.
What I am suggesting is that a story along these lines could explain a DS’s mean turn
as well. My hunch is that this might well be true most typically for those who were
previously nothing but kind solely due to a religious or moral commitment. Once the
abstraction abilities necessary to religious or moral understanding were lost as part
of their executive impairments, the restrictions on some formerly unthinkable be-
havior were also lifted. Crucially, that’s not to say that they had a straightforward mean
disposition all along; rather, it’s simply to say that altered clusters of cares and com-
mitments may produce behavior judged to be mean in contrast with the DS’s earlier
behavior. Caring about being honest is typically tempered by a commitment to protect
the feelings of others. Losing that tempering commitment may yield true but hurtful
statements, which will be construed as mean, especially coming from the mouth of
someone who had previously been so kind. Or caring about comfort may produce a
kind of belligerent demandingness if not tempered by a certain sort of respectful at-
titude (something that may well be lost in light of executive impairments), and again,
this too will often be construed as meanness in the formerly kind.55
Ironically, though, this story might return us to the thought (one I deemed implau-
sible) that sometimes persisting character traits are actually revealed during dementia.
Consider someone whose spouse treated him poorly throughout their married lives
but who remained solicitous and polite to her until the onset of his dementia. As
the disease progressed, though, he started to tell her off in nasty ways.56 Had he sud-
denly developed a mean, vicious streak? Now on the one hand, a significant aspect
of my story still seems plausible here: A powerful inhibition of some sort was prob-
ably undermined by his dementia. But on the other hand, a different part of my story
may seem implausible: It is less likely that the loss of the inhibition altered any existing
care-commitment clusters (character traits) than it is that some persisting clusters
were suddenly allowed new expression. In other words, why isn’t it more plausible to
say here that his vicious character trait (if it is vicious) was hidden all along, and was
only revealed by dementia? Indeed, his lack of shame or regret for this behavior might
support such a story: His true self is being revealed, after all.
In response, this case brings out the important difference between the mere loss of
volitional control and the loss of a care about volitional control. Suppose our husband
did for years repress any lashing out—despite his desires to do so—because he cared

54
Jaworska, “Respecting the margins of agency,” 107.
55
Chandra Sripada offers a different take on the matter. Once key cares or commitments in a character
cluster are genuinely lost (and not replaced), he thinks, aretaic predications (and attributability-responsibility
judgments generally) no longer apply. (See his “Self-expression: A deep self theory of moral responsibility,”
unpublished manuscript.) I don’t quite see, however, why this should be the case. The patient who lost his
wife (and his religion) had some quite profound feelings, and they shaped his motivational structure in im-
portant ways. Indeed, his remaining cares fully explain what he was doing as a practical agent, in precisely
the sort of way his more robust character clusters pre-dementia did.
56
I am grateful to the editors and to Don Loeb for suggesting a possibility along this line.
104 David Shoemaker

strongly about not being that sort of person. People may then have come to admire
him as a man of great restraint, as someone who was indulgently patient. Here the rel-
evant cluster consisted, we might say, in his caring about revenge for insults tempered
by his (stronger) caring about not being the sort of husband who lashes out at his wife
(one doesn’t count as restrained unless there is something one is restraining). Suppose
we found a way to disconnect this latter caring from structuring his motivations, i.e., a
way to strip him of the volitional control he cared about by blunting the effectiveness of
this tempering care. He then cruelly lashes out. Here we would expect regret or shame,
for it would still be true of him that he is an indulgently patient man, a man of great
restraint; he was just the subject of volitional manipulation. So while “patience” and
“restraint” may still be attributable to him, his vengeful expression is not.
Dementia doesn’t just blunt the motivational efficacy of certain of one’s cares how-
ever; it also often eliminates those cares. So suppose our husband’s dementia did just
that, eliminating his caring about being a certain sort of husband (which it would likely
do to the extent that this is a fairly abstract aim). Now he might be expected to lash
out, and without regret. But now “patience” and “restraint” are no longer attributable
to him, whereas his vengeful expression is. But this is neither because a new character
trait was developed nor because an old character trait was finally being revealed, ex-
actly. Rather, it was because an old character trait transmogrified via the loss of a key
care in its cluster. A character cluster remains, then, albeit a fundamentally altered one.
These are obviously complicated issues, though, and I have presented a fairly spec-
ulative story. But one aspect of it to which I am committed is that certain character
traits, like meanness, may sometimes just be the product of certain dispositions in
the absence of other typically tempering dispositions, and not, as many would have it,
straightforward dispositions to be mean (perhaps in light of judgments of its worth).
Meanness is, at least in part, behavior in pursuit of some end coupled with ignoring the
feelings of others or judging them not to matter in such pursuits. Whenever the feel-
ings of others cease to matter, therefore, meanness may erupt, and this predicate may
truly apply regardless of the target’s executive incompetence or inability to understand
any additional blaming responses, and regardless of the source of any such inability, as
long as some character clusters are being expressed in the process. Meanness may be
attributable to one, even if one is no longer accountable for being mean.

Objections
Before concluding, I want to illustrate and reiterate some of the main points of the
account by noting and responding to two final objections. First, one might well think
that what I have presented is just a lot of superfluous puffery, given that we can simply
assign DSs to the same exemption category as children (aren’t DSs really just going
through a “second childhood” anyway?). Strawson noted that children were exempt by
being “morally undeveloped.” But what this must really mean is that they are exempt in
virtue of the fact that they just can’t comprehend the basic demand for good will. But
 Remnants of Character 105

neither can DSs, so why couldn’t we have explained their exemption from accounta-
bility without wading through the bits about memory and identification?
My first, very brief, point in response is that children present a much trickier case
than assumed by the objection. As noted earlier, most children from the age of 3 can
distinguish between so-called moral and conventional normative judgments,57 and
many children are also able to recognize when a demand is being made of them and
how they ought to respond. Determining their actual level of moral development or
normative (in)capacity, as well as their actual sources, is very difficult, so it’s not as if we
can make a simple appeal to some such analysis and just apply it to the case of DSs, for
I doubt that any such (uncontroversial) analysis exists.
My second and more responsive answer is to point to a crucial difference between
children and DSs: Those who suffer from dementia had at one time, and still have op-
erative remnants of, a full-blown character; children, at least young ones, haven’t yet
established any sort of full-blown character at all. The psychological traits and dis-
positions that together constitute an agent’s deep self for purposes of attributability
are fairly robust, consisting of developed cares and evaluative commitments. These
require far more mature psychological faculties than children have. While children
may have certain character tendencies and predispositions—perhaps enough to ex-
plain why they seem to exhibit quality of will “in some sense”—they don’t have suf-
ficiently developed deep selves for actions to be properly attributable to them.58 DSs,
on the contrary, may well continue to have sufficiently robust character traits to be
attributability-responsible for the attitudes or actions flowing from them. These have
been long-developed, maintained, and ingrained, and there is nothing about (some
of) them that couldn’t in principle persist through a diagnosis of dementia. Again, our
agential characters may be one of the last things we get and also one of the last things
to go.
A second objection might be drawn from one of the only other philosophical dis-
cussions of dementia around, Agnieszka Jaworska’s insightful account of Alzheimer’s
patients and the puzzle of advance directives. Such directives are “living wills” drawn
up to specify how physicians are to treat one if one becomes disabled or hospitalized
for any number of reasons. The puzzle has been what to do in cases where one prefer-
ence is expressed by the original author of the directive and a contrary preference is
expressed by a demented subject some time later. Whose preference is authoritative in
that case? While most exploring the issue have defended the view that the signer’s pref-
erences are authoritative, Jaworska makes a persuasive case for occasionally respecting
the preferences of the demented subjects. Through discussion of a series of moving
and detailed real-life examples, she argues that even those with advanced dementia

57
For an explanation of my “so-called” language, a defense of my skepticism that there is any such distinc-
tion, at least in terms psychologists have presupposed, see my “Psychopathy, responsibility, and the moral/
conventional distinction,” The Southern Journal of Philosophy, 49, Spindel Supplement (2011), 99–124.
58
See also Wolf, “Sanity and the metaphysics of responsibility.”
106 David Shoemaker

may continue to value, an ability she too notes as one that may be retained long after
other decision-making capacities have faded away. But insofar as it is valuing that pro-
vides the essential foundation for autonomy (by producing principles for conduct),
and insofar as the execution of the DSs’ values in the world may helpfully be assisted
or implemented by others, DSs may be sufficiently autonomous that their current pref-
erences about medical treatment could be more authoritative (in virtue of being au-
tonomously made) than those of their earlier directive-signing selves.59 The objection
that might be drawn from her analysis (but is not, I stress, one that Jaworska herself
makes!) is that, insofar as autonomy is thought to be a crucial condition of moral re-
sponsibility, and DSs might have Jaworska-style autonomy, any moral responsibility
they have might be established, contrary to my story, directly (and more simply) via
appeal to their autonomy.
Autonomy is certainly the central buzzword in debates about advance directives,
so I suppose it behooves Jaworska to establish autonomy on behalf of her Alzheimer’s
patients so as to generate in its wake their preferential authority in such practical mat-
ters. And autonomy, true enough, has been taken by many to be crucial to moral re-
sponsibility. But one important implication of my project is that I don’t think so much
can be delivered by a mere label. What obviously matters are the precise conditions
in which said autonomy consists. And when we look directly and closely at the var-
ious possible candidates, we can see that the persisting abilities to value and care about
things—to take up or be committed to an evaluative stance on various aspects of the
world—may, in the face of dementia, ground one kind of responsible agency even
though dementia has eliminated another. In other words, in the arena of responsibility,
at least, there isn’t anything like the all-or-nothing deliverances of autonomy; indeed,
aiming solely at such a one-size-fits-all answer to our various questions blinds us to a
much more nuanced and complicated picture of human agency. Whether the same is
actually true for the practical issue of advance directives, or other bioethical puzzles, is
a matter I leave for others to explore.

Conclusion
I have argued that, while advanced DSs are exempt from the world of moral demands—
exempt from accountability—they may not be exempt from all facets of responsibility;
in particular, they may often be attributability-responsible and perform actions or ex-
hibit attitudes that reflect on their agential character and thus ground aretaic emotions
and predications. The reason they are exempt from accountability, however, reveals
something important about the conditions of such for paradigm agents like us: to be
accountable requires that one be able to comprehend the communications essential
to being held accountable. In addition to basic comprehension capacities (i.e., one

59
Jaworska, “Respecting the margins of agency,” e.g., p. 130.
 Remnants of Character 107

mustn’t be a young child or a psychotic), though, one must also have the capacities of
either memory or identification, capacities which generate one’s sense of agential iden-
tity. When DSs have significant impairments to both such capacities (either directly or
indirectly), they are exempt from accountability in virtue of these impairments to that
sense.

Acknowledgments
My thanks to Daniel Jacobson, Michael McKenna, Nick Sars, Angela Smith, and
Tamler Sommers for their helpful remarks on a previous draft. I’m also grateful to the
insightful discussion provided by several members of the audience when I presented
an earlier version of this paper at the University of Washington in February 2012, espe-
cially Ann Baker and Janice Moskalik. The paper also benefited tremendously from the
questions and remarks offered by my fellow participants in the June 2012 University
of Michigan workshop on Moral Psychology and Human Agency, sponsored by
the John Templeton Foundation. In particular, I would like to thank Selim Berker,
Julia Driver, Pamela Hieronymi, Don Loeb, Heidi Maibom, Tim Schroeder, Walter
Sinnott-Armstrong, and Nicole Smith. For extended and especially helpful discus-
sion at the same workshop, I’m grateful to Justin D’Arms, Shaun Nichols, and Chandra
Sripada. And while I have already expressed my gratitude to them individually, I am
also grateful to the editors collectively for their excellent and helpful comments on the
penultimate draft.
 5
Knowing What We Are Doing
Heidi Maibom

Suppose you are standing with a group of your friends outside a busy restaurant waiting
for your table. A group of old people leaves and walks up the road. Suddenly one of
them falls to the ground. There is a pause. No one moves. Then someone says: “He fell
over, maybe we should go help?,” to which another replies: “No, they’ll take care of it.”
The conversation resumes briefly. The waiter comes out and lets you know that your
table is ready. As you walk in, you notice that the person is still on the ground while
the other old people are attempting to help him to his feet. Are you and your friends
blameworthy for your inactivity? After all, it is evident that every person in that group
is very old and in a poor position to help the fallen man. It is lucky that the old people
do not harm themselves while attempting to do so. All of you, on the other hand, are
relatively young and spry.
Now pretend that you are the chair of an academic department in the US perus-
ing Lakisha Johnson’s CV. If you are like most, you judge her to be less qualified than
a male candidate with an English sounding name, but with the same CV. The can-
didate is in the unfortunate position of sounding African American, and applying
while being a woman. However, you certainly don’t take yourself to be discriminating
against her. You are a self-avowed feminist after all. You think she is a less good can-
didate. You are, we may say, the victim of stereotyping as much as the candidate is;
only the consequences are more dire for her. Can we blame you for undervaluing her
qualifications?
On the one hand, it seems that failing to help those in need and discriminating
against others are things people do, and if they are not cognitively or volitionally im-
paired, they can be held responsible for it. On the other, they do not conceive of their
actions as we do. The bystanders genuinely thought that the old person did not need
help and the chair really did believe that Lakisha is less qualified that Robert. It there-
fore seems unfair to hold them responsible for actions that they were unaware of per-
forming. Can we hold people responsible for what they do not know that they do? On
the third hand, as it were, it certainly seems as if the youngish, spry people and the chair
 Knowing What We Are Doing 109

ought to have known what they were doing. If so, they can be held responsible for their
actions.
The difficulty is encapsulated in some of the debate surrounding employment dis-
crimination cases (e.g., Fiske and Borgida 2008; Williams 2003). Given the available ev-
idence that much discrimination is due to stereotyping based in unconscious bias, how
do we evaluate defendants’ guilt? Stereotyping appears to be an automatic process, i.e.
“unintentional, uncontrollable, efficient, autonomous, and outside conscious aware-
ness” (Fiske and Borgida 2008, 127). The trouble is that there is a tendency to think of
responsibility in terms of awareness, both in the law and in philosophy. People talk as
though an agent’s responsibility extended only as far as her awareness (Sher 2009, 4).
This is not meant to exclude cases of neglect, but these instances are downplayed. This
is nowhere clearer than when John Martin Fischer and Mark Ravizza maintain that
“an agent is responsible only if she . . . knows (or can reasonably be expected to know)
the particular facts surrounding her action” (etc.) (1993, 8). The parenthesis suggests
that cases where the agent does not know what he or she is doing are the exception and
should not mislead the reader when she thinks of the main cases, which almost invar-
iably concern reasons and considerations that the agent is aware of culminating in ac-
tion that the agent conceives of under the description or descriptions relevant to moral
assessment. But even if they are exceptions—and more argument is needed to show
that they really are—the justification of why agents can be held responsible for such
actions must connect in some interesting way to their responsibility in ordinary cases.
In this chapter, I consider whether we are responsible for acting under situational
influences that we are unaware of at the time of action, such as stereotyping or stand-
ing by when others are in need. Put somewhat bluntly, the question is whether we are
sometimes responsible for doing what we do not know that we do. I argue that we are
sometimes responsible for acting under situational influences though we do not know
what we do at the time. Accounts that take character, identification, or a deep self to be
central to responsible agency cannot account for responsibility for acting under such
influences, as these are largely impersonal. Instead, I develop a version of the idea that
an agent could and should have known what she was doing. I think of this in terms of
“inferential routes” to a relevant description of the action. To be responsible, agents
must have the capacity to know what they do, but not necessarily, or even primarily, in
a direct, private, first personal, or introspective way. There is no need for the agent to
be directly aware of her action under a relevant description. Rather, it is the ability to
conceive of our action from a perspective other than our own that is central to respon-
sibility; to know what we do as from the outside. Or so I shall argue.

1. Not Knowing What We Do

A person who leaves her dog in a hot car or a distracted driver who does not give him-
self enough time to merge with traffic are both typically held responsible for their
110 Heidi Maibom

actions (Sher 2009). Yet, they did not perform the action we hold them responsible
for under that description. In fact, it is less what they do and more what they failed to
do that we are concerned about. Their fault is one of inaction or omission. Omission is
tricky. We cannot but omit to do an infinite number of things. C’est la vie, you might
say. But though we cannot help but not do a great number of things, we do have some
control over which particular actions we omit to perform. Typically omissions are only
thought to be relevant if the agent has knowledge relevant to the situation or could rea-
sonably have acquired such information. The person who leaves her dog in her car on a
hot day can reasonably be expected to know that she should leave the windows ajar or
not leave the dog in the car at all. Her husband, although he is only a block away, cannot
be expected to come to the dog’s rescue, as he is unaware of its predicament and of the
facts surrounding it.
In cases of neglect, agents fail to do something they ought to have done without
awareness of such failure. The woman does not think “to hell with the dog,” for in-
stance, thus leaving it to its fate. Neglectful inaction is typically “undertaken” for no
reason at all. That is, there might be a reason that the agent fails to consider performing
the action that we judge he should have performed, but more often than not he does
not have a reason not to perform it. According to George Sher (2009), neglectful action
is a prototypical example of agents not knowing what they are doing, yet being respon-
sible for it. It is a curiously opaque situation: The agent is unaware of omitting to do
something.
We should agree with Sher, I think, that agents can be held responsible for neglectful
actions even though it means that they are sometimes responsible for doing what they
do not know that they do. The types of neglect Sher talks about are cases where the sub-
ject is distracted, preoccupied, overly focused on other tasks, etc. So it does seem quite
reasonable to say that the agent could have known what he was doing and, if the action
is morally significant, we can praise or blame him for it. But what should we say of cases
where the agent is unaware of what she is doing in a more principled way? Typical ne-
glect cases are cases where if the agent considered the situation—“the dog is in the car
and it’s hot and sunny,” or “the other drivers on the road won’t have time to avoid me if
I speed up to merge”—then the agent would have acted differently (assuming that they
are only cases of neglect). But the cases we are considering are ones in which the agent
does consider the situation, but fails to see that his or her action falls under a descrip-
tion that makes it blameworthy. It is a description that the agent is typically disposed
to deny is appropriate. So where the neglectful agent can be made to see what he ne-
glected to do pretty easily, the person who fails to help someone in need or who dis-
criminates against a candidate is apt to question our description of his action. Acting
under unconscious psychological influences seems different from being neglectful.
Once we want to hold people responsible for actions that they do not conceive of
under that description, we are faced with the problem of limiting the potentially infi-
nite number of descriptions any action can fall under to just those an agent is respon-
sible for. The most straightforward way to do this is to anchor such descriptions in
 Knowing What We Are Doing 111

what the agent has conscious access to. The agent either knows what she is doing, or she
has access to that information. In the neglect cases, it is a matter of directing her atten-
tion to other features of the situation. She can consciously access the information she
requires to act better, but she does not. But there are many cases where the best or most
salient explanation of what we do is not consciously accessible to us in this way.
Situational influences, of which the bystander effect and stereotyping are examples,
are instances where conscious access to a morally relevant description of what one
does is affected (in ways soon to be specified). Some such influences are surprising,
but hardly morally disquieting. Richard Nisbett and Timothy Wilson (1977) found that
people tend to show a right side bias when asked to choose the best quality item in
a row (position effect) and that they tend to value a mug that they own more than
an identical one (endowment effect, see also Kahneman, Knetsch, and Thaler 2005;
Kahneman 2011). Subjects were not only unaware of these effects, but would also cat-
egorically deny that they had any influence on their actions. One might fairly claim
that they did not know what they were doing. However, determining the relevant de-
scription of their action—how to weigh their account of what they were doing against
psychologists’ descriptions of their actions—may seem relatively unimportant. Other
types of situational influences are more troubling.
Bib Latané and John Darley discovered that people are much less likely to help a
person in need if other people are present (Latané and Darley 1970). People are also
less likely to help if they are in a hurry (Darley and Batson 1973), and more likely to
help if in a good mood (Carlson, Charlin, and Miller 1988). Yet, these are not aspects
of the situation that people reference when explaining their reasons. In bystander sce-
narios, people typically say that they did not help the person in need because they were
not quite sure: what happened, whether the person was in need of help, or whether
the situation was serious enough to require intervention (Latané and Rodin 1969).
People’s tendency to cooperate is also easily influenced by the environment they are in.
Describing a prisoner’s dilemma as the Wall Street Game as opposed to the Community
Game has large effects on cooperation. Under the former description, only about a
third of subjects chose to cooperate compared to two-thirds when the game was pre-
sented under the latter description (Ross and Ward 1996).
Stereotyping is now a well-known phenomenon. It affects all aspects of group
belonging: ingroup vs. outgroup, men vs. women, white vs. black, white vs. Asian,
high socioeconomic status vs. low socioeconomic status, old vs. young, and so on (for
overviews see Kunda 1999 and Fiske and Taylor 2013). For instance, the prevailing
stereotypes associated with women are that they are submissive, more intuitive than
rational, understanding, empathetic, bad at math, emotional, and so on. Women and
African Americans are assumed to be less qualified than men (Superson 1999) even
if the evaluator has the same information about both, for example identical CVs
(Steinpreis, Anders, and Ritzke 1999; Bertrand and Mullainathan 2004; Moss-Racusin
et al. 2012). This is thought to be due to stereotyping, (hopefully) mostly of an uncon-
scious kind.
112 Heidi Maibom

In the above cases there is reason to be morally concerned about situational effects.
People see certain features of the situation as salient or ignore other, morally impor-
tant, features, without having conscious access, even in principle, to the fact that this
is occurring. The types of explanations that psychologists typically give of such situ-
ational effects do not have a counterpart in what the subject can become aware of by
introspection. This is why someone like Timothy Wilson (2002) says that much of the
time we do not know what we are doing, or why we are doing it. There is some truth to
this. Stated like this, though, it suggests a vision of people staggering about like zom-
bies operated by situational and other factors as if by a puppet master. But just because
people don’t conceive of their action under a certain description doesn’t mean that
they have no idea what they are doing. They may conceive of their actions under a dif-
ferent description. In stereotyping, for instance, the subject takes himself to be doing
whatever he is doing without undue influence of extraneous factors. In his own mind,
the chair judges our female African-American candidate to be less qualified than her
white male peer because she is less qualified.
The bystander effect distinguishes itself from stereotyping by causing, or contribut-
ing to, inaction. In John Darley’s and Dan Batson’s (1973) cases, where subjects rushed
past a person slumped in a doorway seeming to be in dire straits, many maintained
that they hardly even noticed the person in need, so busy were they getting to where
they were going. In Latané and Rodin’s (1969) study where the experimenter pretended
to have an epileptic seizure behind a curtain separating her from the experimental
subjects, who were waiting for her, people claimed not to know whether she really
needed help. In bystander cases, people typically consider the other person’s situation
and decide—incredibly—that the person is not in need of help, or something along
those lines.
A bystander who does not help need not quibble about the description of his action
as “you did not help.” Instead, she might maintain that the person was not in need of
help, that it was not clear that he needed help, or that she did not know that he needed
help. After all, we do not help others most of the time. Indeed, often others would not
want us to help them. Sometimes it would be inappropriate to do so. It may therefore
be better to describe the agent’s failure to help as failing to help a person who is in need
of help. This would help distinguish the agent’s description of her action and that of
others (other non-bystanders, as it were). The debate, then, seems to be about whether
or not the person who was not helped was in need of help. But this cannot be quite right
either. We do not blame people for not rushing to the help of someone who, say, has
just unwittingly consumed a deadly poison, but is not yet showing symptoms. It must
therefore be relatively obvious that the agent is in need of help.
Prototypical bystander cases seem fairly straightforward. Think back to the exper-
imenter thrashing around on the floor in the next room. Surely, she is in need of help!
Just last week, I saw a man tumble out of his wheelchair onto a busy road. As I was
on my balcony on the 13th floor, I assumed people at the ground level would come to
his aid quicker than I would. But as no one stopped to help, I descended 13 floors and
 Knowing What We Are Doing 113

crossed half a block to be the first person there to help. He had been flailing around on
the street for 5–10 minutes in the rush hour! If we assume that the pedestrians and the
drivers would all say that they were unsure whether the person needed help—in line
with subject reports from other bystander effect studies—they are surely self-deceived.
Presumably, the most obvious assumption when seeing a man flailing in the street
next to his wheelchair is that he is in need of help. Yet, there is no particular reason to
think that bystanders are lying when they avow their ignorance of the neediness of the
person. Why is this so hard for people to see when they are in the company of others?
The situationist literature suggests that we are far more sensitive to others’ actions
and judgments than we think. Solomon Asch (1951; 1956) found that people are likely
to override their own, correct, judgments of the comparative length of lines if the
majority of the people they are with judge otherwise. One interpretation of the by-
stander effect, therefore, is that since we look to others as guides to what to think and
do, and they do nothing, we don’t do anything either. Perhaps we are responding to
what we assume is a norm of non-helping or we assume that others are not helping be-
cause help is not required or desirable. When we say that we did not help because we
were unsure about whether the subject needed help or not, it may be interpreted as a
reasonable shorthand for this process.
It strikes me as quite plausible that bystanders typically do not help because they are
unsure of whether the subject is really in need of help or whether it is appropriate to
help. This uncertainty arises from observing that others do not help, but they probably
do not help because they are unsure of what to do given others’ inactivity. Most likely,
they would help were they aware that they were subject to the effect. I know knowledge
of the effect had that effect on me. This fact makes it clear that there is an essential lack
of access here for most people. And this is where it gets tricky. For if we say that it is
obvious to the agent that the patient is in need of help, the agent would disagree. That is
the very point about the bystander effect; people question the need of the other person. In
order to hold bystanders responsible, it cannot simply be that it was relatively obvious
that the other was in need of help, because one might always ask: “obvious to whom?”
There must be some sort of connection between the mind of the agent and the obvious-
ness of the need of the other.
If we give up on the idea of conscious awareness, there are a couple of candidates for
the responsibility fixing relation between the agent and the action: (i) the agent would
agree with performing the action if she conceived of it under the relevant descrip-
tion (or even weaker: the agent would not refrain from performing the action if she
thus conceived of it); (ii) the act is in character; or (iii) the agent should and could have
known that her action is an action of the relevant kind, and if blameworthy, should
have refrained from performing it.
Should we hold people who neglect to help others in need, people who discriminate
against others unknowingly, etc. responsible? It seems to me that we should, or at least
that we sometimes should. Some cases are clearer than others. Think of the toddler
Wang Yue in Foshan, China, who wandered from her house onto a busy laneway where
114 Heidi Maibom

she was run over by a car. After the motorist leaves the scene without helping, a truck
runs over her legs as she lies immobilized on the street. She is eventually picked up
and taken to a hospital by an old lady. In the meantime, however, she lies crying and
bleeding on the road for a full seven minutes while eighteen people skirt around her.
No one helps. She subsequently died from her injuries. In this case, there seems to be
little doubt that the eighteen are responsible and blameworthy for not helping.
I have discussed the bystander effect at length, but similar reflections apply to
the case of discrimination. Evidently, Lakisha is unfairly evaluated. Yet, the chair is
un­aware of the effects that stereotyping has on his evaluation and regards it as fair. This
type of covert, unconscious discrimination is the most serious obstacle facing women
and minorities today (at least in the West). As in the bystander effect, it seems com-
pelling to hold people responsible for discriminating against others even when they
do not know that they are doing so. How can we make this intuition fit with a decent
account of responsibility? That is the topic of the next section.

2. Responsibility for Situational Influences

As previously mentioned, there are three good candidates for responsibility attribu-
tion that circumvent the need for conscious access: (i) the agent would agree with per-
forming the action if she conceived of it under the relevant description (or: the agent
would not refrain from performing the action if she thus conceived of it); (ii) the act is
in character or expresses the agent’s deep self; and (iii) the agent should and could have
known that her action is an action of the relevant kind, and if blameworthy, should
have refrained from performing it. Here I rule out (i) and (ii) as decent contenders for
holding people responsible in situations where they are under situational influences.
I then develop the remaining candidate in the following section.
The first option is easy to dismiss as a candidate for holding people responsible who
are subject to situational effects. Bystanders are not likely to agree that they should
refrain from helping someone in need. If they conceived of their action in this way,
they would stop, i.e. they would aid the person in need (by and large). Though bla-
tant discrimination exists, most of the discrimination women and members of racial
minorities face in the West these days is of an implicit sort. Discriminators, too, are
likely to disagree that it is OK to discriminate against others. Many, or most, of those
who engage in implicit discrimination would cease to do so were they to think of their
actions as discriminatory. The problem is, evidently, that we are demanding some form
of conscious or explicit agreement, whereas situational effects mostly operate implic-
itly. But perhaps some sort of identification will succeed where explicit agreement fails
(e.g., Frankfurt 1971).
So-called “Deep Self ” views (Wolf 2003) base responsibility in identification with
the reasons that bring about the action, or perhaps with what the action represents
(e.g., Frankfurt 1971). This is quite a popular approach. Crucial to responsibility, on
 Knowing What We Are Doing 115

such a picture, are the deeper structures of the self that have to do with self-evaluation,
self-transformation, and longer-term goals and projects. Here responsibility is inex-
tricably linked to our sense of who we are, who we want to be, and what we embrace
or reject in ourselves. To make such views accommodate cases of neglect, conscious
avowal of one’s deeper self cannot be necessary. People who are inconsiderate, for in-
stance, typically do not identify with this tendency. Nevertheless, they rarely stop and
think about how others think or feel in response to their actions. And it is this fact
more than any act of identification, actual or counterfactual, that makes us critical of
them. Perhaps one can think of it as passive acceptance. So it is not enough to object,
if blamed for something, that the action flowed from motives that are not part of who
we want to be. We want to avoid holding people responsible for truly alien ideas and
motives. In the case of being inconsiderate, the person is arguably responsible for it
to the extent that she consistently fails to take the relatively easy and obvious steps
to avoid being inconsiderate. This lack of consideration can, therefore, be thought to
form part of her deep self in a suitably expanded framework. But how, you might ask,
is such a framework to make sense of the sorts of unconscious situational motivations
and influences that we have seen examples of above?
Although John Doris (2002) worries that the impersonal nature of situational influ-
ences sits uncomfortably with the rather rich notion of a deep self, he argues that minor
adjustments to this picture will accommodate responsibility for acting under such
influences. Instead of attempting to fit situational effects into a narrative structure of
who we take ourselves to be or who we want to be, Doris introduces the notion of plans
and long-term commitments. Through our plans and projects we plot a route through
situationist space. By making it a habit to fly busily from one commitment to another, to
hang out with a bad crowd, and so on, we betray a commitment or lack of commitment
to certain ways of living. Someone who hurries past a person in need is blameworthy
because his being hurried reflects a way of life that he endorses and though he does not
endorse not helping others because he is in a hurry, he does endorse the type of lifestyle
that predictably leads to such effects. So, situational influences can be understood in a
personal way after all, Doris maintains. And where they cannot, it might indeed be in-
appropriate to assign praise or blame to a subject for acting under such influences.
It seems to me that Doris strikes an uneasy balance between situationism and Deep
Self views. The literature contrasts the person and the situation so as to stress the im-
personal nature of situational influences. An action performed under situational pres-
sures is not an action that we should understand in terms of the person’s character, but
in terms of the situation that she is in. If we consider the bystander effect again, the
literature suggests that had there not been other people present, then the person would
likely have helped. This is not to say that character can play no role in such situations,
but where it does, it is more likely to do so in cases of helping. Susceptibility to situa-
tional influences has little to do with character, life plans, etc. It is a more universal fea-
ture of people (though culture does, of course, have an effect). It is therefore difficult to
116 Heidi Maibom

reconcile situationism with an identificationist account, since such accounts focus on

the personal. It seems that we are in need of another account of responsibility.
Sher (2009) fleshes out “should have known/been aware of the action under the
relevant description” in option (iii) above in terms of the causal aspects of a subject’s
reasons. He argues that if an action springs from “some combination of his own con-
stitutive attitudes, dispositions, and traits” (p. 87) and it is a failure to live up to some
applicable standard, we can hold the agent responsible for it. For something to be
constitutive of a person, it must be “among the elements of the system whose causal
interactions determine the contents of the conscious thoughts and deliberate activi-
ties in whose absence he would not count as responsible at all” (p. 121). Are bystand-
ers who do not help responsible on this account? It is hard to say. On the one hand,
people’s sensitivity to the judgments of others is causally related to the conscious
capacity for deliberation that marks what it is to be a person. So it seems that they
can be held responsible. On the other hand, the idea that the action must spring from
“some combination of his own constitutive attitudes” etc. suggests that a personal el-
ement remains in Sher that conflicts with the spirit of situationism, much like Doris’s
account does.
If I am right that we can hold someone responsible though we think she was subject
to the bystander effect (or engaged in implicit stereotyping), it looks like we are giving
up linking responsibility to a person’s long-term plans and policies, her character, or
her deep self. What a person is responsible for need not be something that she is aware
of, or that pertains to her character; it need not be (causally) related to her life-plan,
her policies, or her values. There is nothing personal about being subject to the situa-
tional effects outlined by the social psychology literature. In fact, in many cases, there
is something deeply impersonal about it. These are tendencies that we share with many
or, in some cases, most people. They are part of who we are, of course, but not in a way
that individuates us as persons. It may be part of our inner, deeper core, but it is a core
that we have in common with many others.

3. Responsible Self-Reflection
Let us remind ourselves why having conscious access to relevant aspects of one’s
actions (or omissions) is thought to be so important. Ceteris paribus an agent who
has conscious access to such aspects is linked to it directly by her understanding. She
knows what she does; she owns her action. Epistemic access is also important since if
she does not know what she does or is proposing to do, she lacks an important reason
to change her course of action. Thus, conscious access gives you rational control and
authenticity or ownership, all else being equal, which are ingredients in responsibility.
But conscious access cannot account for responsibility for aspects of actions or out-
comes that the agent is not aware of. It excludes simple cases of negligence. So if we are
to account for why people are responsible for such actions, we must widen the scope
of the epistemic condition to include the possibility of awareness, suitably defined. As
 Knowing What We Are Doing 117

we saw, Fischer and Ravizza demand that the agent “could reasonably be expected to
know” (1993, 8) the relevant facts pertaining to her action. This seems to be a fair de-
mand in instances of negligence where, in effect, we are requiring the agent to attend
to relevant consciously accessible information (“I am leaving the dog in the car, it’s hot,
who knows how long I’m going to be,” etc.). This line of thinking is the most prom-
ising of the possibilities that we have considered so far. The way I’m going to develop it,
however, takes it in a different direction by stressing an agent’s capacity for reasonable
self-reflection and scrutiny of motives over conscious access.
When we hold people responsible for neglect, we reflect a demand for cognitive ef-
fort on the part of the subject that goes beyond what she might be naturally disposed to
expend. So neglect points in the direction that I want to take us. Consider moral edu-
cation. Children have relatively little authority over how their actions are interpreted.
They are blamed for actions that they did not conceive of under the description that
their parents think of them. A child does not usually get off the hook by denying that
he was hurting his sister and only trying to get his toy back. A delicate balance is struck
whereby children are blamed for actions that they did not conceive of under that de-
scription, but not before they are able to conceive of that action as falling under such
a description. Doing otherwise is pointless, not to mention unfair. Being blamed for
doing something that one was not entirely aware of doing, and accepting such blame, is
part of learning how to be a moral agent. It is an ongoing process. We never quite finish
learning. Life as a social being is an ongoing negotiation among individuals about how
to conceptualize situations, events, and actions.
How to describe an action is not simply a function of how the agent conceives of it,
or how those affected by it, or those observing it, conceive of it. (And these conceptions
are sometimes incommensurable.) It is also relative to a culturally sanctioned way of
conceiving of certain types of actions: their most socially salient aspects, and so on.
A canonical description of an action relevant to the assignment of praise or blame is
typically an interaction between these potentially different perspectives on the very
same trajectory through cognitive or behavioral space. Sometimes the socio-cultural
perspective is paramount. Stealing, lying, cheating, hurting, and killing are all dom-
inant descriptions of actions, which are morally and socially sanctioned, and we are
expected to consider whether or not our actions fall under them. We cannot excuse
ourselves by pointing to our own perspective on the action in such cases. At other
times the individual’s perspective plays a prominent role. I cannot be blamed for giving
my friend strychnine if unbeknownst to me someone has laced my bottled water with
it, but I can be blamed for neglecting to consider that leaving a dog in a car on a hot day
might kill it.
Returning to the bystander effect again, in many cases the person should have been
aware that there was something suspect about her easy acceptance of the idea that the
subject is not in need or that it is not appropriate to help. People flailing around in
rooms or on streets are surely in need of help. A further complicating factor in accept-
ing the bystander’s defense of her not helping is that most people help if they are the
118 Heidi Maibom

only ones to witness the event. And they do so because they think that the person is in
need of help. So, it is hard to make out that bystanders are incapable of seeing the sub-
ject as being in need or seeing that help is appropriate. In fact, it very much seems to be
the case that they should have seen the situation in this way. The conclusion seems ines-
capable. In many instances of the bystander effect—where the subject is in somewhat
serious need of help and there is some obligation to help—the inactive bystander is re-
sponsible and, therefore, the proper subject of blame. We may be more understanding
towards him because we realize that many or most of us would have acted similarly, but
understanding why he did not help is not the same as absolving him of responsibility.
Considering one’s actions under a variety of different descriptions requires a degree
of self-reflection. We expect others to critically examine themselves, their actions and
patterns of action, and to question their own interpretation of them. Deluding oneself
or failing to be properly reflective about one’s actions is something we can be held re-
sponsible for, assuming that we possess the relevant capacities. As long as there is an
inferential route from a person’s values and beliefs, or from values and belief relatively
easily accessible to her, to an important conceptualization of her action, we may hold
her responsible (Maibom 2013). The male academic who professes to be a feminist, yet
excludes female academics, ignores their opinions, and fails to take their concerns se-
riously, is deluded, but not necessarily in a way that is impenetrable to him. For he can
think about his actions in a more objective fashion, or from a perspective other than
his own, and consider what motives may underlie them. He does not. But this is not be-
cause he is unable to conceptualize his action in such a way as to see it as being wrong.
Why should it matter that the conceptualization of the action is important and
how should we understand “important” anyway? Because of the potentially infinite
number of descriptions an action falls under, one must by necessity restrict the range
that a person can be responsible for. As we have seen, being aware of performing the
action under the relevant description falls within that range, but does not exhaust it.
For this excludes neglect. So the relevant description of the action may not be one that
the agent is aware of, but it must be within her grasp. She can conceive of this descrip-
tion without undue epistemic hardship. But surely there are all sorts of descriptions
that an action falls under that an agent could conceive of without straining herself cog-
nitively! That is, the agent can come to consider each one individually, but we cannot
expect her to think of very many such descriptions in her deliberations, let alone all of
them. This is where “important” comes in.
We can say nothing terribly precise about what is an important description and what
is not. Descriptions that are closely linked to moral prohibitions and prescriptions are
obvious candidates. Descriptions that people affected by our actions or that reason-
able objective observers would give are also candidates for descriptions that an agent
can be expected to consider. The more severe the consequences of our actions, the
higher the demand for self-reflection. Whereas it might be reasonable to absolve us of
the responsibility for bruising someone’s feelings—on the basis that the demands for
self-reflection would be too onerous in this case—we are reasonably held responsible
 Knowing What We Are Doing 119

for injuring or killing someone even if awareness of this possibility would have re-
quired significant reflection.
How does all this apply to unconscious states and processes, you might ask. We have
the capacity to reflect on our actions from the outside, as it were. Ordinary human in-
teraction forces other perspectives on us from early on. We can imagine how someone
else would describe the action we consider performing. When people get angry with
us, it is often because they see our actions in ways that we do not. They may be wrong,
they may be right. In either case, we are in a position to consider whether such descrip-
tions are reasonable. The situation is symmetrical, of course. We have all experienced
feeling fobbed off with an unlikely story about somebody’s motives, which is supposed
to alter our conception of her action. We suspect her of being insincere. This com-
plex interaction between our own and others’ perspective on thoughts, motives, and
actions sets the scene for the ability to reflect critically on what we think, say, and do.
It should not, therefore, be ruled out that a person is responsible even if she does not
conceive of her action as being of the relevant kind. For instance, the inconsiderate
person or the bystander is responsible if he fails to be properly self-reflective. We have
to be careful, of course, that our conditions on responsible agency are not too strict. We
cannot demand rigorous self-reflection of a sort that would put anyone but Socrates or
the Buddha to shame. It is unlikely that people possess the intellectual energy for such
exercise, and even if they did, it is not at all clear that it would be best expended on such
an enterprise.
The demand for self-reflection is a function of the severity of the consequences of
not engaging in it. This is no different, however, from what we require when the moral
stakes are high generally: We demand greater scrutiny, more care, etc. from the people
faced with difficult moral choices. If a person makes a hash of his life by wandering
blindly through it, never stopping to examine his actions or reasons, to question him-
self, he is responsible for failing to exercise his capacity for self-reflection. Someone
who tends to regard female candidates as automatically less qualified than male can-
didates ought to question his judgment. Determining whether, or the degree to which,
someone is responsible for unconscious mental activity may often not be straight-
forward. Nevertheless, the fact that it seems reasonable to hold people responsible in
many such cases suggests that we should not translate the demand for knowing what
we are doing into a demand for conscious access to what we are doing under the rele-
vant description.
My suggestion takes the ability for self-reflection and access to inferential routes to
socio-morally important descriptions of our actions to be basic to responsibility and
moral agency. Conscious awareness is important, yes, because the inferential route cul-
minates in the agent thinking about her action under relevant descriptions. However,
we should not think of the central cases of such a process as involving conscious access
to information as from a first person perspective. We are not simply “looking in” to
see whether we have considered all the relevant information. Often, we must consider
different ways of thinking about our actions, thereby engaging our ability to take up
120 Heidi Maibom

different perspectives on our own actions. As we develop as moral agents, we achieve

facility with classifying our actions as belonging to relevant moral kinds. At the outset
of our journey, however, it is often by taking another perspective on ourselves and our
actions that we come to see actions as belonging to certain (moral) kinds. Much of the
time, situations and our actions within them are nuanced, complex, and do not present
themselves to us with ready-made descriptions or in categorical terms. We need to
do a bit of work conceptualizing them. This work is often done by perspective taking.
We consider what we do from the perspective of others. We do not arrive at the rel-
evant description(s) of our action by introspection, but by seeing our action as from
the outside. What matters is that we are able to see our action as others would see it,
i.e. from their perspective(s). Thinking about our own actions in a morally and socially
productive way often, even typically, involves thinking about them as we would think
of others’ actions, from a standpoint outside our own agency, and in the absence of the
curious privacy that typically characterizes our decision process. This brings out the
impersonal nature of the suggestion, and highlights its fit with situationism. The ca-
pacity for self-reflection, for perspective taking, and so on is entirely impersonal and
applies to moral agents across the board. There is, of course, a personal touch insofar as
the inferential route is not indifferent to the agent’s capacities, her knowledge, the sit-
uation she is in, and so on. Whereas one agent can be held responsible, another might
not be depending on the inferential routes available to her. Nevertheless, the capacity
for self-reflection is impersonal and universal. It has nothing to do with the kind of
person someone is.

4. Conclusion
What I have been concerned with here is sometimes called the epistemic condition
on responsibility. I have argued that the best way of extending this condition to apply
to prima facie responsible actions, such as those that result from people being subject
to various situational effects, is in terms of the capacity for self-reflection. Conscious
access to the socio-morally relevant perspective(s) on an action is relevant in a limited
way. It comes from the experience of interacting with others, taking their perspectives,
reflecting on one’s actions more broadly, and so on, and allows for fluid and adept ac-
tion. But the required experience for responsible action comes from examining one’s
actions as from the outside. We need flexibility in how to conceive of our actions. We
must be able to conceive of them from someone else’s perspective and according to
a publicly sanctioned description, and we need the ability to scrutinize motives or
reasons for action. We require the ability to take a perspective on what we are doing
that is not purely our own. Identification or the possession of a deep self is not central
to this view of responsibility. We are responsible for more than what flows in any di-
rect way from our characters, who we want to be, our long-term goals and projects.
Scrutiny of motives and capacity for flexible conceptualization of our actions and their
 Knowing What We Are Doing 121

consequences has little to do with the kinds of persons we are. It is a universal human
capacity to reconceptualize our proposed actions in categories or terms that are pub-
licly available and important or that capture how others will see our actions.

References
Asch, S. E. 1951. Effects of group pressure upon the modification and distortion of judgment. In
H. Guetzkow (ed.), Groups, Leadership, and Men. Pittsburgh: Carnegie Press.
Asch, S. E. 1956. Studies of independence and conformity. Psychological Monographs, 70(9),
1–70.
Bertrand, M., and Mullainathan, S. 2004. Are Emily and Greg more employable than Lakisha
and Jamal? A field experiment on labor market discrimination. American Economic Review,
94, 991–1013.
Carlson, M., Charlin, V., and Miller, N. 1988. Positive mood and helping behavior: A test of six
hypotheses. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 55, 211–29.
Darley, J., and Batson, C. 1973. From Jericho to Jerusalem: A study of situational and disposi-
tional variables in helping behavior. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 27, 100–8.
Doris, J. 2002. Lack of Character: Personality & Moral Behavior. New York: Cambridge University
Press.
Fischer, J., and Ravizza, M. (eds.). 1993. Perspectives on Moral Responsibility. Ithaca, NY: Cornell
University Press.
Fiske, S., and Borgida, E. 2008. Providing expert knowledge in an adversarial context: Social
cognitive science in employment discrimination cases. Annual Review of Law and Social
Science, 4, 123–48.
Fiske, S., and Taylor, S. 2013. Social Cognition: From Brains to Culture. London: SAGE Publishers.
Frankfurt, H. 1971. Freedom of the will and the concept of a person. Journal of Philosophy, 68,
829–39.
Kahneman, D. 2011. Thinking Fast and Slow. Toronto: Doubleday Canada.
Kahneman, D., Knetsch, J. L., and Thaler, R. H. 2005. Experimental tests of the endowment effect
and the Coase theorem. In D. Kahneman, J. L. Knetsch, and R. H. Thaler (eds.), Negotiation,
Decision Making, and Conflict Management, pp. 92–115. Northampton, MA: Edward Elgar
Publishing.
Kunda, Z. 1999. Social Cognition: Making Sense of People. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
Latané, B., and Darley, J. 1970. The Unresponsive Bystander: Why Doesn’t He Help?
New York: Appleton-Century Crofts.
Latané, B., and Rodin, J. 1969. A lady in distress: Inhibiting effects of friends and strangers of by-
stander intervention. Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, 5, 189–202.
Maibom, H. 2013. Values, sanity, and responsibility. In D. Shoemaker (ed.), Oxford Studies in
Responsibility, pp. 263–83. New York: Oxford University Press.
Moss-Racusin, C., Dovidio, J., Brescoll, V., Graham, M, and Handelsman, J. 2012. Science faculty
subtle gender bias favors male students. PNAS, 109, 16474–9.
Nisbett, R., and Wilson, T. 1977. Telling more than we can know: Verbal reports on mental pro-
cesses. Psychological Review, 84, 231–59.
122 Heidi Maibom

Ross, L., and Ward, A. 1996. Naïve realism in everyday life: Implications for social conflict and
misunderstanding. In T. Brown, E. Reed, and E. Turiel (eds.), Values and Knowledge, pp. 103–
35 Hillsdale, NJ: Erlbaum.
Sher, G. 2009. Who Knew? Responsibility without Awareness. New York: Oxford University Press.
Superson, A. 1999. Sexism in the classroom: The role of gender stereotypes in the evaluation of
female faculty. APA Newsletter on Feminism and Philosophy, 99, 46–51.
Steinpreis, R., Anders, K., and Ritzke, D. 1999. The impact of gender on the evaluation of the
curricula vitae of job applicants and tenure candidates: A national empirical study. Sex Roles,
41, 509–28.
Williams, J. 2003. The social psychology of stereotyping: Using social science to litigate gender
discrimination cases and defang the “cluelessness” defense. Employee Rights & Employment
Policy Journal, 7, 401.
Wilson, T. 2002. Strangers to Ourselves: Discovering the Adaptive Unconscious. Cambridge,
MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press.
Wolf, S. 2003. Sanity and the metaphysics of responsibility. In G. Watson (ed.), Free Will, 2nd
edn., pp. 372–87. New York: Oxford University Press.
 6
Meta-Cognition, Mind-Reading,
and Humean Moral Agency
Julia Driver

. . . if a creature be generous, kind, constant, compassionate; yet if he cannot reflect

on what he himself does or sees others do, so as to take notice of what is worthy or
honest; and make that notice or conception of worth and honesty to be an object of
his affection; he has not the character of being virtuous; for thus, and no otherwise,
he is capable of having a sense of right or wrong; a sentiment or judgment of what is
done, through just, equal, and good affection, or the contrary.

(Lord Shaftesbury, An Inquiry Concerning Virtue or Merit, R, 174)

Early moral sentimentalists, such as Shaftesbury and Hume, associated moral agency
with a capacity for a special sort of self-appraisal, or self-regulation; moral evaluation
correspondingly required of the evaluator the capacity to reflect on the mental states
of others. Shaftesbury regarded these capacities as crucial not only for moral agency,
but for virtue. This is one very significant and underappreciated way in which Hume
differs from other sentimentalists such as Shaftesbury. Hume made distinctions—
granted, implicit—between what we would term moral appraisability and moral ac-
countability, as well as distinctions between being appraisable and being capable of
appraisal. Only beings that possess the capacity for self-regulation via appraisal are
moral agents, though other beings who act in self-directed ways via beliefs and desires
are agents, albeit simple agents. Over the last twenty years in the moral psychology em-
pirical literature a great deal of work has been done in investigating these capacities. In
the psychology literature a distinction is made between meta-cognition (mental states
regarding one’s own mental states) and mind-reading (detecting and having ones own
mental states that make reference to the mental states of others). My aim in this chapter
is to discuss the sentimentalist account of self-regulation at the heart of its account of
moral agency in light of this literature, focusing on a potential problem for the view
124 Julia Driver

that arises when we consider various models of how meta-cognitive appraisal works in
relation to mind-reading.1
One issue I’ve discovered in reading this literature is that it is sometimes not clear
what capacity, exactly, is being discussed. For the sake of clarity I would like to distin-
guish four “meta-capacities” that are in play:
1. The capacity to detect the mental states of others: mind-reading
2. The capacity to approve or disapprove of the mental states of others
3. The capacity to detect one’s own mental states: introspection or self-directed
mind-reading
4. The capacity to approve or disapprove one’s own mental states: a type of
meta-cognition
I should note that these are my own way of drawing distinctions between the relevant
capacities I would like to discuss in relation to moral agency.
Moral agency, as opposed to mere or simple agency, is the agency that underlies dis-
tinctly moral action. This is understood in contrast to other sorts of agency. So, for
example, what I term “mere” agency is the sort of agency that one sees in animal be-
havior as well as a good deal of human behavior. This is action that is the result of
features of psychology such as beliefs and desires, motives, intentions. However, mere
agency is not regulated fully in the same way as moral agency. I may regulate mere
agency in the following way: I desire an ice cream cone, and believe that I can get one
at the local supermarket. It turns out that the local supermarket has stopped selling
ice cream cones. Once I find this out, I change my plans. That’s a kind of regulation
in which agency is sensitive to new information. This is a kind of self-regulation—for
example, one adjusts one’s desires relative to the new information. However, the sort
of self-regulation involved in distinctly moral agency involves approval or disapproval
of the mental states themselves. And the approval/disapproval is of a distinctly moral
sort—rather than, say, aesthetic.2 This is one reason why moral agency is characterized
by meta-capacities.
However, my claim is not that it is a necessary condition for moral agency. My claim
is that it is very important—given other features of our psychology—for effective moral
agency. I suspect that it is, in fact, necessary for limited agents and will consider chal-
lenges to that claim towards the end of the chapter. However, one of my goals is to show
that there can be defects to moral agency that don’t obliterate moral agency itself, but,

1
A note about terminology: Psychologists use “meta-cognition” to refer to the capacity to think about
one’s own thoughts, whereas “mind-reading” refers to the capacity to detect the mental states of others.
Both forms of meta-reflection involve thinking about thoughts—either one’s own or others. I will be using
“meta-cognition” broadly to include not simply having certain beliefs about one’s own mental states, but also
to having certain emotional responses to those mental states. The same for “mind-reading.”
2
The phenomenology of moral and aesthetic approval/disapproval may be similar, but in other respects
they are distinct.
 Meta-Cognition, Mind-Reading, and Humean Moral Agency 125

rather, sharply reduce effectiveness of that agency. This helps to diagnose certain criti-
cisms of sentimentalist accounts of moral agency since some writers confuse being a
moral agent with being an effective moral agent.
One example is presented by Jesse Prinz’s attack on a kind of sentimentalism that
is committed to what he calls the “Humean Precondition Thesis”—which holds that
empathy or sympathy is a precondition to moral judgment (Prinz 2011).3 Prinz dis-
cusses several ways this precondition claim can be understood. One version is as a
kind of epistemic precondition claim in which empathy (or sympathy, as Hume calls
it) is needed by the agent to acquire information needed to make a moral judgment
(and presumably be guided by such). Prinz views empathy as a kind of emotional con-
tagion, and, of course, there is much more to it than that if one looks at all the ways
Hume employs “sympathy” in his writings. Sympathetic engagement with others is
sometimes a matter of feeling what they feel, but is also a matter of feeling for them. In
terms of its epistemic value it alerts the observer to putative sources of value and dis-
value. It needn’t do this infallibly to play a really crucial role in effective agency, and it
is not a requirement of moral agency per se or the capacity to make any sort of moral
judgment at all.
Prinz also makes the familiar point that mere emotion—whether it is pure conta-
gion or the result of making an inference—is frequently distorted by bias, prejudice,
mood, and a multitude of other factors. But as I’ve noted elsewhere, this is some-
thing the early sentimentalists were well aware of. This is the whole reason for pro-
viding a corrective mechanism such as the general point of view, or an ideal observer
standard.
What is often ignored in these sorts of criticisms of the sentimentalist model is the
role of meta-capacities of evaluation. A person who is sympathetic inappropriately
has the chance to self-regulate and judge, through a variety of corrective mechanisms,
that the sympathy is inappropriate. This may change the feeling of sympathy, but then
again, it may only result in the judgment that the feeling is not appropriate and ought
not be acted on. That is why such capacities are crucial for moral agency, though not
simple agency.

Agency and Moral Agency

Moral agents can be held accountable for their actions in ways that it would not make
sense to hold mere agents accountable. I will not argue for the view here, but I hold
agents to be creatures capable of acting in self-directed ways—through a combination
of beliefs and desires. For this reason, I believe that many animals are agents, though

3
I argue against this view in Driver (2011b).
126 Julia Driver

not moral agents.4 Holding accountable is a crucial feature of our critical practices,
and is distinct from evaluating, or appraising, which is also a significant feature of our
critical practices. Some argue that holding accountable is warranted, not by the con-
sequences of holding accountable, but rather by whether or not (1) the being deserves
to be held accountable and (2) the being holding accountable has the right kind of
authority (Strawson 1962). However, this account of the conditions that need to be met
in specific cases of holding accountable is compatible with the view that such a sys-
tem of holding accountable does serve our interests; that it is justified pragmatically, as
well as only warranted in the ways discussed by Strawson. Accountability misfires (just
as harming the innocent cannot be thought of as genuine punishment) if the person
being held accountable has not done anything wrong; but the system is justified nor-
matively on the basis of how critical practices function to promote things like social
utility.
Holding accountable, as opposed to simply evaluating (as one might to oneself, in
private), has as paradigmatic the case in which someone is confronted about doing
something wrong. To be appropriately held accountable, on the Humean view (and
in common sense), one needs to have access to the mental states that are being crit-
icized. A person who cannot access his own mental states will not be in a position
to understand criticism of his or her own mental states. Rocks have no mental states,
and so there is no point in blaming a rock for falling on one’s foot. But there may be
other beings that have mental states, and yet lack any access to those mental states
(let’s assume here very extreme cases in which there is no inferential access as well
as no direct access). In such a case, again, blame would do no good (leaving aside its
general good effects, but then those might hold for blaming rocks as well). Indeed,
I think it quite plausible that one thing we want to accomplish in holding accountable
is the generation of meta-cognitive states—beliefs, for example, that one’s motives may
have been vicious; shame at recognition of those motives, and so forth. This kind of
self-appraisal requires access to one’s own mental states. Sometimes this self-appraisal
is spontaneous, but it is also prompted by being held accountable by another person.
The self-appraisal need not be something that is cognitively sophisticated in the sense
of involving deep reflection. Sometimes, of course, people do engage in conscious re-
flection on their own characters. More often, though, we regulate via cues that we get
from others we are interacting with. A frown, a lifted eyebrow, a skeptical sound—
these things can lead the moral agent to adjust attitudes and behavior. For example,
a person may become extremely angry at a perceived slight, but then question the
appropriateness of the depth of the anger based on the responses others have to her
expressions of anger. Signs of surprise, alarm, and distancing can be subtle and need
not involve any verbal evaluation at all. Navigating the social environment effectively
requires this kind of sensitivity. Of course, we don’t inevitably change our attitudes
in response to how we perceive others perceiving those attitudes—we may continue

4
I discuss this in more detail in Driver (2011a).
 Meta-Cognition, Mind-Reading, and Humean Moral Agency 127

to think ourselves justified in our responses. But the process of self-regulation often
works like this—not consciously in the sense of being consciously deliberative, but
automatically. We may have access to considerations that we were responsive to after
the fact (and in this way we are like third person observers of our past selves), but at the
time the regulation will be automatic.
However, one feature of the simple model has been challenged by work suggesting
that we do not engage in direct introspection, and that, instead, what we term meta-
cognition is actually self-directed mind-reading. Peter Carruthers has recently argued
that there is no such thing as introspective access to our own mental states (except for
direct sensory perceptions such as pain). This means that in self-regulation the agent
is not typically proceeding with direct access to mental states which he or she then
evaluates. There is almost always an essentially interpretive element, which may itself
involve some kind of proto-evaluation—that is, evaluation that is not conscious. This
is fine for the sentimentalist—indeed, it may even strengthen the sentimentalist claim
for empirical accuracy, since part of the interpretation is likely to involve or engage our
emotions and conative commitments (Carruthers 2011).
Another crucial feature of moral agency in the sentimentalist tradition is the ca-
pacity to care about the well-being of others. On a Humean model, it is the capacity
for sympathetic engagement with others. Without caring (and, possibly, second-order
caring needed for self-regulation), it isn’t possible for the person to self-regulate in
the appropriate way, by approving or disapproving of her own mental states on the
basis of what we take to be morally significant reasons—that is, reasons having to do
with the well-being of others. A misunderstanding of Hume’s views on sympathy has
led to mistaken criticisms of the sentimentalist approach—usually having to do with
a conflation of different ways in which we use the words “empathy” and “sympathy.”
For example, writers such as Jeannette Kennett argue that Hume must be mistaken,
otherwise persons with autism, a kind of “empathy deficit,” would not count as moral
agents, and yet they are clearly moral agents (Kennett 2002). But Kennett’s criticism
depends upon mixing up the different ways in which sympathy works—as a way to get
information, and as a source of our affective responses to others.5 These are quite dif-
ferent. Persons with autism have trouble picking up on the mental states of others, and
this can interfere with their effectiveness as agents when it comes to navigating social
interactions. However, their affective dispositions are just as Hume indicates for moral
agents. It is, rather, psychopaths who are defective in terms of affective dispositions.
They lack the capacity to sympathetically engage, though they may be very skilled at
figuring out what other people want, and thus epistemically proficient.6 However, one
key difference between psychopaths who lack empathy and persons with normal affect

5
I discuss this criticism of Kennett’s views on Hume in Driver (2011b) and Driver (2013).
6
Very many psychopaths are also poor with respect to this skill. Psychopathy is measured along twenty
distinct parameters, and an overall score that puts someone in the psychopathy range can reflect deep inabil-
ities to detect what others want. However, there are psychopaths who are strong epistemically, but score high
overall due to deep failures to connect affectively with others and due to impulsive and criminal tendencies.
128 Julia Driver

is that psychopaths may be able to determine what others are thinking, or what they
find plausible, and yet not understand emotions—they don’t pick up on emotions in
the contagion sense. This is a kind of epistemic limitation, as well, since they won’t
have direct access to the emotions. This could explain why some are baffled at the anger
their victims.
The significance of these functions can be seen when we examine in more detail the
ways in which moral agency can be either missing, or in some way defective. A great
deal of interesting data can be obtained by studying patients displaying lack or loss of
affect. In fact, some psychologists are writing about lack of affect itself, since it is seen
as associated with several mental illnesses, though many manifest differently with dif-
ferent illnesses or conditions (Cohen et al. 2012).

Affective Disorders
There are very many psychological disorders relating to affect. The ones I discuss here
are associated with loss of affect. That is, these are disorders that are marked by the
agent failing to exhibit or feel emotion, to the point that motivation is inhibited. There
are other ways in which one can have an affective disorder. For examples, some dis-
orders, such as mania, may be characterized by overly positive emotional responses.
Though I haven’t seen discussion of this in the empirical literature, there are probably
some people who suffer from a surfeit of sympathy. Imagine someone who grieves a
disproportionately long time over the death of a pet goldfish. Or, consider someone
who obsesses over the misfortunes of others—genuinely serious misfortunes—to the
extent that he cannot function properly.
Generally, these deficits are partly responsible for self-regulation failure. Sometimes
self-regulation failure has no moral side: It may make an agent imprudent, for example,
as Damasio’s case of Elliot exhibits. Elliot was a person who, like Phineas Gage, suffered
frontal lobe damage that affected his subsequent behavior. He scored highly on intel-
lectual tests—he had good working memory and normal intelligence. However, when
it came to actually making decisions and acting on them—particularly when it came
to actions in social settings—he did very badly. After initial puzzlement, Damasio
noticed that Elliot’s emotions seemed out of sync with his experience:
Elliot was able to recount the tragedy of his life with a detachment that was out of step with the
magnitude of the events. He was always controlled, always describing scenes as a dispassionate,
uninvolved spectator . . . He was not inhibiting the expression of internal emotional resonance or
hushing inner turmoil. He simply did not have any turmoil to hush. (Damasio 1995, 44)

The failures are practical, and these sorts of failures will often also have moral reper-
cussions. Failure to follow through can be imprudent, but can also lead to failures
in responsible behavior, such as a failure to keep one’s promises, or live up to other
obligations.
 Meta-Cognition, Mind-Reading, and Humean Moral Agency 129

There are broadly three ways in which there are affective failures. As in Elliot’s case,
one can seem to be utterly lacking in the appropriate affect. However, there are other
cases where affect is present, but out of proportion, and other cases where affect is
present and yet seems misdirected somehow. Hume discusses ways in which we intui-
tively view the passions as somehow unreasonable, or mistaken. He needs to account
for this, since on his system passions cannot be “true” or “false,” strictly speaking.
Passion is not “unreasonable” since reason is concerned with truth and falsehood.
However, this doesn’t mean that passions cannot be defective, and, loosely speaking,
deemed unreasonable. He writes:
. . . ’tis only in two senses, that any affection can be call’d unreasonable. First, When a passion,
such as hope or fear, grief or joy, despair or security, is founded on the supposition of the exist-
ence of objects, which really do not exist. Secondly, When in exerting any passion in action, we
chuse means insufficient for the desired end, and deceive ourselves in our judgment of causes
and effects. (Hume 2011, T 2.3.3)

So, if someone is angry because he falsely believes someone has harmed him, that
anger is unreasonable, and defective. If someone’s anger is so intense that it causes that
person to be confrontational, when confrontation is actually counter to that person’s
aims, then this also means, on Hume’s view, that the emotion is unreasonable, and
defective.7 There are cases Hume doesn’t discuss in which emotions seem unreason-
able—as when they are out of proportion. The angry person may not be mistaken in
a belief about the conditions causing his anger, and it may even be that the anger does
not run counter to his own aims—even so, the anger may be excessive. One important
role for emotional self-regulation is to make sure that we feel the emotions we ought
to feel, and as we ought to feel them. To some extent—in the cases Hume discusses,
where an emotion is based on a false belief—the self-regulation will be a form of cog-
nitive self-regulation. The reasonable agent may question whether or not he or she has
adequate evidence to support the belief in question. But the proportionality cases don’t
seem to work like this. Some cases can be handled similarly—Hilary may question her
anger’s appropriateness in light of her beliefs about her own goals, and so forth. That is,
she may regulate her anger out of a belief that such strong feelings of anger will put peo-
ple off, and thus make her goal of having friends more difficult to attain. Certainly that
is one way in which disproportionate emotional responses can be diagnosed as dis-
proportionate. But this doesn’t exhaust the cases. For example, a person may realize at
the time she experiences the anger that it is disproportionate. Indeed, this is one factor
that goes into self-regulation. What makes it disproportionate in this case? There are
a variety of ways one could go in accounting for this. One very intuitive way would be
to say that emotional responses should reflect value appropriately. If someone experi-
ences more intense grief at the loss of a beloved goldfish than at the loss of a beloved

7
This defect might be reducible to the first, if what is involved is a false belief that anger is not
counterproductive.
130 Julia Driver

parent, this is likely disproportionate in some way—either too much grief for the gold-
fish, or too little for the parent, or both. Of course, we could be appealing to a person’s
beliefs about value here. But we may not be—in cases where self-regulation kicks in
the person may well believe that the goldfish doesn’t deserve such a response, and yet
feel it anyway. The second-order attitude is informed by the belief, not the first-order
emotional response. So, perhaps this is another way in which Hume would allow for
emotions as “unreasonable.”

Acquired Sociopathy and Loss of Affect

Hume himself had the rather optimistic view that a capacity for sympathy was univer-
sal in human nature.8 Unfortunately, at least some psychopaths seem to present coun-
terexamples to that claim. However, Hume is on firmer ground here if the claim is
restricted to normal humans—humans with the capacities that they, as social beings,
evolved to have.
Jeannette Kennett reminds us that in discussing psychopathy we need to avoid
images of psychopaths that predominate in popular culture. Most actual psychopaths
act in ways “characterized by impulsivity and irresponsibility; they are habitual liars,
are indifferent to the rights of others, and display lack of remorse for wrongdoing.
When they do something wrong, they do not really see what the fuss is about . . .”
(Kennett 2002, 341). Thus, though they are lacking in sympathy, they suffer from many
other deficits as well. Much as been written on psychopaths and their lack of affect.
There are very interesting intermediate cases in the empirical literature. These are
cases what Antonio Damasio termed “acquired sociopathy” of which psychopathy
is the developmental correlate. I will discuss persons who have suffered severe per-
sonality changes after suffering brain trauma to the orbitofrontal cortex. These per-
sons developed normally as human beings prior to the brain damage. After the brain
damage they engaged in socially inappropriate behavior, exhibiting lack of appropriate
affect, in ways similar to psychopathic behavior, though these individuals would not
score highly enough on the standard diagnostic test to be classified as psychopaths.
However, part of the reason for this is that their deficits are primarily in the lack of af-
fect categories.
Jennifer S. Beer et al. note that the empirical literature supports the view that “patients
with orbitofronal damage behave with strangers in ways that are more appropriate for
interactions with close others. Patients with orbitofrontal damage tease strangers in
inappropriate ways and are more likely to include unnecessary personal information
or tangential information when answering questions” (Beer et al. 2006, 871). But what
Beer et al. themselves discovered is that these patients were not able to integrate first

8
I discuss Hume’s views on sympathy, and the different senses employed in different parts of his work, in
Driver (2013) and Driver (2011a).
 Meta-Cognition, Mind-Reading, and Humean Moral Agency 131

person and third person self-monitoring. That is, at the time they behaved inappropri-
ately they were not able to see that they were behaving inappropriately, but when they
later viewed a video tape of their own behavior they did become embarrassed, and
agreed they behaved inappropriately. They suffer a major deficit in self-monitoring
when they are unable to react appropriately while actually engaged in social inter-
action. Their main deficits occur in the categories of affect and self-monitoring. One
theory accounting for the inappropriate social interactions is Damasio’s view that
such persons cannot properly interpret their emotional responses. Another theory
that Beer discusses in her research places more importance on self-monitoring defi-
cits: It “emphasizes the importance of the orbitofrontal cortex . . . or the ability to eval-
uate one’s behavior in the moment in reference to higher order goals or the reactions
of other people. . .” (Beer et al. 2006, 872). Persons with orbitofrontal cortex damage
would be embarrassed by the video tapes of their social mistakes. Beer suggests that
this may offer a kind of therapy for them—though the efficacy of video tape training
has not been tested. One explanation is that taking a third person perspective may
help people evaluate not just others, but themselves as well, especially when “on-line”
self-monitoring is somehow defective. Further, it may offer a kind of back-up, or com-
plimentary, system. Evaluating and monitoring are the same kind of thing, and moni-
toring is very important to moral agency.

Clinical Depression and Loss of Affect

Psychopathy is not the only psychological condition marked by some form of inhib-
ited affect. Some persons suffering from clinical depression also report loss of normal
affect. These cases differ from the acquired-sociopaths in that the persons can often at
the time they are acting note that they lack normal affect—there is no disconnect be-
tween the first and third person.9
Clinical depression is often characterized by anhedonia. Generally this is under-
stood as the failure to derive pleasure from one’s experiences. However, there is a good
deal of disagreement over exactly how to characterize anhedonia. One way to test for
the presence of anhedonia is to look for “reduced capacity to sustain positive emo-
tion.” In one study depressed individuals were shown both positive, negative, and neu-
tral images while having their brains scanned via fMRI. They were also asked to try
to enhance the mood presented in the images. As a result, the study’s designers found
that—among other things—it was much more difficult for them to sustain positive
emotion, though not negative emotion (Heller et al. 2009). Further, this worries or
bothers the people experiencing it. They realize that there is something wrong with
their responses, and often feel motivated to do something about it.

9
DSM-IV lists among the cluster of symptoms associated with a major depressive episode: “Markedly di-
minished interest or pleasure in all or almost all activities.” This is referred to as “anhedonia.”
132 Julia Driver

There has been some work in the philosophical literature on desires to desire. One
philosopher has suggested that we have a desire to have desires as a way of analyzing
Schopenhauer’s pessimism.10 Let’s assume that a morally good person desires to do the
right thing, and, not only that, desires to have that very desire.
(1) Maria desires to desire to act in a morally appropriate way.
(2) Maria desires to desire to help those in need.
(3) Maria desires to desire to help Arthur, because he needs her help and he is
deserving.
A person suffering from depression might possess all of these desires, and lack each
of the first order desires. If a person is like Maria in (1) she has a standing desire to be
morally good. This standing desire is itself motivating. A person who is depressed and
who is not experiencing first order desires to act in ways that are morally good—per-
haps he is indifferent to the needs of others, watches reports on TV of disasters, and
feels nothing, and so forth—may nevertheless notice that fact about himself and be
bothered by that because it conflicts with the second order desire. The second order
desire along with the realization that to fulfill that desire he needs treatment, will mo-
tivate seeking treatment. It may be that case that with extreme versions of psychopathy
we don’t have such standing second order desires. At best one might get puzzlement
at the mismatch between the psychopaths first order desires and what seem to be the
standing second order desires of normal agents.
Recently some researchers on anhedonia have argued for a more diverse under-
standing of how it functions, arguing that in some cases, anyway, anhedonia should be
understood in terms of “impaired ability for normative decision-making” (Treadway
and Zald 2010). What is particularly interesting here is the claim that part of the im-
pairment has to do with misrepresenting “the value of future rewards in a consistent
manner” (Treadway and Zald 2010, 4). At least some part of the impairment has to
do with various ways depressed individuals fail to model value. They don’t pick up
on it at all, or they misrepresent it either overestimating or underestimating future
costs and benefits. Other studies also suggest that human decision-making is adversely
affected by changes in the orbitofrontal cortex that inhibit the agent’s ability to form
desires on the basis of good information about prospective benefits. The researchers
in this study hypothesized that in healthy people reward cues are picked up on and
are attended with the appropriate weight. This allows them to make good decisions
about whether or not they ought to pursue a particular course of action. When this is
lacking, their possible choices are not attended with the right kind of reward cues—in
other words, there is valuable information that they are not picking up on, and this
might at least be partly responsible for their failure to derive pleasure and their failure
to be motivated to pursue a particular course of action that external observers can see
ought to be rewarding for them (Rogers et al. 2003). This also has implications for their

10
See Fernandez (2006).
 Meta-Cognition, Mind-Reading, and Humean Moral Agency 133

ability to engage in reliable affective forecasting—that is, they are unable to effectively
predict how they will feel if they pursue a particular course of action. These are all
impediments to effective agency. When the deficits involve an inability to feel appro-
priately in the face of value that we typically take to be moral—e.g., well-being indica-
tors for other people—these are deficits in effective moral agency. Self-regulation is not
working properly.
Based on the literature, we can divide the defects in practical reasoning associated
with anhedonia into three broad categories:
(1) Motivational anhedonia: Because the agent fails to represent a future experi-
ence as valuable, the agent fails to be properly motivated to engage in beneficial
behavior (Treadway et al. 2009).
(2) Failure to register rewards: This is what some researches refer to as a failure in
“hedonic response.” What would normally be a pleasurable experience, or a re-
warding experience, is not registered as such by the depressed agent.
(3) Deliberative anhedonia: This involves a failure to represent pleasurable
responses in one’s deliberations about what to do. Deliberative anhedonia
results in actions that can be bad for the agent, and bad for others.
Let us suppose that self-regulation must involve the ability to pick up on bits of value
in the world.11 Let us also suppose that when we are talking about morality that value
will involve the well-being, the flourishing, of others. If there is a problem detect-
ing when such value is at stake, there will be a problem with effective moral agency.
Whether this is a deep moral problem will depend on one’s normative commitments.
Consider how this issue has arisen in the literature on certain forms of moral partic-
ularism. Particularists such as John McDowell and Lawrence Blum have made much
of the role moral perception plays in guiding action (McDowell 1979; Blum 1991).12
In the specific case of particularist moral theory the contrast is with rules or decision
procedures as guides to action. I have no such contrast in mind, but do think that the
issue of moral perception is important to understanding how agency can go wrong. To
see this, we need a distinction between the sort of caring about the well-being of others
that I call “general” beneficence. All by itself this is insufficient to guide behavior ap-
propriately. We also need the agent to be able to pick up on what is morally significant.
We can determine that the agent has the right kind of caring attitude if we know that
“were the agent to pick up on what was morally significant, the agent would act appro-
priately” is true. That is, that there is genuine caring depends upon this counterfactual
or conditional test. It is important because it marks the distinction between two com-
pletely different sorts of moral defect: insensitivity and cruelty. The agent who cares,
but fails to detect moral value, is insensitive, not cruel. The agent who detects moral

11
We can leave unexplored, for now, the basis for that value.
12
On my view, these writers conflate moral perception with virtue. It is crucial to effective agency, as I will
argue, but that is a different issue.
134 Julia Driver

value, and doesn’t care—or doesn’t care in the right way, anyway—is cruel. This person
might see the suffering of others as suffering, and actually be happy about it. But even if
not happy, the seeing and perceiving of suffering as suffering, and the failure to appre-
ciate it morally, is a defect that is distinct from the failure to pick up on the suffering in
the first place. Really, then, there are three states that are in some way morally defective
along this parameter: insensitivity to evidence: one cares, but doesn’t act on the caring
because one doesn’t see any suffering; another sort of insensitivity where one doesn’t
care at all, and may or may not perceive suffering; and cruelty, where one cares in a
way—but in a twisted way, where the suffering of others actually gives one pleasure, so
one’s reward mechanism is pathological.
Why treat the affective capacity as so important? Here I will appeal to traditional
philosophical arguments bolstered by evidence from the psychology of emotions
and conative states. It is the affective capacity that is absolutely crucial to motivation.
Without it there is no agency. However, without a well-functioning epistemic capacity,
there is no effective agency. The two interact. As noted earlier, patients with a depres-
sive disorder fall short in a variety of ways. Some are quite poor when it comes to what
psychologists call “affective forecasting.” That is, they lack the ability to properly or
accurately predict their own future affective states with respect to relevant alternative
courses of action. There can be third person manifestations of this as well. It is an inter-
esting empirical issue as to how much these defects go together. I predict that, as with
the cases of acquired sociopathy discussed earlier, they can come apart.
Affective forecasting is crucial for self-regulation on the sentimentalist model of
self-regulation. Consider the following cases:
(Mary) Mary suffers from Major Depressive Disorder (MDD). This results in ap-
athy as she cannot foresee that one course of action (vacationing in Mexico) over
another course of action (spending her vacation in bed at home) would result in
greater amounts of pleasure for her.
(Bob) Bob is unable to foresee that one course of action (attending his parents’ thir-
tieth wedding anniversary) would make them happier than another course of action
(sending them an anniversary card).
The failure in affective forecasting in Bob’s case is the sort of insensitivity I mentioned
earlier. Persons with MDD may also have this sort of insensitivity, but in principle it is
separable from first personal decisional anhedonia. I think that in cases such as Bob’s
we also suspect that one reason why he doesn’t do a good job of affective forecasting is
that he just doesn’t care enough. But, again, in principle the failure to care is separable
from the failure to pick up on sources of value.
Failure of affective forecasting has seriously negative implications for an agent’s ability
to effectively plan, especially when it comes to moral planning, or considering courses
of action from the moral perspective. One cannot plan effectively without being able to
predict how people will feel following one’s action. In the case of Bob, he is a blunderer,
even if he is a well-intentioned one. We may deem him virtuous if our view of virtue is
 Meta-Cognition, Mind-Reading, and Humean Moral Agency 135

purely internal, if all we care about is whether or not he cares, or whether or not his basic
desires are the sort we can endorse. Nevertheless, we can also view his agency as itself
defective because, in spite of being well-intentioned, he is systematically wrong when
it comes to detecting value and potential sources of value. This relates to the earlier
issue of the impact autism has, also on affective forecasting. One source of the difficulty
can lie in the empathy deficit disorder itself, where the deficit in question involves an
epistemic failure tied to perspective taking. In this case a person may know that, for
example, embarrassing situations are bad for people because they cause pain and social
anxiety, but not be able to put themselves in situations where they can anticipate what
is embarrassing for another person. This sort of failure to detect disvalue is different
from the failure to understand at the start that embarrassment is bad. Some failures to
detect value/disvalue involve a kind of perversity of tastes. Sometimes, as in the case
of extreme psychopathy, the perversity is due to a failure to care positively about the
well-being of others at all. Sometimes, there might be a milder social deficit in which
the agent cares abstractly, but fails to appreciate the full range of factors that harm oth-
ers (such as embarrassing situations). And, sometimes, the agent cares, the agent real-
izes the embarrassment harms people, but then can’t put himself in the shoes of another
to figure out what the person would view as embarrassing, or what would, objectively,
be embarrassing for that person. I think most would agree that the really extreme deficit
is the failure to care at all. The sentimentalist intuition behind this is the view that epi-
stemic failures, while unfortunate, and while they do impact effectiveness, don’t speak
to the core of a person’s character in the same way. They seem remedial in a way that the
character core is not. This, in turn, can be cashed out in terms of value commitments.
Self-regulation of affective states offers a chance of self-remediation. Frequently, it
is not conscious and is simply prompted by cues in the environment which get us to
respond by tamping down our emotions or revving them up. In any case, reflective or
not, a standard is being employed by the agent. The standard may be set by the people
around her, or by an idealization of herself (“That’s not the way I want to be”).
But any criticism of the sentimentalist account of moral agency must consider not
just the way the first order emotions go wrong, but the ways in which the second order
beliefs and emotions about those emotions goes wrong. Any account of the sentimen-
talist view of moral agency which ignores self-regulation either descriptively or as
providing a standard by which our emotional responses may be criticized just is not
discussing the strongest, most plausible, view of sentimentalism. We clearly do engage
in self-correction. Whether, of course, that self-correction is in the right direction will
depend on the correctness of the standard itself.

Acknowledgments
I would like to thank members of the Workshop on Moral Psychology held at the
University of Michigan in June 2012, and particularly Dan Jacobson and Justin D’Arms
for their detailed written comments on an earlier draft. I would also like to thank
136 Julia Driver

members of SLEW (the Saint Louis Ethics Workshop) for very helpful discussion of an
earlier draft of the paper.

References
Beer, J., et. al. 2006. Orbitofrontal cortex and social behavior: Integrating self-monitoring and
emotion-cognition interactions,. Journal of Cognitive Neuroscience, 18, 871–9.
Blum, L. 1991. Moral perception and particularity. Ethics, 101, 701–25.
Carruthers, P. 2011. The Opacity of Mind: An Integrative Theory of Self-Knowledge. Oxford:
Oxford University Press.
Cohen, A. S., et. al. 2012. On the boundaries of blunt affect/alogia across severe mental ill-
ness: Implications for research domain criteria. Schizophr. Res. 140(1–3), 41–5.
Damasio, A. 1995. Descartes’ Error. New York: Harper.
Driver, J. 2011a. A Humean account of the status and character of animals. In T. Beauchamp and
R. Frey (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Animal Ethics. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Driver, J. 2011b. The secret chain: A limited defense of sympathy. The Southern Journal of
Philosophy, 49(1), 234–8.
Driver, J. 2013. Moral Sense and Sentimentalism. In Roger Crisp (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of
the History of Ethics. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Fernandez, J. 2006. Schopenhauer’s pessimism. Philosophy and Public Affairs (November),
646–64.
Heller, A. S., Johnstone, T., Shackman, A. J., Light, S., Peterson, M. J., Kolden, G. G., Kalin, N. H.,
and Davidson, R. J. 2009. Reduced capacity to sustain positive emotion in major depression
reflects diminished maintenance of fronto-striatal brain activation. PNAS Early Edition, 2
December.
Hume, D. 2011. A Treatise of Human Nature, ed. D. F. Norton and M. Norton. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Kennett, J. 2002. Autism, empathy, and moral agency. The Philosophical Quarterly, 52, 340–57.
McDowell, J. 1979. Virtue and reason. The Monist, 62, 331–50.
Prinz, J. 2011. Against empathy. The Southern Journal of Philosophy, 49, 214–33.
Rogers, R. D. et al. 2003. Tryptophan depletion alters the decision-making of healthy volunteers
through altered processing of reward cues. Neuropsychopharmacology, 28, 153–62.
Strawson, P. F. 1962. Freedom and resentment. Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, 48, 1–25.
Treadway, M., and Zald, D. 2010. Reconsidering anhedonia in depression: Lessons from transla-
tional neuroscience. Neuroscience and Behavioral Reviews, 35(3), 537–55.
Treadway, M. T. et al. 2009. Worth the “EEfRT”? The Effort Expenditure for Rewards Task as an
objective measure of motivation and anhedonia. PLOS ONE, 4(8).
 7
The Episodic Sense of Self
Shaun Nichols

When social psychologists talk about the concept of self, they generally mean a collec-
tion of psychological traits. Here is a characteristic description:
The self-concept refers to a person’s understanding of what she “is like” as a person, that is,
what personality characteristics she manifests, what idiosyncratic abilities and proclivities de-
fine her as an individual, and to what extent she regards herself positively (i.e. has high or low
self-esteem). (Mitchell 2009, 247)

This is a thick way of conceiving the self, chock full of aspirations, convictions, affec-
tions, and affiliations, and it is, of course, a useful way to think about the self. Features
of this self-concept predict a person’s general well-being, success in life, social desira-
bility, and a host of other important practical concerns.
Philosophers have often been interested in a much thinner conception of self. A thin
notion of self is championed by Reid and Butler, who maintain that the traits that one
happens to have should be construed as belonging to the self, rather than constitut-
ing the self. Kant, on the other hand, maintains that a thin conception of self, the I, is
“the poorest of all representations” (Kant 1968, B408), and Kant thinks this conception
engenders the illusions of rational psychology—illusions that there is a self that is sim-
ple, substantial, and identical across time. It is a matter of some controversy whether
Kant should be read as speaking only about the rational psychologists (e.g., Descartes),
or whether he thinks that ordinary people have a thin I-concept that leads to a lay illu-
sion of identity across time. Regardless of the exegetical issue, we can explore whether
people do in fact have a thin self-concept that is to be sharply distinguished from the
trait notion of self.
In section 1 of this chapter, I’ll argue that ordinary people exploit both the psy-
chologist’s trait conception and a very thin conception of self, which resonates with
philosophical discussions. This thin conception of self is linked, I suggest, with epi-
sodic memory. In section 2, I distinguish the sense of identity that is delivered by epi-
sodic memory from the biological conception of identity. Section 3 will look at moral
138 Shaun Nichols

emotions and the representation of self. And in the final section, I will explore the pro-
priety of judgments and feelings that are based on the episodic sense of self.

1. Memory and Representations of Self

Our interest is primarily in how people think about the self across time. Since memory
will be an important player, a brief review is in order. Within explicit or declarative
memory, philosophers and psychologists distinguish between two fundamental types
of memory: episodic and semantic. Episodic memory is memory of experience—you
remember having an experience. For instance, when you recall the experience of hav-
ing dinner last night, that recollection will be an episodic memory. Semantic mem-
ory, by contrast, houses your knowledge of facts, like your knowledge that George
Washington was the first US President and that Detroit is in Michigan. Of course, one
can have this kind of factual knowledge about oneself, e.g., I know that I was born in
Montana. This does not come from my recalling the experience of my birth. Rather,
this is part of semantic memory.1
One characteristic feature of episodic memory is that it delivers www: what,
where, and when. I remember having dinner, at a downtown restaurant, last night at
7. Although www is typical of episodic memory, the standard characterization holds
that in addition to www, one must also remember the experience as happening to one-
self. The memory has to present the experience as having happened to me (Tulving
1985). The idea here goes back at least to William James, who wrote, “Memory requires
more than the mere dating of a fact in the past. It must be dated in my past. In other
words, I must think that I directly experienced its occurrence” (1890/1950, 650).
In addition, contemporary memory theorists hold that many of the same processes
that are implicated in episodic memory are also involved in episodic foresight—
considering what will (or might) happen in the future (e.g. De Brigard et al. 2013;
Suddendorf and Corballis 2007; Wheeler, Stuss, and Tulving 1997). In support of this
view, theorists note that patients with deficits in episodic memory typically show re-
lated deficits in episodic foresight (for a review, see Szpunar 2010). In addition, there
are important similarities in the phenomenology of episodic memory and foresight
(e.g., D’Argembeau and Van der Linden 2004).
Harlene Haynes and colleagues summarize the prevailing view about episodic
memory as holding that:
(1) it involves a form of mental time travel in which the rememberer travels backward or forward
in mental time to relive a past experience or to consider possible future scenarios, and (2) it is
accompanied by conscious awareness that the event happened to “me” or will happen to “me”
that does not accompany retrieval of other kinds of memories (Hayne et al. 2011, 344).

1
Reid already recognized this distinction, he just refused to call such factual knowledge “memory” (1785, 231).
 The Episodic Sense of Self 139

1.1. Patient Studies

It will come as no surprise that people are good at reporting their own traits. When
given a list of trait adjectives and asked to indicate the extent to which they possess
those traits, people respond consistently over time, and they respond in ways that co-
here with the judgments of their friends and relatives. What is surprising is that this
trait self-knowledge turns out to be robust across catastrophic memory loss. Indeed,
patients retain trait self-knowledge even when they have no episodic memory at all.
Following a stroke, patient DB could not report a single episode from his life, but he
had intact knowledge of his traits (Klein et al. 2004). Similarly, following a motorcycle
accident, KC had a complete absence of episodic memory—when asked to remember
something, anything, from his past, KC reported that it was just blank (Tulving 1985, 4).
Nonetheless, KC had accurate knowledge of his traits (Tulving 1993). Indeed, across a
wide range of neural dysfunction and injury, including Alzheimer’s, autism, and schiz-
ophrenia, patients show a remarkably robust knowledge of their traits (Altinyazar,
Metz, and Klein forthcoming; Klein and Lax 2010).
The fact that trait self-knowledge is preserved even in people with no episodic
memory provides strong reason to think that trait self-knowledge is stored in semantic
memory. What about the notion of self implicated in episodic memory? Endel Tulving,
the most prominent contemporary advocate of the idea that the self is represented in
episodic retrieval, offers the following suggestion for how to think about the self in ep-
isodic memory:
We can think of self as the traveler who engages in mental time travel. Like other components of
the system that is episodic memory, self too is defined in terms of its properties, and in terms of
its relations to other components of the system. (Tulving 2005, 15)2

As cognitive scientists, we might want to define the self in terms of its properties and
relations. But is that how the self is conceived in episodic memory and episodic fore-
sight? The answer, I suggest, is no. Instead, episodic recollection presents the self in a
way that floats free of traits and trait representations. Even when people have dramatic
changes in their traits, this does not disrupt the sense of identity delivered by episodic
recollection.
Consider HM, who lost all ability to form new episodic memories after having his
hippocampus surgically removed to alleviate his epileptic seizures. Following his sur-
gery, HM could no longer remember anything for more than a couple of minutes.

2
Neisser (1988) also characterizes the self in episodic memory (what he calls the “extended self ”) as a
composite: “that self can be thought as a kind of cumulated total of such memories: the things I remember
having done and the things I think of myself as doing regularly” (47). And Kihlstrom (1997) offers the fol-
lowing proposal: “Within the network-theory framework, we can begin to see what the self might look like.
Viewed as a declarative knowledge structure, the self can be defined as one’s mental representation of his or
her own personality, broadly construed. . . . So, my own mental representation of self consists of intercon-
nected nodes representing my name, the names of people intimately associated with me, and my physical,
demographic, and personality characteristics” (453).
140 Shaun Nichols

However, decades later, he would revel in recollecting a few episodes from his youth.
One of HM’s biographers writes: “He tells of living in South Coventry, Connecticut,
where he could go behind the house to shoot guns. He had a rifle, ‘One with a scope!’ he
says, always enthusiastic at this point in his story. ‘And I had handguns too! A .38 and
a. 32’ ” (Hilts 1995, 138). The difference between the child with the guns and the
post-surgical adult are profound. After surgery, HM couldn’t take care of himself, didn’t
know where he was living, didn’t know whether his parents were dead or alive. But that
did not preclude him from identifying with the young man with a scope on his rifle.
A somewhat fuller example comes from Floyd Skloot, a novelist who suffered sig-
nificant brain damage from viral encephalitis. Skloot subsequently began writing—
hauntingly—about his life as a brain-damaged person. One of the first things he
stresses is how much brain damage changes a person: “Not just how we see or speak,
how we feel or think, what we know or recall, but who we are is no longer the same.
Without warning, without choice, we are Other” (2003, pp. ix–x). The lesions in his
brain, he says, produce “lesions in my Self, fissures in the thought processes that re-
sult from this damage to my brain. When the brain changes, the mind changes—
these lesions have altered who I am” (pp. 3–4). Despite the fact that he stresses how
his self has changed, Skloot goes on in later essays to talk about episodes from his
childhood. One particularly striking passage describes his childhood games with
baseball cards:
I teased Dodgers catcher Roy Campanella about the way he wore his hat, but secretly smashed
and folded my own Dodgers hat until the crown resembled Campy’s. I asked Pirates pitcher Paul
La Palme if his teammates ever called him Paula. . . . I liked to sniff the cards, which held a scent
of bubblegum from their packaging . . . (pp. 169–70)

Skloot continues reminiscing about these experiences for several paragraphs, never
giving anything other than the impression that the experiences present as experiences
that he had, undiminished by the ravages of his brain lesions.
Cases like HM and Skloot are particularly dramatic, but the basic point can be seen
with a little phenomenological exercise. Think of some salient event from your youth,
say, your first kiss. Now think of a salient event from a couple of years ago—a job offer,
admission to grad school, a personnel action. Presumably your traits have changed
substantially in the interval. But in your immediate recollection, does it feel any less
you in the former case than in the latter? Although I’ve changed radically since my first
kiss, when I remember it, it doesn’t seem like those trait changes disrupt my immediate
identification with that adolescent standing outside the gate of my girlfriend’s yard.
Furthermore, knowledge of trait continuity isn’t sufficient for this sense of identifi-
cation, as indicated by a further brain damage case (Klein and Nichols 2012). At age 43,
RB was in a bicycle accident that caused significant head trauma. After the injury, RB
was able to recollect scenes from his past, but they did not have the sense of experiences
that happened to him. In RB’s words, he lacked “ownership” for those experiences.
 The Episodic Sense of Self 141

What I realized was that I did not “own” any memories that came before my injury. I knew things
that came before my injury. In fact, it seemed that my memory was just fine for things that hap-
pened going back years in the past . . . But none of it was “me.” It was the same sort of knowledge
I might have about how my parents met.

It’s clear that the memories had much in common with normal episodic memory—
they carried the what, where, and when:
I could clearly recall a scene of me at the beach in New London with my family as a child. But the
feeling was that the scene was not my memory. As if I was looking at a photo of someone else’s
vacation.

He described another example, this time from his University days:

I can picture the scene perfectly clearly . . . studying with my friends in our study lounge. I can
“relive” it in the sense of re-running the experience of being there. But it has the feeling of imag-
ining, [as if] re-running an experience that my parents described from their college days. It
did not feel like it was something that really had been a part of my life. Intellectually I suppose
I never doubted that it was a part of my life. . . . But that in itself did not help change the feeling of
ownership.

RB has the experience of episodes from his past, he just lacks the sense that they hap-
pened to him. The natural explanation for this is that somehow his recollection fails
to bring with it the episodic sense of self. In addition, although RB lacks this sense of
identity with the subject of past experiences, he retained his knowledge of his own
traits throughout (Klein and Nichols 2012).
All of this suggests that episodic memory carries with it a sense of self that is quite
different from the trait conception stored in semantic memory. Radical changes in
one’s traits do not uproot the sense of identification delivered by episodic memory.
In addition, this sense of self can be disrupted even when trait self-knowledge is pre-
served, suggesting that there is a double dissociation between the trait sense of self and
the episodic sense of self.

1.2. Field and Observer

RB isn’t the only patient to exhibit a sense of detachment from one’s experience mem-
ory. There are similar cases in the annals of neurology (e.g. Talland 1964; Stuss and
Guzman 1988). Furthermore, people with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) often
report a related kind of detachment from the person who experienced the traumatic
events (McIsaac and Eich 2004; Kenny and Bryant 2007). This detachment has been
explained in terms of a perspectival distinction in episodic memory. A range of experi-
ments show that experience memories can be recalled from the field (first person) or
observer (third person) perspective (Nigro and Neisser 1983; Robinson and Swanson
1993; McIsaac and Eich 2002; McIsaac and Eich 2004). In one early experiment,
participants were asked to recall events that fall into certain classes (e.g., studying,
142 Shaun Nichols

swimming, being embarrassed, giving a public presentation), and then asked to indi-
cate, for each memory, which of the following held for the memory:
[Observer] In your memory, you imagine the scene as an observer might see it. Such an ob-
server would see you as well as other aspects of the situation.
[Field] In your memory, you imagine the scene from your original point of view, not as an ex-
ternal observer would see it.
[Neither] Neither of the above perspectives fits your memory of this situation.

In this simple classification task, participants categorized slightly over half of the
memories as field and slightly over 1/3 as observer (Nigro and Neisser 1983, 471). It’s
widely assumed that episodic memory naturally presents experiences from the field
(first person) perspective, but because of the reconstructive capacities of memory (see,
e.g., Loftus and Palmer 1974), we can come to have a memory as-of from an observer
perspective (e.g., McIsaac and Eich 2004, 248). The two different perspectives can also
be experimentally manipulated. McIsaac and Eich had participants engage in activi-
ties and then later recollect the experiences. In one condition participants were told
to see it again through their own eyes; in the other condition, participants were told
to remember the experience as if they were viewing the scene as a detached observer
(McIsaac and Eich 2002, 147). Subsequent coding of responses showed that partici-
pants in the observer condition were more likely to mention personal appearance. By
contrast, those in the field condition were more likely to use first person pronouns
(148).
It’s plausible that retrieving a memory from the observer perspective will deflate
emotional responses, and in fact, participants recollecting from the observer perspec-
tive are less likely to report affective reactions (McIsaac and Eich 2002, 148). Turning
now to PTSD patients, research indicates that recalling a traumatic event from the ob-
server perspective is experienced as less emotional (McIsaac and Eich 2004, 250). And
the clinical literature is full of accounts of traumatized people reporting feeling dis-
sociated from themselves. For instance, in a study of journalists who witnessed the
execution of Robert Harris in 1992, 40 percent of the journalists assented to the state-
ment “I experienced myself as though I were a stranger” and 53 percent assented to
the statement “I felt distant from my own emotions” (Freinkel, Koopman, and Spiegel
1994, 1337; see also Cardena and Spiegel 1993).3 Such distancing—whether in the mo-
ment or in recollection—is interpreted as a strategy for avoiding unpleasant emotions
(McIsaac and Eich 2004, 252; Kenny and Bryant 2007; Lemogne et al. 2009; Wilson
and Ross 2003). This offers a broader context for understanding RB’s deficit. There is a
particular kind of self-conception that is typically delivered in episodic memory. But

3
Note that these clinical studies do not carefully distinguish between whether (i) the original experience
was encoded in a non-dissociative way but then retrieved as dissociative or (ii) the original experience was
experienced as dissociative during encoding and is also experienced as dissociative at retrieval.
 The Episodic Sense of Self 143

that kind of representation can be circumvented either through brain damage (RB) or
strategic avoidance (in PTSD).
To summarize, people have (at least) two conceptions of the self. There is a trait-based
conception of self as composed of various character traits, values, emotional disposi-
tions, and so forth. This conception of self is stored in semantic memory and preserved
across catastrophic amnesia. But people also have a conception of self that is not de-
fined in terms of traits. Such a conception is implicated in episodic memory. It is robust
across the knowledge of massive trait changes (HM, Skloot), and it can be disrupted
even when the trait sense of self is largely preserved (RB, PTSD).

1.3. Representations
Trait conceptions of self are relatively well understood. From a psychological perspec-
tive, we can characterize the traits themselves, and the personality psychology tradi-
tion indicates that we get considerable predictive power from the trait attributions (for
a review, see Funder 2001).4 Ordinary people have some knowledge of their own traits
and often think of themselves in terms of their traits. In addition, we have good models
of how this trait self-conception is represented—it is stored in semantic memory as
a pre-computed summary, poised for quick retrieval (e.g., Klein et al. 2002). We also
know that changing how people think about the trait-self has significant impacts on
decision-making. In a series of studies, Dan Bartels and colleagues have shown that
getting people to think that their trait-self is highly mutable affects behavior on tem-
poral discounting tasks. When people think that the trait-self is constantly changing,
they are more impatient—they prefer to take a lower amount of money soon rather
than wait for a greater amount of money later (Bartels and Urminsky 2011; Bartels and
Rips 2010; Bartels, Kvaran, and Nichols 2013).
The non-trait sense of self we find in episodic memory is poorly understood.
Psychologists have had next to nothing to say about the representation of this con-
ception.5 Although psychologists have had little to say on the episodic sense of self,
the nature of the representation might be explicated by drawing on philosophical dis-
cussions concerning indexical expressions like “I,” “now,” and “here.” First, there is an
important role in action for the cognitive correlates of these linguistic expressions. To
adapt an example from John Perry, if Fred thinks Fred is about to be hit by a boulder,
that won’t lead Fred to dodge unless he also thinks I am Fred. Or, more simply, Fred
won’t dodge unless he thinks I am about to be hit by a boulder (Perry 1977, 494; Perry
1979). Second, theoretically, at least, it seems that one could wake up with total amnesia

4
The predictive value of the attributions is significant, but it might be less than people normally think
(Doris 2002).
5
There is discussion of the representation of self in episodic memory. Perhaps the most influential model
comes from Martin Conway. But the representation of self is not the thin self-representation identified by
Kant. Rather, once again, the representation is rich. On Conway’s view, the “conceptual self ” comprises
“complex episodic memories” which themselves comprise “simple episodic memories,” and the conceptual
self includes self-image, life stories, and beliefs/values/attitudes (2009, 2310).
144 Shaun Nichols

and token an “I” representation in appropriate ways, for instance, by thinking “where
am I?” (cf. Perry 1977). An associated description in terms of traits is neither necessary
(as illustrated by the amnesia case) nor sufficient (as illustrated by the boulder case) for
tokening the representation. Let’s adopt the notation I* for this mental representation.6
It’s a small step to maintain that this same representation—I*—is also the representa-
tion implicated in episodic memory and foresight. In the Perry-style examples, the I*
cannot be identified with traits; similarly, trait continuity is neither necessary (HM,
Skloot) nor sufficient (RB, PTSD) for tokening the episodic sense of self.7
There is an asymmetry here between I* and the concepts corresponding to the
closely related indexicals “here,” and “now.” As with I*, the mental representations cor-
responding to “here” and “now” cannot be replaced with descriptions and retain their
cognitive roles (e.g., Perry 1977; Perry 1979). For instance, believing that the meeting
starts now has a different effect than believing that the meeting starts at noon; believing
that the meeting will be here has a different effect than believing that the meeting will
be in the library. This parallels the fact that believing that Shaun is about to be attacked
by a cougar has a different effect than believing that I* am about to be attacked. Despite
these similarities, in episodic recall, there is an interesting dissimilarity. In episodic
retrieval, instead of now, we get a specific when, and instead of here, a specific where.
By contrast, I* doesn’t get replaced with descriptive content. This feature of the I*
in episodic memory enables the sense of identity that accompanies typical episodic
memory. When I remember my first kiss, this comes with a sense of identity with that
distant and qualitatively different individual. Let’s call this the episodic sense of identity.

2. The Animal and the I*

Thus far, I’ve argued that there is a special sense of self implicated in episodic mem-
ory which is not tied to traits and which plausibly implicates a special kind of mental
representation—I*. When I recall an experience from the past, this typically yields an
episodic sense of identity with that past individual, even if there have been extensive
trait changes. This account of the episodic sense of identity overlaps in important ways
with animalist views of personal identity. According to animalism, the self is identical
to the organism, and it’s likely that the I*, i.e., the non-trait conception of self, (as a
matter of fact) roughly corresponds with the organism that tokens the representation.
When episodic recollection returns a representation of the form I* had experience P,

6
This notation is adopted as a nod to Castañeda’s important work in the area, though his use of the nota-
tion is somewhat different (1967).
7
I leave open whether I* is actually part of the basic experience of having an episodic memory or whether
the I* is a representation that characteristically gets joined with the experience. There are interesting is-
sues here for cognitive science. For instance, if other mammals have the phenomenology associated with
episodic recollection, does that mean that they have the I* representation? These questions haven’t been
explored in the memory literature, even among those (e.g. James and Tulving) who promote the importance
of the self in episodic memory. But in any case, it isn’t necessary to settle these issues for present purposes.
 The Episodic Sense of Self 145

typically, it will be true that this organism had experience P.8 It might seem that there
is a quick argument from here to a substantive conclusion about the self. Contrary to
Kant, Buddha, and Parfit, the I that was thought to be so problematic is just the or-
ganism. This would count as a vindication of an animalist account of personal identity
(Olson 1997; Shoemaker forthcoming).
The animalist doesn’t win so easily. For the episodic sense of identity is importantly
different from the biological conception of identity. First, knowledge of animal iden-
tity does not carry the episodic sense of identity. We see this most dramatically in the
case of RB, who has full knowledge that the organism RB was on that beach in New
London. Yet he lacks the sense that he was there.
The dissociation occurs in the other direction as well. People sometimes have an epi-
sodic sense of identity that is flatly at odds with their knowledge of animal identity. The
most striking cases are memories of past lives. We tend to think of such cases as quite
bizarre, but they actually fit naturally into the broader context of what we know about
the reconstructive nature of episodic memory. A long tradition of work in memory
shows that people can easily be led to have false episodic memories (see, e.g., Schacter
2001). In some cases, the memories are false in the details—subjects are led to misre-
member certain aspects of an experience, e.g., whether a car crash captured on video
involved broken glass. In other cases, people can be led to remember having done
something that, in fact, they never did at all. Getting people to imagine vividly hav-
ing done something often leads them to remember actually having done it (Goff and
Roediger 1988; Thomas and Loftus 2002; Rajagopal and Montgomery 2011).9
As it happens, ordinary people can often be led to believe in past lives through hyp-
notic suggestion. In a series of experiments, Spanos hypnotized subjects (all of whom
were undergraduate students with moderate to high levels of suggestibility) and played
a pre-recorded tape that indicated that the subject was going back in time, conclud-
ing with: “You are now in a different life, living in another life that you have lived be-
fore in another time. You are now reliving that other life that you lived once before in
a different time” (Spanos et al. 1991, 310). After this suggestion, subjects were asked
questions like “What name can I call you by?” and “Where are you?” Remarkably, over
30 percent of the subjects responded in ways that indicated that they thought they were
having an experience of a past life. This group of participants did not differ on meas-
ures of psychopathology from the remaining 70 percent who did not think they were
having experiences of a past life (Spanos et al. 1991, 311–12). Subsequent studies showed
that the details of the subjects’ reported past lives was heavily influenced by the pres-
entation offered by the experimenters. For instance, subjects who were told that there

8
Of course, as I shall discuss, there are lots of reconstructive processes in memory. It might be that often
my episodic recollections really bear no relation to the experiences of this organism. But the evidence cer-
tainly doesn’t undermine the idea that in the typical case, an episodic memory will correspond to a past ex-
perience of the organism.
9
Some maintain that the plasticity of memory is an adaptation that facilitates modifying memories for
relevance (e.g., Lee 2009).
146 Shaun Nichols

was a high incidence of child abuse in earlier times were more likely to recall a past
life in which they suffered child abuse (Spanos et al. 1991, 315). Indeed, these results on
memories of past lives are interpreted as further evidence for the reconstructive nature
of memory (e.g. Loftus and Polage 1999).
Of course, outside of the laboratory, many people report experiences of past lives.
In recent work, researchers recruited people who claimed to have memories of a past
life. They gave these subjects a standard task for inducing false memories (Roediger
and McDermott 1995) and compared the responses of these subjects with a control
group of subjects who did not think they had memories of a past life. Those who had
memories of past lives reported more false memories on this standard memory task
(Meyersburg et al. 2009, 402; see also Peters et al. 2007). This suggests that part of the
reason these people have the memory of a past life is that their memory formation pro-
cesses are especially susceptible to reconstructive influences.
The point of going through the role of memory reconstruction in past life mem-
ories was just to shore up the idea that memories of past lives actually fit into a
well-established research tradition on the construction of false memories. But the im-
portant lesson for us is simply that the sense of identity that is operative in these false
memories is operating in the face of explicit knowledge of biological discontinuity. So,
just as knowledge of biological continuity isn’t sufficient to issue in the episodic sense
of identity, neither, it seems, is knowledge of biological discontinuity sufficient to de-
stroy the episodic sense of identity. An episodic memory as-of before one’s biological
life can still carry the episodic sense of self and the concomitant impression of identity
across organisms.

3. Moral Emotions and the Episodic Sense of

Identity
Thus far, I’ve argued that there are two kinds of representations of self. One of them is
given in terms of traits; the other representation of self is the impoverished I*, and this
representation is typically delivered in episodic recollection. It is this latter representa-
tion that yields the sense of identity across decades and massive trait transformations.
Let’s turn now to the representation of self in moral emotions.
Several central moral emotions, including guilt, shame, and pride are also identified
as “self-conscious emotions.” Contemporary emotion theorists maintain that a repre-
sentation of the self is implicated in the activation of such “self-conscious” emotions.
In Lazarus’ influential appraisal framework, he maintains that a critical component
of the appraisal of pride is that “credit is to oneself ”; for guilt and shame, the appraisal
must include that “blame is to oneself ” (1991, 271, 242–3; see also Lewis et al. 1989).
Tracy and Robins put the point more generally:
The primary distinctive characteristic of self-conscious emotions is that their elicitation requires
the ability to form stable self-representations (“me”), to focus attention on those representations
 The Episodic Sense of Self 147

(i.e., to self-reflect; “I”), and to put it all together to generate a self-evaluation. (Tracy and Robins
2007, 191)

Even some emotions that are not categorized as “self-conscious,” like anger, might
critically involve self-representations. Recalling that the offense was demeaning
to me can be important to activating anger. Indeed, Lazarus’ appraisal theory has
ego-involvement as a dimension for appraisal for all emotions (1991).10
Although emotion researchers maintain that self-representations are required to
trigger guilt, pride, and shame, they have not explored which self-representations are
required. Is it the trait sense of self or the thin conception of self? For at least some
cases, it seems clear that the thin conception of self suffices to trigger a moral emotion.
To take an unflattering personal example, I remember hitting my babysitter over the
head with a large door spring. It’s nearly forty years later, but whenever I recall that in-
cident, I feel guilty. And I am positive that the first thing I would do, if I saw her now,
is apologize for the head bashing. Obviously my traits are significantly different from
those of the 9-year-old (for one thing, I am pretty sure I wouldn’t hit anyone over the
head with a door spring). However, this does not obviate the immediate guilt reaction
that ensues on the recollection. In this case, the I* suffices to trigger the moral emotion.
This case suggests that guilt can be activated with I*, but it would be rash to draw
global conclusions. One interesting possibility is that in different cases, different kinds
of self-representations are implicated in self-conscious emotions. For instance, when
I remember the public display in my 7th grade gym class of my running time, I re-
member that I was ashamed of how slow I was. Although I remember feeling shame
then, I certainly don’t feel ashamed now. The fact that I have the episodic sense of iden-
tity with that chubby 7th grader doesn’t make me feel shame now. In that case, the
episodic sense of identity doesn’t activate the self-conscious emotion. One obvious dif-
ference between the guilt case and the shame case is that the former involves an act and
the latter a trait, and perhaps this difference in content explains the difference in how
the episodic sense of identity interacts with the emotions. There is a nest of interesting
issues here, but for now the important point is just that in at least some cases, moral
emotions are activated by the episodic sense of self.

4. Philosophy and the Episodic Sense of Identity

The issue of personal identity lies at the intersection of metaphysics and ethics. A fa-
miliar assumption is that if we can determine the correct metaphysical account of per-
sonal identity, we will be able to draw inferences about when it is appropriate to hold
someone responsible. In the simple case of a transgression, it’s appropriate for me to

10
It’s intuitively plausible that a representation of self is critical to self-conscious emotions, but it should be
acknowledged that there is not much research narrowly directed at this issue (cf. Tracy and Robins 2004a,
111).
148 Shaun Nichols

feel guilt only if I am the person who committed the transgression. Obviously there is
a wide range of complications and a wide range of issues implicated at this intersection
between metaphysics and ethics. In this final section, I will explore how the nature of
the episodic sense of identity affects some of these issues.

4.1. The Episodic Sense of Identity and the Metaphysics of Identity

Philosophers have railed against the viability of non-trait conceptions of self. As men-
tioned above, Kant says that the “I” is “the poorest of all representations” (B408.7). On
Kant’s view, the poverty of the I-representation is responsible for a range of illusions
concerning the self. Here’s Nagel, apparently channeling Kant, on the issue:
The concept of the self seems suspiciously pure—too pure—when we look at it from
inside. . . . When I consider my own individual life from inside, it seems that my existence in
the future or the past—the existence of the same “I” as this one—depends on nothing but it-
self. . . . (Nagel 1986, 33; see also Locke 1731, Book II, chapter xxvii, section 14; Kant 1968 B407–
B432; Nagel 1979, 200)

This “too pure” conception of self is plausibly precisely the conception of self impli-
cated in the episodic sense of identity. And as a foundation for a metaphysics of iden-
tity, the episodic sense of identity seems problematic.
The most obvious problem with taking the episodic sense of identity to reveal the
correct metaphysics of personal identity is fission (e.g. Parfit 1984). Identity is a 1–1
relation, and the episodic sense of identity doesn’t respect that. Imagine each hemi-
sphere of the brain being put into a different body. If this happens then, assuming that
each hemisphere contains the episodic memory of bashing Leanne over the head, each
fission fragment will have the episodic sense of identity with the 9-year-old.11 The frag-
ments can’t both be identical to me (they are different individuals who might be having
different current experiences), yet each of them would have a robust episodic sense of
identity with a single past person.12 This episodic sense of identity is plausibly encapsu-
lated—even if you knew that you were one fission fragment, this would not (I suggest)
destroy the sense of identity delivered by episodic recollection of a pre-fission event.
The problem of fission is the starkest way of seeing the limitations of the episodic
sense of identity as a foundation for metaphysics of identity. But there is a further
metaphysical oddity in the episodic sense of identity. The sense of identity is insen-
sitive to temporal discontinuity. For physical objects, disruptions in spatio-temporal
continuity engender disruptions in the impression of identity (see, e.g., Cheries et al.
2009). But as far as my episodic sense of identity goes, it seems that I’m identical with
a door-spring-wielding 9-year-old, and there is nothing in this sense of identity that

11
Fission is a thought experiment, of course. But in terms of what we know about memory and the sense
of identity, the assumptions about our reactions to fission (e.g., that each descendant will have the sense of
identity) are very plausible.
12
In philosophy, one move to try to accommodate fission is to take a four-dimensional approach to the
issue (e.g., Lewis 1976; Sider 2003). I will leave that matter aside here.
 The Episodic Sense of Self 149

demands uninterrupted continuity of self between then and now. Again, this seems
encapsulated. Even if I came to believe that I didn’t exist during the interval, episodic
recollection would still generate the sense of identity. The representation delivered by
episodic memory doesn’t care about uninterrupted continuity. Of course, there is a fa-
miliar philosophical move to try to secure continuity—one can maintain that episodic
memory reveals specific experiences of an underlying substance, and that substance
endures without interruption. But there is nothing in the episodic sense of identity that
presupposes continuity.
At a minimum, episodic memory and the associated conception of the self make for
a very imperfect guide to metaphysics. The system is not designed to get at metaphys-
ical truth about personal identity.

4.2. The Episodic Sense of Identity and Moral Emotions

Even though the episodic sense of identity is not a good basis for a metaphysics of
personal identity, we have seen that self-conscious moral emotions are sometimes ac-
tivated by the episodic sense of identity, even after massive trait changes. How are we to
evaluate the propriety of such activation? The verdict here will depend on background
assumptions about the normative propriety of various emotions. D’Arms and Jacobson
provide a useful framework for exploring this issue. Like many contemporary moral
psychologists, they defend a sentimentalist approach to metaethics. But since they de-
fend a “rational” sentimentalism, their view might gain wider acceptance than more
thoroughgoing anti-rationalist approaches to ethical justification (e.g. Nichols 2013;
Prinz 2007). D’Arms and Jacobson argue that emotions or sentiments are right to feel
(under certain circumstances), if they involve deep and wide human concerns. “Deep
concerns,” they write, “are those that are firmly entrenched in their possessors, such
that it would be either impossible or extremely costly to excise them.” According to
D’Arms and Jacobson, a concern is wide, when it is “firmly enmeshed in our web of
psychological responses,” that is, when “the object of a concern prompts a variety of
evaluative attitudes, not just a single emotion or desire; when desire for it (or aversion
to it) arises in many different situations; when it is implicated in the ability to get or
avoid many other things people care about; when its pursuit or avoidance grounds
disparate actions and plans” (2005, 116). With this general approach, the broad issue
about the propriety of self-conscious moral emotions depends on whether those emo-
tions involve concerns that are deep and wide.13
To determine whether the emotions involve deep and wide concerns, it’s helpful to
consider the likely function of these self-conscious emotions. In a somewhat ironic
development, contemporary researchers think that the functions of self-conscious

13
There is one important way in which my appropriation of D’Arms and Jacobson might diverge from
their own proposal. I do not mean to rely on the idea that the deep and wide concerns are constitutive of the
specific emotions. Rather, what’s important for the following discussion is the idea that the self-conscious
emotions are systems that are dedicated to advancing concerns that are deep and wide.
150 Shaun Nichols

emotions turn out to be largely social: “self-conscious emotions evolved primarily to

promote the attainment of specifically social goals” (Tracy and Robins 2007, 6). Shame
serves to motivate behavior to avoid social disapproval (e.g. Fessler and Haley 2003).
The function of guilt is to repair and sustain relationships after doing harm to a loved
one (Baumeister, Stillwell, and Heatherton 1994). The function of pride is to maintain
or enhance status in light of an achievement (Tracy and Robins 2004b).
The social functions of self-conscious emotions provide ample reason to think that
these emotions do indeed promote deep and wide concerns (see also D’Arms and
Jacobson 2005, 116ff). Each of the self-conscious emotions plays an important role in
promoting a successful social life. Guilt encourages relationship reparation with inti-
mates; pride serves to sustain or enhance social status; shame helps to decrease social
disapproval. These reactions are all relatively deep in that it would be hard to eradicate
the emotions entirely. In addition, each of these individual social concerns—intimate
relationships, social status, community approval—is a wide concern. Even when we’re
not feeling guilty we care about sustaining our close relationships. Even when we’re not
feeling proud, we care about our status. And even when we’re not ashamed, we care a
great deal about how our community thinks of us. More generally, all of these emotions
address social life, and it takes no philosophical invention to note that a flourishing
social life is among the deepest and widest human concerns. Thus, the self-conscious
emotions involve concerns both deep and wide.
Now we turn to the issue of moral emotions triggered by distant episodic memories.
Return to my memory of beating my babysitter. The episodic recollection of that event
triggers guilt. And it’s plausible that this actually serves the deep and wide concerns of
guilt. If I see Leanne now, and I don’t show guilt for the head bashing, then this will be
bad for my current social interaction with her (at least on the plausible assumption that
she remembers being cracked over the head by an ill-behaved 9-year-old). If I didn’t
feel like I did the action, I wouldn’t feel guilty for it, and then I wouldn’t display the
socially functional behaviors. The behaviors are functional because other people natu-
rally track organisms, not feature clusters. The agent needs to negotiate the social world
and be moved by the shameful, pride-worthy, and guilt-befitting events of its past as a
persisting organism. As a result, the fact that the episodic sense of identity is not tied
to psychological traits plausibly facilitates the social function. It is socially beneficial
that episodic memory delivers a conception of self that will continue to activate the
self-conscious emotions even after radical trait changes. Again, this is because even
though my traits change, my community tracks what this organism did.14
One way to think about this is robustly pluralistic. At the end of section 3, I suggested
that while guilt is triggered by episodic memories of distant transgressions, shame is

14
The organism is a much better proxy than feature sets for the self that is tracked by others (at least when it
comes to actions). This might be a heuristic—it might be that some kind of unspecified Cartesian soul would
be a better fit, if only because of its complete flexibility. But as heuristic, organism is a better proxy than fea-
ture cluster.
 The Episodic Sense of Self 151

not triggered by episodic memories of distant shameful traits. Thus, one might main-
tain that for purposes of morally evaluating a person’s actions, it’s simply correct to
think about the self in a way that is not trait dependent, whereas for the purposes of
morally evaluating a person’s traits, it’s correct to think about the self in a way that is
trait dependent. Alternatively, one might think, with Kant, that the trait-independent
sense of self is deeply defective. Indeed, perhaps the dominant view in philosophy is
that traits are what matter for ethical questions like responsibility—if I commit an im-
moral act in my youth and undergo massive trait changes, then my culpability for the
act is thereby diminished. Recent studies show that ordinary people sometimes react
in a similar way. When led to believe that self-traits change a great deal over time, par-
ticipants think that they deserve less punishment for a past misdeed (Tierney et al.
2014). But we have also seen that guilt is activated by the episodic sense of self despite
massive trait changes. Thus it seems that the fundamental tension between the two
senses of self re-emerges in the ethical domain. The trait sense of self seems to be cen-
tral to issues like responsibility, but the episodic sense of self generates guilt even when
the trait-self (and the representation thereof) has changed radically.15
There might be rational reasons for thinking that guilt about distant transgressions
isn’t warranted given that my traits have changed so much. But there are prudential
reasons for thinking it’s a good thing that guilt is triggered by the episodic sense of
self. Let’s take it as a standing fact that others do and will continue to track each other
as organisms. People will continue to attribute social transgressions, moral transgres-
sions, and accomplishments to organisms, not feature sets. At any particular time slice
of a person, among the deep and wide concerns of that person are his social stand-
ing, the quality of his relationships, and so forth. And, as we’ve seen, there is reason to
think that the self-conscious emotions are mechanisms that function to promote those
concerns. Importantly, they promote those concerns even if they implicate a meta-
physically suspicious representation of self. Take my guilt about hitting Leanne. Even
if that is driven by a peculiar feature of episodic sense of identity, the reaction is facili-
tating things I care about right now. By presenting the self as persisting despite mas-
sive trait changes, episodic memory facilitates the social function of the self-conscious
emotions. Even if I am not the same person as the babysitter-beater, my community
will treat me as such. And at any given point, I care a lot about how that community
treats me. The fact that I feel guilty motivates me to make amends and to acknowledge
the transgression, revealing both my awareness that it was a transgression as well as

15
The option set here can be put in terms of revisionism. A fully non-revisionist proposal would hold
that there are two different kinds of selves and different ethical concerns key on these different kinds. For
instance, one might hold that there is a trait-self and a Cartesian soul, not defined by traits. A radically revi-
sionist view would maintain that the non-trait sense of self is hopeless, and all reactions that are insensitive
to continuity of psychological traits are defective. A moderate revisionism might hold that the biological
conception of self is a sufficiently close approximation to the non-trait sense of self; this would facilitate a
revisionist pluralism on which the trait sense of self is the relevant notion of self for some ethical concerns
(like shame concerning traits), and the biological conception is the relevant notion of self for other ethical
concerns (like guilt for distant transgressions).
152 Shaun Nichols

a certain amount of contrition; showing such awareness and contrition can help im-
prove my relationship. So, while it might be rational to think that the self changes as
traits change, it can be prudent to feel guilt even after the trait-self changes.

Acknowledgments
I’m grateful to John Doris and Dave Shoemaker for comments on an earlier draft of
this chapter. Special thanks to Felipe De Brigard, Justin D’Arms, and Dan Jacobson, for
extensive feedback on the chapter.

References
Altinyazar, V., Metz, M., and Klein, S. Forthcoming. Systems of Self-Knowledge and
Schizophrenia: Evidence for the Unusual Robustness of Trait Self-Knowledge in Patients
Suffering from Schizophrenia.
Bartels, D., Kvaran, T., and Nichols, S. 2013. Selfless giving. Cognition 129, 392–403.
Bartels, D., and Rips, L. 2010. Psychological connectedness and intertemporal choice. Journal of
Experimental Psychology: General, 139, 49–69.
Bartels, D., and Urminsky, O. 2011. On intertemporal selfishness: The perceived instability of
identity underlies impatient consumption. Journal of Consumer Research, 38, 182–98.
Baumeister, R. F., Stillwell, A., and Heatherton, T. F. 1994. Guilt: An interpersonal approach.
Psychological Bulletin, 115, 243–67.
Burke, B. L., Martens, A., and Faucher, E. H. 2010. Two decades of terror management
theory: A meta-analysis of mortality salience research. Personality & Social Psychology
Review, 14, 155–95.
Butler, Joseph 1736/1819. Of personal identity. In The Analogy of Religion, pp. 211–15.
London: Allman and Sawers.
Cardena, E., and Spiegel, D. 1993. Dissociative reaction to the San Francisco Bay Area earth-
quake of 1989. American Journal of Psychiatry, 150, 474–8.
Castañeda, H. N. 1967. Indicators and quasi-indicators. American Philosophical Quarterly, 4(2),
85–100.
Cheries, E. R., Mitroff, S. R., Wynn, K., and Scholl, B. J. 2009. Do the same principles constrain
persisting object representations in infant cognition and adult perception? The cases of
continuity and cohesion. In B. Hood and L. Santos (eds.), The Origins of Object Knowledge.
Oxford: Oxford University Press.
D’Argembeau, A., and Van der Linden, M. 2004. Phenomenal characteristics associated with
projecting oneself back into the past and forward into the future: Influence of valence and
temporal distance. Consciousness and Cognition, 13, 844–58.
D’Arms, J., and Jacobson, D., 2005. Anthropocentric constraints on human value. Oxford Studies
in Metaethics, 1, 99–126.
De Brigard, F., Addis, D., Ford, J., Schacter, D., and Giovanello, K. 2013. Remembering what could
have happened: Neural correlates of episodic counterfactual thinking. Neuropsychologica.
doi: 10.1016
Doris, J. 2002. Lack of Character. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
 The Episodic Sense of Self 153

Fessler, D., and Haley K. 2003. The strategy of affect: Emotions in human cooperation. In P.
Hammerstein (ed.), Genetic and Cultural Evolution of Cooperation, pp. 7–36. Cambridge,
MA: MIT Press.
Freinkel, A., Koopman, C., and Spiegel, D. 1994. Dissociative symptoms in media eyewitnesses
of an execution. American Journal of Psychiatry, 157, 1335–9.
Funder, D. C. 2001. Personality. Annual Review of Psychology, 52, 197–221.
Goff, L., and Roediger, H., III. 1998. Imagination inflation for action events: Repeated imagin-
ings lead to illusory recollections. Memory & Cognition, 26, 20–33.
Hayne, H., Gross, J., McNamee, S., Fitzgibbon, O., and Tustin, K. 2011. Episodic memory and ep-
isodic foresight in 3- and 5-year-old children. Cognitive Development, 26(4), 343–55.
Hilts, P. 1995. Memory’s Ghost. New York: Simon & Schuster.
James, W. 1890/1950. Principles of Psychology, vol. 1. Mineola, NY: Dover.
Kant, I. 1968. Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason, trans. N. Kemp Smith. New York: St Martin’s.
Kihlstrom, J. F. 1997. Consciousness and me-ness. In J. D. Cohen and J. W. Schooler (eds.),
Scientific Approaches to Consciousness, pp. 451–68. Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum.
Kenny, L., and Bryant, R. 2007. Keeping memories at an arm’s length: Vantage point of trauma
memories. Behaviour Research and Therapy, 45, 1915–20.
Klein, S., Cosmides, L., Tooby, J., and Chance, S. 2002. Decisions and the evolution of mem-
ory: Multiple systems, multiple functions. Psychological Review, 109, 306–29.
Klein, S., German, T., Cosmides, L., Rami, G. 2004. A theory of autobiographical mem-
ory: Necessary components and disorders resulting from their loss. Social Cognition, 22,
460–90.
Klein, S., and Lax, M. 2010. The unanticipated resilience of trait self-knowledge in the face of
neural damage. Memory, 18, 918–48.
Klein, S., and Nichols, S. 2012. Memory and the Sense of Personal Identity. Mind, 121(483),
677–702.
Lazarus, R. S. 1991. Emotion and Adaptation. New York: Oxford University Press.
Lee, J. L. 2009. Reconsolidation: Maintaining memory relevance. Trends in Neurosciences, 32,
413–420.
Lemogne, C., Bergouignan, L., Piolino, P., Jouvent, R., Allilaire, J., and Fossati, P. 2009. Cognitive
avoidance of intrusive memories and autobiographical memory: Specificity, autonoetic con-
sciousness, and self-perspective. Memory, 17, 1–7.
Lewis, D. 1976. Survival and identity. In A. Rorty (ed.), Identities of Persons, pp. 17–40. Berkeley
and Los Angeles: University of California Press.
Lewis, M., Sullivan, M. W., Stanger, C., and Weiss, M. 1989. Self development and self-conscious
emotions. Child Development, 60, 146–56.
Locke, J. 1731: An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. London: Edmund Parker. Original
work published 1690.
Loftus, E. F., and Palmer, J. C. 1974. Reconstruction of automobile destruction: An example of the
interaction between language and memory. Journal of Verbal Learning and Verbal Behavior,
13(5), 585–9.
Loftus, E. F., and Polage, D. C. 1999. Repressed memories: When are they real? How are they
false? The Psychiatric Clinics of North America, 22, 61–71. (P. Resnick, Guest ed.).
McIsaac, H. K., and Eich, E. 2002. Vantage point in episodic memory. Psychonomic Bulletin &
Review, 9, 146–50.
154 Shaun Nichols

McIsaac, H. K., and Eich, E. 2004. Vantage point in traumatic memory. Psychological Science, 15,
248–53.
Meyersburg, C., Bogdan, R., Gallo, D., and McNally, R. 2009. False memory propensity in peo-
ple reporting recovered memories of past lives. Journal of Abnormal Psychology, 118, 399–404.
Mitchell, J. 2009. Social psychology as a natural kind. Trends in Cognitive Sciences, 13(6), 246–51.
Nagel, T. 1979. Subjective and objective. In Mortal Questions. Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press.
Nagel, T. 1986. The View from Nowhere. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Neisser, Ulric. 1988. Five kinds of self-knowledge. Philosophical Psychology, 1, 35–59.
Nichols, S. 2013. Brute retributivism. In T. Nadelhoffer (ed.), The Future of Punishment.
New York: Oxford University Press.
Nigro, G., and Neisser, U. 1983. Point of view in personal memories. Cognitive Psychology, 15,
467–82.
Olson, E. 1997. The Human Animal: Personal Identity without Psychology. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Parfit, D. 1984. Reasons and Persons. New York: Oxford University Press.
Perry, J. 1977. Frege on demonstratives. Philosophical Review, 86, 474–97.
Perry, J. 1979. The problem of the essential indexical. Nous, 13, 3–21.
Peters, M., Horselenberg, R., Jelicic, M., and Merckelbach, H. 2007. The false fame illusion in
people with memories about a previous life. Consciousness and Cognition, 16, 162–9.
Prinz, J. 2007. The Emotional Construction of Morals. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Rajagopal, P., and Montgomery, N. 2011. I imagine, I experience, I like: The false experience ef-
fect. Journal of Consumer Research, 38(3), 578–93.
Reid, T. 1785. Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man. Edinburgh: Bell & Robinson.
Robinson, J., and Swanson, K. 1993. Field and observer modes of remembering. Memory, 1,
169–84.
Roediger, H., and McDermott, K. 1995. Creating false memories: Remembering words not pre-
sented in lists. Journal of Experimental Psychology: Learning, Memory, & Cognition, 21, 803–14.
Schacter, D. 2001. The Seven Sins of Memory. Boston: Houghton Mifflin.
Shoemaker, D. Forthcoming. The stony metaphysical heart of animalism. In S. Blatti and P.
Snowdon (eds.), Animalism. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Sider, T. 2003. Four-Dimensionalism. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Skloot, F. 2003. In the Shadow of Memory. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press.
Spanos, N., Menary, E., Gabora, N., DuBreuil, S., Dewhirst, B. 1991. Secondary identity
enactments during hypnotic past-life regression: A sociocognitive perspective. Journal of
Personality and Social Psychology, 61, 308–20.
Stuss, D. T., and Guzman, D. A. 1988. Severe remote memory loss with minimal anterograde am-
nesia: A clinical note. Brain and Cognition, 8, 21–30.
Suddendorf, T., and Corballis, M. 2007. The evolution of foresight: What is mental time travel,
and is it unique to humans? Behavioral and Brain Sciences, 30, 299–313.
Szpunar, K. 2010. Episodic future thought: An emerging concept. Perspectives in Psychological
Science, 5, 142–62.
Talland, G. A. 1964. Self-reference: A neglected component in remembering. American
Psychologist, 19, 351–3.
 The Episodic Sense of Self 155

Thomas, A. K., and Loftus, E. F. 2002. Creating bizarre false memories through imagination.
Memory & Cognition, 30, 423–31.
Tierney, H., Howard, C., Kumar, V., Kvaran, T. and Nichols, S. 2014. How many of us are there?
In J. Sytsma (ed.), Advances in Experimental Philosophy of Mind. New York: Continuum
Press.
Tracy, J. L., and Robins, R. W. 2004a. Putting the self into self-conscious emotions: A theoretical
model. Psychological Inquiry, 15, 103–25.
Tracy, J. L., and Robins, R. W. 2004b. Show your pride: Evidence for a discrete emotion expres-
sion. Psychological Science, 15, 194–7.
Tracy, J. L., and Robins, R. W. 2007. The self in self-conscious emotions: A cognitive appraisal ap-
proach. In J. Tracy, R. Robins, and J. Tangney (eds.), The Self-Conscious Emotions: Theory and
Research, pp. 3–20. New York: Guilford.
Tulving, E. 1985. Memory and consciousness. Canadian Psychology/Psychologie Canadienne, 26,
1–12.
Tulving, E. 1993. Self-knowledge of an amnesic individual is represented abstractly. In T. K. Srull
and R. S. Wyer (eds.), Advances in Social Cognition, vol. 5, pp. 1–49. Hillsdale, NJ: Erlbaum.
Tulving, E. 2005. Episodic memory and autonoesis. In H. Terrace and J. Metcalfe (eds.), The
Missing Link in Cognition: Origins of Self-reflective Consciousness, pp. 3–56. New York: Oxford
University Press.
Wheeler, M., Stuss, D., and Tulving, E. 1997. Toward a theory of episodic memory: The frontal
lobes and autonoetic consciousness. Psychological Bulletin, 121, 331–54.
Wilson, A., and Ross, M. 2003. The identity function of autobiographical memory: Time is on
our side. Memory, 11, 137–49.
 8
The Motivational Theory of
Emotions
Andrea Scarantino

1. Introduction
Having an emotion customarily involves appraising a stimulus a particular way, feeling
a particular way, and being motivated to act a particular way. These three aspects
offer distinctive entry points for explaining what emotions are. Philosophers have
so far built their theories primarily around appraisals and feelings. As a result, two
research programs have dominated the philosophy of emotions over the past forty
years: Cognitivism and Perceptualism.
I will argue that neither research program has been able to explain how emotions
motivate us to act. This is an especially significant omission because it is ultimately what
we do when we emote that produces significant personal and social consequences. To
remedy this state of affairs, I begin by illustrating three features of emotional motiva-
tion that neither Cognitivism nor Perceptualism have been able to provide an inte-
grated account for: impulsivity, flexibility, and bodily underpinnings.
I then introduce a new theory of emotions that offers a cohesive explanation for
these three features of emotional motivation. A preliminary statement of what I call
the Motivational Theory of Emotions (MTE) is that emotions are action control systems
designed to prioritize the pursuit of some goals over others. As modern day Cognitivism
was inspired by the appraisal tradition in psychology (e.g. Arnold 1960; 1970) and mod-
ern day Perceptualism by the Jamesian theory of emotions (James 1884; Damasio 1994),
the theory of emotions I propose here is inspired by Frijda’s (1986; 2007) psychological
theory of emotions as states of action readiness with control precedence.
MTE will be shown to not only explain how emotions motivate better than
Cognitivism and Perceptualism, but to also solve two standard problems in the phi-
losophy of emotions: the problem of intentionality (how are emotions “about” the
world?) and the problem of differentiation (how are any two emotions different from
one another?). Since MTE can solve these familiar problems, and does significantly
better on motivation, I conclude that it should be considered a promising new compet-
itor in the philosophy of emotions.
 The Motivational Theory of Emotions 157

2. Three Markers of Emotional Actions

It is common practice in science and folk psychology to explain various phenomena
by appealing to emotions. Matt’s heartbeat increased because he was excited. Susan
displayed a gape face because she was disgusted to have found an insect in her soup.
Roger recoiled because he was afraid of the suddenly looming car. Cassandra slapped
her lover because she was angry after having read a flirtatious email he sent to another
woman. Stan wrote a pointed letter of complaint about his boss because he was angry
about having been insulted at a board meeting the day before.
These phenomena include involuntary bodily changes (increased heartbeats, gape
expressions), reflex actions (recoiling at a suddenly looming object), intentional
actions done “in the heat of the moment” (slapping someone), and intentional actions
done while no longer engrossed in the emotional incident (writing a letter of com-
plaint one day after having been insulted). Although all of these phenomena must be
explained, my initial focus will be on what I take to be the most prototypical of emo-
tional actions, namely intentional actions done “in the heat of the moment” such as
slapping someone out of anger. I will call these impulsive emotional actions. Once I for-
mulate an account of impulsive emotional actions, I will further develop it to account
for the other types of actions that are caused by emotions.
I will now introduce several markers of prototypical emotional actions, organized
under the headings of impulsivity, flexibility, and bodily underpinnings, to which I col-
lectively refer as the phenomena of emotional motivation. Any viable theory of emo-
tions will need to provide a convincing account of these interrelated phenomena.

2.1. Impulsivity
When we act emotionally we typically act impulsively. Impulsive emotional actions
are well exemplified by things like “punching someone in a bar brawl, running away in
fright, hugging one’s fellow supporters in joy at the victory of one’s football team, and
so on” (Pacherie 2001).1 Following Frijda (2010), I emphasize two characteristics of im-
pulsive emotional actions in particular.
The first is that in such actions there is a “sense of urge,” which comprises “both an
expectation of gain after completing [the action], and haste to fulfill it” (Frijda 2010,
571). I understand urgency as the “preference for early action over late action” (Elster

1
Impulsive emotional actions belong to two different classes. One class is formed by what I call instru-
mental impulsive actions, namely actions performed as a means to a goal that is constitutive of the emotion.
For example, we punch someone out of anger with the goal of removing the obstacle he or she represents,
and we run away out of fear with the goal of achieving safety. The other type is what I call displaced impulsive
actions, exemplified by actions like piercing holes in the picture of a hated enemy or kicking a door out of
anger. Hursthouse (1991) called actions of this sort arational actions, and argued that they are intentional,
not done for a reason, and best explained by being in the grip of an emotion. In Scarantino and Nielsen (MS),
we offer an alternative explanation of arational actions according to which such actions are displaced in the
ethological sense of having goals unrelated to the constitutive goals of the emotions that cause them. We
argue that displaced actions result from conflicting or thwarted motivations.
158 Andrea Scarantino

2010, 275). Impulsive emotional actions clearly manifest this temporal preference.
There is urgency in the punching out of anger, urgency in the kissing out of lust, ur-
gency in the running out of fear.
A second characteristic of impulsive emotional actions is the “use of only part of the
available cues that might indicate the adequacy of action” (Frijda 2010, 571). Pacherie
(2001, 76) has referred to this aspect as the “shortsightedness” of impulsive actions.
I emphasize that we should not straightforwardly equate shortsightedness with irra-
tionality. In some circumstances, the rational thing to do is precisely to engage in an
action that uses only part of the available cues for adequacy. This is because using all
of the available cues is incompatible with acting quickly, and acting quickly is what
rationality demands. In other circumstances, however, the shortsightedness of impul-
sive actions leads to negative consequences, because the emoter fails to consider key
information. My examples will focus primarily on cases of the latter kind.
I distinguish between two sources of shortsightedness: reduced information gath-
ering and information processing biases. I will label the conjunction of these elements as
partial informational access. In impulsive emotional actions, the time spent collecting
information about what to do is limited by one’s preference for acting sooner rather
than later. As a result, emoters often fail to consider the long-term consequences of
what they do. For example, impulsively slapping someone in a bar fight is not preceded
by careful consideration of the long-term consequences—legal, moral, and practical—
of engaging in an act of violence.
Besides spending little time collecting information, emoters engaged in impulsive
emotional actions also manifest various cognitive biases in the way they process in-
formation. Their ability to focus attention, recruit memories, draw inferences, evaluate
evidence, have accurate perceptions, assign probabilities, assess risks, and so on are
all potentially impacted by processing information while in the grip of an emotion
(Loewenstein and Lerner 2003; Elster 2010).
For example, when we wake up in a panic to the realization that our house is on fire
we may not remember that it is freezing outside and fail to pick up our coats on the way
out.2 Or we may fail to properly evaluate the evidence about where the fire is most ravag-
ing and end up walking right into it. Or we may mistake the sounds of the crackling fire
for human screams. Or we may overestimate the risks involved in going back into the
house to retrieve vital financial information.

2.2. Flexibility
When we act emotionally we typically also manifest some degree of behavioral flex-
ibility. Flexibility is related to the fact that the same emotion can lead to a number of
different actions depending on the circumstances. In fear, we may run, but we may also
freeze, shut a door, make a phone call, brandish a gun, keep as quiet as possible, and so

2
I thank the volume editors for this example.
 The Motivational Theory of Emotions 159

on. Similarly, we may slap someone out of anger, but also push them, yell at them, spit
on them, threaten them verbally, report them to the police, and so on.
Emotional flexibility, however, is constrained. Although there are many different
things we can do when we are in the grip of a certain emotion, not everything goes. For
example, people who are in the grip of fear of a tiger coming their way do not generally
take a nap, nor do they approach the tiger to pet it. Similarly, people who are in the grip
of anger towards their lover do not generally start juggling balls in the air, nor do they
invite their lover out for a nice dinner.3
Another aspect of emotional flexibility to be explained is that not every instance
of emotion leads to action. First, we can be afraid or angry, and do nothing about it.
Second, there seem to be some emotions like sadness, grief, and depression that by
their very nature seem to lead to actively refraining from actions of all kinds rather
than to engaging in specific actions.

2.3. Bodily underpinnings

When we act emotionally we also typically manifest concurrent bodily changes that
we do not voluntarily choose. These prominently include changes in facial, vocal, and
postural expressions, and changes in the autonomic nervous system (Ekman 1999). For
example, when we freeze while in the grip of fear our freezing action is often accom-
panied by involuntary expressions such as upper eyelids raised and lips stretched hor-
izontally and by autonomic physiological changes such as increased heartbeats and
sweaty hands. When we slap someone while in the grip of anger our act of slapping is
often accompanied by involuntary expressions such as fixed stare, eyes widened, and
bared teeth and by autonomic physiological changes such as increased heartbeats and
tremors.
Two features of emotional bodily changes must be emphasized. The first is their var-
iability. Although many in the history of emotion science have tried to unveil a one-to-
one correspondence between emotion types and types of bodily changes, there is at
this point strong evidence that emotions like fear, anger, disgust, and so on are highly
variable both at the level of facial, vocal, and postural expressions and at the level of
autonomic bodily changes (e.g. Barrett 2006; Scarantino, forthcoming). The second
relevant aspect is that bodily changes are often associated with distinctive emotional
feelings (e.g. Goldie 2000). For instance, the feelings associated with fear often involve
subjective experiences associated with trembling, sweating, having a dry mouth, and
so on.
In what follows, I argue that neither Cognitivism nor Perceptualism can provide a
satisfactory explanation for the phenomena of emotional motivation I have illustrated
in this section. I will then formulate a new theory of emotions designed to account for

3
Similar points are raised by Price (2006). I thank the volume editors for emphasizing the importance of
flexibility constraints on emotional actions.
160 Andrea Scarantino

such phenomena while addressing some of the standard puzzles in the philosophy of
emotions.

3. Can Cognitivism Make Sense of Emotional

Actions?
The core idea of Cognitivist theories of emotions is that the identity of an emotion is es-
sentially tied to the cognitions that it involves.4 We can distinguish two main versions
of this idea. The first is Judgmentalism, according to which emotions are judgments.
The second is Belief and Desire (B&D) Cognitivism, according to which emotions are
combinations of beliefs and desires.5
Since I consider the latter variety of Cognitivism to offer a more promising account
of emotional motivation, I will focus on it exclusively.6 According to B&D Cognitivism,
“emotions are identified with (certain sets of) beliefs and desires” (Marks 1982).7 B&D
Cognitivism presupposes the Humean Theory of Motivation, according to which “the
psychological states that constitute motivations are pairs of . . . desires and . . . beliefs”
(Smith 2010, 153) and desires and beliefs have what Hume called “distinct existences.”
As Smith (2010) goes on to explain, this distinctness amounts to the fact that the “pos-
session of a psychological state of the one kind doesn’t entail his possession of a psy-
chological state of the other kind” (155).
The “distinct existences” idea has been cashed out in contemporary philosophy with
the proposal that beliefs and desires have different directions of fit (Searle 1983). The

4
This is what in previous publications I have called Constitutive Cognitivism, to be distinguished from
two other varieties of cognitivism: Etiological Cognitivism, which holds that emotions are caused by cogni-
tions of a particular sort, and Representational Cognitivism, which holds that emotions are intentional states
of a particular sort (Scarantino 2010).
5
In psychology, the label “Belief and Desire Theory of Emotions” (BDTE) covers a somewhat larger do-
main of theories. Reisenzein (in press) has recently distinguished between three main versions of BDTE in
psychology: the causal view, according to which beliefs and desires are causal preconditions of emotions but
not constituent parts of them, the part–whole view, according to which beliefs and desires are parts of emo-
tions, and the fusion view, according to which emotions result from the fusion between beliefs and desires.
What I focus on in this chapter is a version of the part–whole view.
6
Prominent judgmentalists like Robert Solomon and Martha Nussbaum have argued that emotions mo-
tivate because desires are either conceptually connected to (e.g., Solomon 2003) or caused by (e.g., Lyons
1980; Nussbaum 2001) the sorts of judgments with which emotions are identified. I find these accounts
eminently ad hoc, because no convincing explanation is given of why emotion judgments are conceptu-
ally or causally connected with desires by virtue of their content. On the contrary, it seems quite possible
to hold an emotion judgment—e.g., the judgment that something is dangerous—without any desire—e.g.,
the desire to avoid dangerous things—being involved. I will not try to convince the skeptical reader of this
point in this chapter, because even if a good account of why and how emotional judgments are conceptu-
ally or causally associated with desires were available, Judgmentalism would still fail to capture the phe-
nomena of emotional motivation for the reasons that apply to B&D Cognitivism. For further critical analysis
of Judgmentalism, see Scarantino (2010).
7
In this chapter, I will not consider hybrid versions of the belief and desire theory like, for instance,
Goldie’s (2000) proposal that emotions are combinations of feelingful beliefs and desires. This theory
combines elements of B&D Cognitivism with elements of the feeling theory. For a critical analysis of how
Goldie’s theory applies to emotional actions, see Scarantino and Nielsen (MS).
 The Motivational Theory of Emotions 161

direction of fit of a mental state specifies whether such mental state aims to represent
how things are (mind-to-world direction of fit) or aims to represent how things are to
be (world-to-mind direction of fit). Beliefs are the paradigmatic mind-to-world atti-
tudes because they aim at being true, whereas desires are the paradigmatic world-to-
mind attitudes because they aim at being realized.
B&D Cognitivism identifies emotions with pairs of what I call emotion-constitutive
beliefs and desires.8 Here is an example of such combinations:
Fear of a tiger is the belief that the tiger is dangerous and the desire to avoid dangerous things

The belief involved may be labeled a core relational theme (CRT) belief, because it reg-
isters the obtaining of what Lazarus (1991) called core relational themes such as dangers
for fear, offences for anger, losses for sadness, moral violations for guilt, failures to live
up to an ego ideal for shame, and so on.9 To explain emotional actions, B&D cognitiv-
ists must introduce a further posit, namely what I call an action-explaining belief and
desire pair, and make the assumption that it was caused by the emotion-constitutive
belief and desire pair.
Suppose for instance that we want to explain why Matt started running out of fear
of a tiger. First, we would have to posit something like the following action-explaining
belief and desire pair:
Matt has a desire to get away from the tiger and believes that by running he will get away from
the tiger

Second, we would have to assume that this action-explaining combination of beliefs

and desires was caused by the emotion-constituting combination that instantiates
being afraid of a tiger, namely believing that the tiger is dangerous and desiring to
avoid dangerous things.
The key problem for B&D Cognitivism is that acting on the basis of belief and de-
sire pairs is neither necessary nor sufficient for manifesting the phenomena of emo-
tional motivation I have illustrated in section 2. I will first consider the problem of
non-necessity, and then the problem of non-sufficiency.

8
Several other proposals have been made concerning what the relevant beliefs and desires should be.
For instance, Green (1992) has argued that fearing that a tiger will attack me is constituted by believing with
certainty that a tiger will attack me and desiring that a tiger not attack me. This will not do. One clearly need
not believe with certainty in order to be afraid. I can have a low degree of belief that a tiger will attack me and
still be afraid of it. Reisenzein (in press) has suggested instead that a person fears p if she desires not-p and is
uncertain about p. This formulation encounters a second problem, namely that it is not sufficient for fearing
that p that one believes that p and desires that not-p. For example, one can believe that an insect got into one’s
soup and desire that it did not happen, without being afraid of the insect (one will be disgusted instead). The
most promising version of B&D Cognitivism connects the content of the emotion-constituting belief with
core relational themes, as I go on to suggest in the body of the chapter.
9
Examples of emotion-constitutive belief and desire pairs can quickly be constructed by making these
core relational themes the content of the relevant beliefs. Thus, we can think of anger about Mario’s behavior
as the belief that Mario’s behavior instantiates an offense and the desire to not be offended, guilt about having
forgotten to pay back a loan from a friend as the belief that forgetting to pay back a loan from a friend is a
moral violation and the desire that one does not commit a moral violation, and so on.
162 Andrea Scarantino

It has often been remarked that emoters in the grip of some emotion E may lack
the belief-desire combo with which B&D Cognitivists identify E. The most commonly
discussed missing ingredient is the relevant CRT belief. For example, fear of a snake
in a snake phobic patient is often not accompanied by the belief that the snake is dan-
gerous, and yet persists in motivating snake avoidance. Emotions are in this sense re-
calcitrant to reason (D’Arms and Jacobson 2003; Benbaji 2012).
Furthermore, impulsive emotional actions often occur so quickly that it is highly
doubtful that they are preceded by the formation of a belief and a desire, and by the
mental act of putting the two together in a practical inference. In non-emotional
cases, this problem is handled by positing the notion of an intention-in-action—e.g.,
the intention-in-action to run now—that is formed on the fly and causes the action
without being in turn caused by a belief and desire pair (Searle 1983). Intentions-in-
actions are contrasted with forward-looking (or prior) intentions, which are inten-
tions to act at a later time and are generally formulated at the conclusion of a standard
process of practical reasoning (Searle 1983; Bratman 1987; Pacherie 2008).
This solution is not available to the B&D Cognitivist, because unless the
emotion-constitutive belief and desire pair causes the intention-in-action, the
resulting action will no longer be an emotional one. And as it is doubtful that im-
pulsive emotional actions are preceded by the formation of action-explaining belief
and desire pairs, it is a fortiori doubtful that they are preceded by the formation of
emotion-constituting belief and desire pairs that cause intentions-in-action.
A less familiar problem for B&D Cognitivism is the non-sufficiency of belief and
desire pairs for generating emotional actions. I call this the Unemotional Twin Action
Problem:
Whatever belief, desire, and intention combos may be said to motivate an emotional action,
there will be a non-emotional “twin” version of the action caused by the very same belief, desire,
and intention combos, namely a version that fails to manifest the right sort of impulsivity, flexi-
bility, and bodily underpinnings. If so, belief, desire, and intention combos are never a sufficient
cause of emotional actions.

Consider Regular Matt and Twin Matt. By hypothesis, these two Matts are sim-
ilar in all relevant respects—e.g. IQ, moral values, age, physical ability, eyesight,
etc.—except for the fact that Regular Matt is an ordinary guy who works in a bank
whereas Twin Matt is a Delta Force marine trained not to become afraid in dangerous
circumstances.10
Twin Matt and Regular Matt are visiting a circus after hours and realize that a tiger
has escaped her enclosure. Let us assume that they both form a desire to get away from
the tiger and believe that they will achieve such objective by running away from the
tiger, so they both run away. Furthermore, suppose that these action-explaining beliefs

10
This example and the discussion that follows are inspired by a similar example I found in Nash (1989).
I thank the volume editors for pressing me to discuss this issue.
 The Motivational Theory of Emotions 163

and desires are caused in both Matts by the belief that the tiger is dangerous and by the
desire to avoid dangerous things.
One good feature of this explanation is that it captures an important aspect of the
flexibility of emotional actions. Since the same emotion-constituting belief and desire
pair can cause different action-explaining belief and desire pairs, B&D Cognitivism
has the resources to explain why some forms of fear lead to running whereas others
lead to climbing, shooting a gun, standing still, and so on, depending on the circum-
stances. All such actions can reasonably be caused by the desire to avoid danger while
believing one is in danger.
On the other hand, the B&D account does not have the resources to distinguish
between emotional and non-emotional ways of acting flexibly. Being motivated by a
belief and desire pair is not sufficient for acting impulsively, for manifesting the con-
straints on flexibility that derive from impulsivity, and for displaying the bodily under-
pinnings typical of emotions.
Delta Force-trained Twin Matt coldly assesses the situation, remembering where
the exit he just passed through is located. Without breaking a sweat or trembling, he
quickly moves towards such exit, while picking up a small child he finds on his way
out. Once Twin Matt realizes that the exit door is closed from the outside, he recalls
having seen a documentary indicating that standing still without looking at the tiger
is the best way to neutralize it, and so he proceeds to remain entirely motionless while
holding the child as the tiger approaches.
Regular Matt, on the other hand, starts to tremble and sweat profusely, forgets where
the closest exit is located even though he just passed through it, mistakes a shadow for
a second approaching tiger, and starts running in a random direction while trampling
upon a small child and leaving him face down on the ground. After he reaches a far-
away exit, he realizes that the exit door is closed from the outside. Although he also
remembers watching a documentary on the advantages of standing still when a tiger is
around, he cannot bring himself to do it, and so he frantically climbs a small tree well
within the reach of the tiger while the tiger approaches.
Regular Matt’s actions display the urgency, partial informational access, constrained
flexibility, and bodily underpinnings of prototypical emotional actions, whereas Twin
Matt’s actions do not. And yet by hypothesis the two Matts are motivated by the very
same belief and desire pairs. It follows that being motivated by the sorts of belief and
desire pairs posited by B&D Cognitivism is not sufficient for being motivated to act
emotionally.
A B&D Cognitivist may reply that it is not the job of action-explaining belief and
desire pairs to account for the emotionality of actions: Their job is simply to explain
why an action, rather than a happening, is taking place. Supplemental explanations
may be offered to capture the emotional element that mere action-causing belief
and desire pairs miss. For instance, the B&D Cognitivist may suggest that emotional
actions are those in which action-causing belief and desire pairs are in turn caused by
emotion-constitutive belief and desire pairs. This rejoinder would not help, because
164 Andrea Scarantino

actions caused by belief and desire pairs that have other belief and desire pairs as their
causes are still not going to display the sort of urgency and partial informational access
that is characteristic of emotional actions. 11

4. Can Perceptualism Make Sense of Emotional

Actions?
The core idea of Perceptualism is that the identity of an emotion is essentially tied
to the perceptions that it involves. The two most promising strategies to account for
the phenomena of emotional motivation within this research program are what I call
Reflexive Perceptualism and Valenced Perceptualism.12
Reflexive Perceptualism is the theory first defended by William James and further
developed by Antonio Damasio. James (1884; 1890) famously proposed that emo-
tions are feelings generated by the perception of bodily changes. Crucially, he assumed
that these bodily changes—which on his view include expressions (e.g., grimacing),

11
A further line of response B&D Cognitivists could explore is that emotions involve strong desires, and
that the strength of desire accounts for the phenomena of emotional motivation. This is the line proposed
by Marks (1982), who suggested that what is distinctive about emotions is precisely that they involve strong
desires. “If the primary desire is very strong,” Marks writes, the emoter “may be too hasty in some of his
inferences, or make a logical misstep, or make a literal misstep for failure to attend carefully to where he is
putting his feet, and so on” (235). His view is also that when the desire is strong “a number of physiological
changes . . . are quite naturally connected to the B/D set” (235). This reply is not convincing, because there
is no good reason to think that Twin Matt’s desires to avoid danger and to run away are any weaker than
Regular Matt’s desires. On the Humean picture of motivation, the strength of a desire hinges on whether
it motivates action when competing with other, incompatible desires. For example, a desire that X be real-
ized is stronger than a desire that Y be realized just in case the agent is motivated to do X rather than to do
Y. A strong desire tout court is consequently one that is motivationally stronger than a great many other com-
peting desires. But both Regular Matt and Twin Matt are acting on a desire to avoid danger that is strong in
this absolute sense, and clearly stronger than any competing desires they may have had when they first saw
the tiger, since they both run towards the exit. The difference is that whereas Regular Matt goes about real-
izing his strong desires to avoid danger and run towards the exit emotionally, Twin Matt goes about realizing
them non-emotionally. A final line of defense the B&D Cognitivist could explore is to embed into beliefs and
desires whatever properties of emotional motivation the account is missing. This may for instance involve
suggesting that the desires involved in emotion are not only “strong” but “urgent,” “information-blocking,”
“bodily,” and so on. Besides having a patently ad hoc character (see Scarantino 2010 for a general critique of
this common cognitivist strategy), this solution would still leave B&D Cognitivism with the problem that
beliefs and desires appear to be non-necessary for the instantiation of an emotion, due to the problems of
recalcitrance and speed of impulsive emotional actions.
12
A third and distinctly less promising strategy is what I call Primitivist Perceptualism. It amounts to the
stipulation that the sorts of perceptions involved in emotions have the ability to motivate to action. For ex-
ample, Doring (2003, 224) recently rejected the Humean assumption that all motivation consists of pairs of
beliefs and desires, suggesting instead that “the motivational force of an emotion . . . [is] to be explained in
terms of the feeling-dimension of the emotion.” On Doring’s (2003) view, fear of a tiger is the felt represen-
tation of the tiger as dangerous, namely a combination of an “affect” and of an intentional representation.
This sort of perceptual primitivism is problematic for several reasons. First, since not every feeling is moti-
vational (e.g., the feeling of one’s chair on the back while sitting), the reason why having emotional feelings
leads to motivation is left obscure and must be accepted as a brute fact. Second, assuming that emotions do
not motivate unless they are felt precludes the possibility of unfelt yet motivating emotions, a contentious
commitment better avoided in light of some recent behavioral evidence for unconscious emotions (e.g.,
Winkielman and Berridge 2004). Thirdly and most importantly, this explanation encounters a version of the
 The Motivational Theory of Emotions 165

autonomic changes (e.g., trembling) and full-fledged actions (e.g., striking)—follow

directly the perception of some exciting fact. They follow it directly in the sense that
“peculiarly conformed pieces of the world’s furniture” will “fatally call forth”—i.e.
bring about in a reflex-like fashion—the bodily reactions whose perception is the emo-
tion (James 1890, 191).
Damasio (1994; 2003) rejected James’s commitment to the felt dimension of emo-
tions by allowing perceptions of bodily changes to be both conscious and uncon-
scious. He also expanded what counts as a bodily change, including for instance neural
changes to the somatosensory cortex (he called these “as if ” bodily changes). However,
Damasio preserved the Jamesian account of how emotions motivate, describing emo-
tional responses as “automatic and largely stereotyped” (Damasio 2003, 35). He explic-
itly assimilated their mechanism of operation to that of other automated regulatory
processes such as the startle reflex or pain behaviors.
The problem with Reflexive Perceptualism is that it completely misses the boat on
impulsive emotional actions. Although some emotional actions such as jumping side-
ways out of fear of a suddenly looming car, or turning around with bared teeth and
clenched fists out of anger when suddenly poked in the back are indeed reflex-like,
most emotional actions do not work that way.
As we have seen, they are impulsive rather than automatic, flexible rather than ster-
eotyped, and involve variable rather than rigid bodily changes. On Damasio’s (2003)
view, flexibility enters the picture only after full-fledged practical reasoning enters the
picture.13 This is a mistake, because impulsive emotional actions already manifest flex-
ibility, even though such flexibility is constrained by their characteristic impulsivity.
A second strategy for making sense of the phenomena of emotional motivation
is represented by what I call Valenced Perceptualism. Its core insight is that emo-
tions motivate because they contain a valenced—i.e. positive/pleasant or negative/

Unemotional Twin Action problem. It may well be the case that both Regular Matt and Twin Matt entertain
the felt representation of the tiger as dangerous, but only Regular Matt reacts to it with the sort of impulsivity,
flexibility, and bodily underpinnings that instantiate a prototypical emotional action. Simply being moti-
vated by a felt representation appears compatible with both emotional and non-emotional ways of acting,
just like being motivated by a belief and desire pair is.
13
Damasio’s (1994; 2003) signature proposal is that emotions and practical reasoning are closely interre-
lated. According to the somatic marker hypothesis, when normal subjects consider options in practical rea-
soning they elicit memories of past emotions experienced in comparable situations. These emotion-related
memories lead to the activation of somatic markers, which are “gut feelings” marking options as positive or
negative in light of their expected emotional consequences. Damasio emphasizes that the activation of so-
matic markers “is not a substitute for proper reasoning [but plays] an auxiliary role, increasing the efficiency
of the reasoning process and making it speedier” (Damasio 2003, 148). Occasionally, somatic markers signal
so strongly that the process of practical reasoning is interrupted and a certain option is rejected or chosen
right away. More commonly, somatic markers produce incentive signals and alarm signals that are further
weighed in the process of practical reasoning. The somatic marker hypothesis predicts that the disruption of
either the machinery of emotions or the machinery of emotion-related memory will lead to the disruption
of the machinery of practical reasoning. This is because if decision-makers cannot rely on memories of past
emotional experiences, they will be unable to automatically label options positively or negatively in light of
their expected emotional consequences, and their decision-making process will be adversely affected (e.g.,
166 Andrea Scarantino

unpleasant—component. The most sophisticated proposal in this vein comes from

Jesse Prinz (2004).
On his view, emotions are combinations of embodied appraisals and valence markers.
Embodied appraisals are consciously or unconsciously perceived bodily changes—au-
tonomic, expressive, behavioral, and/or neural changes—that are about core relational
themes (Prinz 2004). They are about core relational themes in the sense that such
themes are represented by bodily changes. In turn, bodily changes represent core rela-
tional themes in light of a teleosemantic account of representation, according to which
mental states represent what they have the function of being elicited by/correlate with
(Prinz 2004, 54; Dretske 1988).
On this view, fear is about dangers because it has the function of being elicited
by dangers, anger is about offences because it has the function of being elicited by
offences, shame is about failures to live up to an ego ideal because it has the function of
being elicited by failures to live up to an ego ideal, and so on.
Valence markers, on the other hand, are positive and negative reinforcers that tell the
organism, respectively, “more of this” or “less of this.”14 On this view, fear of a tiger is a
combination of an embodied appraisal consisting of “a racing heart and . . . other phys-
iological changes” (Prinz 2004, 69) that have the function of being elicited by dangers,
and a negative valence marker that says “less of this.”
Importantly, “this” refers not to the external stimulus, but to the emotion itself. Prinz
(2004) argues that valence markers are associated with “inner state goals” (194) in the
sense that they tell us to either continue how we are feeling (positive valence markers)
or to change how we are feeling (negative valence markers).
As a result, “emotions do not impel actions directly” (228). They do so indirectly,
because valence markers are ultimately “commands to sustain or eliminate a somatic
state by selecting an appropriate action” (229). According to Prinz, this indirect link
with actions makes emotions motives rather than motivations. A “motive provides a
reason for action . . . [whereas] a motivation is that which impels us to act” (Prinz 2004,
193). On this view, fear provides a reason for running, but it does not impel us to run.
Motivations, on the other hand, “[tell] us to change how we are acting” by directly
specifying “action goals” (194). Thus, motivations are associated with injunctions to
act rather than injunctions to change how we feel. Prinz uses hunger as an example of
a motivation. Hunger has in common with fear the fact that it contains an embodied

they will be unable to quickly eliminate options that have previously led to strongly negative consequences).
The jury is still out on whether the somatic marker hypothesis is confirmed (see, e.g., Dunn, Dangleish, and
Lawrence 2006; Reimann and Bechara 2010). What is clear is that impulsive emotional actions do not result
from a standard process of practical reasoning, whatever role somatic markers may play in it.
14
Prinz (2004) argues that most emotions are characterized by unique valence markers. For instance,
fear is associated with a negative reinforcer, whereas happiness is associated with a positive reinforcer.
On the other hand, surprise is associated with both negative and positive reinforcers depending on the
circumstances.
 The Motivational Theory of Emotions 167

appraisal (it represents undernourishment) and a negative valence marker (less of

this!), but it differs from fear because it also contains an action command (eat!).
A good feature of Prinz’s (2004) account is that it easily captures the bodily under-
pinnings of emotional actions. Since emotions contain embodied appraisals, their
bodily aspect is straightforwardly accounted for.15 The trouble begins when it comes
to accounting for the impulsivity of prototypical emotional actions. This is because
we can once again imagine Regular Matt and Twin Matt to be motivated by a negative
valence marker, but to go about its elimination in, respectively, an emotional and a
non-emotional way. Although Prinz did not address this problem, a tentative solution
for it can be found within the confines of his own theory.
What we must assume is that valence markers can differ in intensity, and that emo-
tions typically contain strongly valenced markers. If we think of emotions as containing
highly negative or highly positive valence markers, this can arguably make sense of the
urgency and partial informational access characteristic of impulsive emotion actions.
For example, fear of a tiger would contain a highly negative valence marker (LESS OF
THIS! LESS OF THIS!) with the potential for eliciting a preference for early rather
than late action, a limited investment in information gathering and cognitive biases in
information processing, presumably driven by the distraction created by attending to a
strongly negative or strongly positive marker.
The main problem with Prinz’s (2004) Valenced Perceptualism is that it posits the
wrong kind of flexibility for emotional actions. On the positive side, if emotions con-
tained valence markers that set inner goals, this would lead to multiple action goals
that satisfy the same inner goal depending on the circumstances. For instance, the goal
of no longer being afraid of a tiger (an inner goal) could be achieved by fleeing the
tiger, by climbing a tree, by shooting the tiger, and so on. This is an improvement over
James and Damasio, who assumed that emotional responses are always automatic and
stereotyped.
On the negative side, if fear simply contained a command to select whatever ac-
tion achieves the inner goal of eliminating fear, such inner goal could just as well be
achieved by ingesting a fear-calming pill or by running towards the dangerous stim-
ulus so as to perish more quickly. But fear of a tiger does not motivate us to the pursuit
of such action goals, even though they would indeed serve the inner goal of eliminat-
ing fear. Rather, fear motivates us to pursue the goal of avoiding the tiger in a variety
of flexible ways. Once the danger constituted by the tiger is avoided, fear dissipates,
but this does not show that fear has the inner goal of self-elimination any more than

15
Even though Prinz (2004) is tempted by the idea that each emotion type is associated with unique bodily
changes or at least a unique range of bodily changes, his account is compatible with the view that different
tokens of the same emotion type manifest variability in terms of the bodily changes associated with them.
A more troubling aspect of Prinz’s (2004) theory is that a great many emotions do not seem to involve dis-
tinctive bodily changes at all (e.g., guilt at having forgotten a friend’s birthday). This suggests that embodied
appraisals are typical rather than necessary for the instantiation of an emotion.
168 Andrea Scarantino

the disappearance of hunger due to eating shows that hunger has the inner goal of
self-elimination.
The central ingredient missing from Prinz’s theory is the idea that emotions already
contain action goals rather than inner goals. Once we understand in what sense having
an emotion already involves having an action goal, a new theory of emotions as ac-
tion control systems becomes available. According to it, bodily changes are organized
towards the pursuit of an action goal and the perception of bodily changes becomes a
side show to the main act of goal pursuit. The rest of my chapter will be devoted to de-
veloping just such a theory.

5. The Motivational Theory of Emotions

The core idea of the theory of emotions I develop in this chapter is that the identity of
an emotion is essentially tied to a prioritized tendency to action (or inaction) with the
function of being elicited by a core relational theme. I call it the Motivational Theory of
Emotions, because it replaces the primacy of the appraisal and feeling aspects of emo-
tions with the primacy of their motivational dimension.
The theory comprises four component parts, which I illustrate in turn: (1) Prioritized
action and inaction tendencies, (2) A two-level action control structure that provides
a unified account of the phenomena of emotional motivation, (3) An analysis of emo-
tional intentionality, (4) An account of how emotions differ from one another.

5.1. Prioritized Action and Inaction Tendencies

Many in the history of emotion theory have suggested that a significant aspect of
emotions is that they have an impact on our tendencies to act. Aristotle already had
described anger as an impulse for revenge caused by an appraisal of slight and accom-
panied by unpleasant feelings, even though in his description of emotions other than
anger he neglected to specify the action tendencies involved to focus on the appraisals
and feelings associated with emotions.
An early statement of the primacy of actions over feelings can be found in Dewey’s
(1895) theory of emotions, according to which an emotion crucially involves “a dispo-
sition, a mode of conduct, a way of behaving” (16). To exemplify, Dewey remarked that
when we say that “John Smith is very resentful at the treatment he has received, or is
hopeful of success in business, or regrets that he accepted a nomination for office,” what
we mean is not “chiefly” that “he has a certain ‘feel’ ” but rather that he has “assumed a
readiness to act in certain ways” (Dewey 1895, 16).
The behaviorist movement, both in its psychological (Watson 1919; Skinner 1953) and
in its philosophical (Ryle 1949) wings, strongly emphasized the connection between
emotions and behavior (to the detriment of all other components of emotions), but
it failed to understand emotions as the causes of behavior. As Skinner (1953, 160) put
it, the “emotions are excellent examples of the fictional causes to which we commonly
 The Motivational Theory of Emotions 169

attribute behavior.” Furthermore, behaviorists had a limited understanding of the

complexity of the behaviors associated with emotions. For example, in Watson’s (1919)
theory all emotional behaviors are conditioned or unconditioned reflexes, a view that,
as we have seen, fails to do justice to most emotional actions.
The best worked out account of the relation between emotions and actions in con-
temporary emotion theory can be found in the work of the psychologist Nico Frijda
(1986; 2007; 2010).16 His trademark contribution is the thesis that emotions are states of
action readiness with the distinctive property of control precedence. The Motivational
Theory of Emotions (MTE) I propose in this chapter is heavily indebted to Frijda’s
work, but improves upon it in various ways. Among other things, MTE emphasizes the
importance of a two-level control structure of emotional actions, it expands on Frijda’s
original theory to account for reflex-like emotional actions and for planned emotional
actions, and, most importantly, it endows emotions with intentionality, an ingredient
sorely missing from Frijda’s account.
Frijda’s (1986) orienting thought is that emotions are types of action tendencies (see
also Arnold 1960). Action tendencies are in turn understood as “states of readiness to
execute a given kind of action,” where the kind of action “is defined by . . . [the] . . . end
result aimed at” (70). I refer to such an end result as the relational goal of the emotion.
Frijda (1986) suggests for instance that the “action tendency of anger is interpreted as
a tendency to regain control or freedom of action [henceforth, an attack tendency]—
generally to remove obstruction” (88). Fear is associated with the action tendency of
“avoidance,” associated with the relational goal of achieving one’s “own inaccessibility”
(henceforth, one’s own safety) with respect to a certain stimulus. Disgust is associated
with the action tendency of “rejecting” (henceforth, expelling), characterized by the
relational goal of “removal of object.”
These examples indicate that relational goals are abstract goals that need to be sit-
uated in a concrete context in order to guide bodily changes. This is typical of most
goal-oriented processes, including non-emotional intentional actions. When we de-
cide to get to school by 10am in order to attend a talk, the overarching action goal of get-
ting to school by 10am can be achieved through a variety of situated goals (e.g., taking
a bus at 9:20am, taking the subway at 9:30am) (cf. Pacherie 2008). Each of these situ-
ated goals can in turn be achieved by a variety of motor goals that directly guide bodily
changes. For simplicity of reference, I will distinguish between the relational goal of an
emotion and its relational sub-goals, understood as the collection of situated and mo-
toric goals by which the relational goal can be achieved.
Frijda (1986) distinguishes between two types of actions associated with emo-
tions: physical actions involving motor control (e.g., insulting) and mental actions
involving exclusively mental control (e.g., thinking about insulting). He emphasizes
that emotions often lead to mental actions without leading to physical actions, as when

16
Kovach and Delancey (2005) have also offered a philosophical account of emotions that emphasizes
their ability to motivate. I discuss some aspects of their theory in Scarantino and Nielsen (MS).
170 Andrea Scarantino

we fantasize about slapping our boss without actually engaging in any physical action
against him or her.
Frijda’s (1986) main contribution is having argued that the sorts of action tenden-
cies with which emotions should be identified have control precedence. Absent control
precedence, the identification of emotions with action tendencies would be ill-con-
ceived, because there are innumerable action tendencies that have nothing to do with
emotions (e.g., the tendency to scratch one’s head when thinking hard, the tendency to
over prepare for exams, etc.).
Here is how Frijda (1986, 78) describes control precedence:
Action tendencies—and action readiness changes generally—clamor for attention and for exe-
cution. They lie in waiting for signs that they can or may be executed; they, and their execution,
tend to persist in the face of interruptions; they tend to interrupt other ongoing programs and
actions; and they tend to preempt the information-processing facilities . . . Evidently, then, ac-
tion tendencies are programs that have a place of precedence in the control of action and of
information processing. We therefore say: Action tendencies—action readiness changes gener-
ally—have the feature of control precedence.

The key idea here is that what gives an action tendency its emotional character is that
it seizes control of the emoter with respect to his or her mental and physical actions.
Although Frijda did not organize the various components of control precedence into
subcategories, it is useful to do so. I propose that an action tendency acquires control
precedence—henceforth, it becomes prioritized—by virtue of the two functional com-
ponents of Precedence and Preparation.
Precedence refers to the fact that an action tendency takes precedence over other
actions and states of action readiness. This is manifested by the fact that prioritized
action tendencies interrupt other processes in their pursuit of a relational goal, clamor
for attention, persist in the face of interruptions, and pre-empt access—in memory, in-
ference, perception, etc.—to information. Preparation refers to the fact that in a state of
prioritized action tendency we are not simply ready for action, but actively preparing
for it. This is manifested by the fact that such states tend to be accompanied by prepar-
atory bodily changes, to clamor for execution, and to wait for signs that they may be
executed.
The prioritization of an action tendency comes in degrees. This is to say that an ac-
tion tendency can involve a higher or lower degree of Precedence and/or Preparation.
A maximal degree of prioritization will be typical of prototypical instances of an emo-
tion such as being afraid of a charging tiger, which will involve an avoidance tendency
with maximal Precedence and maximal Preparation. Being afraid of a potentially hos-
tile crowd prior to giving a talk, on the other hand, will involve a significantly lower de-
gree of Precedence and Preparation, even though the avoidance tendency associated
with it still “clamors for attention and for execution” to some extent.
As with every degree property, at some point it will become indeterminate whether
or not a given action tendency is prioritized, namely whether it involves enough
 The Motivational Theory of Emotions 171

Precedence and/or Preparation to be endowed with control precedence. This may

give rise to states of action readiness that, by the lights of the Motivational Theory of
Emotions, neither fully qualify as emotions nor fully qualify as non-emotions.
The account I have described so far faces two problem cases. The first is constituted
by emotions that are energizing, but do not seem to involve the pursuit of any specific
relational goal. A standard example is that of existential joy, which does not seem to
predispose the emoter to pursue any relational goal in particular. The second problem
case is constituted by emotions such as sadness, grief, and depression that appear to
considerably reduce one’s willingness to act and pursue all kinds of relational goals.
Frijda’s solution to these two problems is to introduce alongside the notion of an
action tendency the notion of a “state of action readiness as such,” which includes
both what he calls “activation modes” like joy and “null states” like sadness, grief, and
depression. On Frijda’s (1986, 71) view, “emotions . . . can be defined as modes of rela-
tional action readiness,” which can take either the form of an action tendency, an acti-
vation mode, or a null state.
I propose we adopt a slightly different taxonomy. The difference between joy, sad-
ness, and fear, I submit, is not that fear has a relational goal whereas joy and sadness
lack it, but that the relational goals of joy and sadness are significantly less specific than
the relational goal of fear. For joy, I submit, the goal is to relate as such. As Fredrickson
and Cohn (2008) put it, joy “creates the urge to play, push the limits, and be creative”
(782). The joyful person is ready to engage in an open range of actions, and actively
prepares for this open engagement with the world with a generalized state of arousal.
For sadness, grief, and depression, on the other hand, the goal is not to relate as such.
The sad/grieving/depressed person is disengaged from the world in an undifferenti-
ated fashion, in the sense that there is not much of anything that they wish to do.17
So I propose we distinguish between focused action tendencies such as fear and
disgust, which have specific relational goals, unfocused action tendencies such as joy,
which has the generic relational goal of relating as such, and inaction tendencies, which
have the generic relational goal of not relating as such.
What makes focused action tendencies, unfocused action tendencies, and inaction
tendencies members of a theoretically unified category is that, insofar as they are emo-
tions, they all instantiate control precedence. This is to say that fear, joy, and sadness
all seize control of the emoter in the sense that the relational goals of, respectively,
achieving safety, relating as such, and not relating as such acquire precedence over other
goals, clamor for attention and execution, and pre-empt information processing while
the body prepares for, respectively, fearful actions, undifferentiated engagement, and
undifferentiated disengagement.

17
These remarks are inspired by Frijda’s (2008, 72) comment that emotions that correspond to states of
action readiness other than action tendencies “have no aim other than to relate or not to relate in general.”
172 Andrea Scarantino

5.2. How The Two-Level Control Structure of Emotional Actions

Generates Impulsive Actions
To understand how emotions lead to emotional actions, the first thing to realize is that,
with one notable exception,18 emotional actions result from a two-level structure of
control. One level is constituted by the action and inaction tendencies with control
precedence I have just illustrated, which are special-purpose motivational structures.
The other level is constituted by a set of general-purpose capacities I refer to as rational
control, which determines if and how the prioritized (in)action tendency is manifested.
In a seminal book-length treatment of action, Gallistel (1980) pointed out that
two-level structures of control are the primary means to achieve behavioral flexibility
in the animal kingdom. Although Gallistel (1980) did not explicitly consider emotions,
we can think of them as good examples of what he called central motive states, namely
states that “lay down a frame or general direction for behavior by selectively potenti-
ating coherent sets of behavioral options” (322), with the “lower levels fill[ing] . . . in
details within the general pattern” and giving “behavior its flexibility, its ready adapta-
tion to momentary circumstances.”
Once prioritized action (or inaction) tendencies have laid down a general direction
for behavior and suitably potentiated (or depotentiated) sets of behavioral options,
emoters exercise two types of rational control.19
Compatibility control involves monitoring that the emotion’s relational goals and
sub-goals are compatible with the emoter’s other goals and value system. For example,
an emoter may ask herself whether getting back at her boss after being insulted during
a meeting is compatible with her career goals. Or the emoter may ask whether with-
drawing from all actions out of depression is compatible with other goals such as get-
ting a graduate degree, making one’s partner happy, enjoying the simple pleasures of
life, and so on. Additionally, the emoter may ask herself whether a particular way of
going about fulfilling the emotion’s relational goal—e.g. cursing at the boss right there
and then in the middle of the meeting, slapping him after the meeting, etc.—is com-
patible with her goals and values.
The second type of rational control, executive control, involves securing that the
emotion’s relational goal is translated into a set of sub-goals that is instrumentally
adequate. For example, once the decision to slap the boss after the meeting is made,
executive control monitors the specific bodily changes involved in the slapping action,
turning it into an appropriate set of motor goals, and seeing to it that the slapping ac-
tion is completed successfully. Since sadness, grief, and depression lead to inaction,
executive control is significantly curtailed in such emotions, in the sense that it is lim-
ited to the sort of executive control involved in actively refraining from action.

18
The exception is constituted by emotional reflexes, which I discuss shortly.
19
The two levels of rational control I introduce for emotions are inspired by Pacherie’s (2008) discussion of
“tracking control” and “collateral control” in garden-variety actions.
 The Motivational Theory of Emotions 173

This two-level control structure—the level of prioritized (in)action tendencies and the
level of compatibility and executive control—can ground a unified explanation for the
phenomena of emotional motivation on which Cognitivism and Perceptualism stumbled.
Impulsive emotional actions come about whenever the interaction between rational
control and a prioritized action tendency quickly leads to an intention-in-action,
namely an intention to act now so as to achieve the relational goal of the action ten-
dency. This intention-in-action causes and guides bodily movements so as to trans-
late the relational goal—e.g., achieving safety—into a sequence of executable relational
sub-goals—e.g., reaching an exit, opening a door, shooting a gun, etc.
The impulsivity and bodily underpinnings of prototypical emotional actions, which
B&D Cognitivism had a hard time accounting for, follow directly from the fact that
the intention-in-action is formed and acted upon while an action tendency with con-
trol precedence is up and running. As a result, impulsive emotional actions manifest
urgency, namely a preference for early versus late action, partial informational access,
because the investment in information gathering and its quality are constrained by the
pre-existence of a prioritized action tendency, and bodily underpinnings, because one
of the elements of control precedence is bodily preparation.
On this view, the difference between Regular Matt and Twin Matt is that only the
former is seized by a prioritized avoidance tendency that “clamors for attention and
execution,” constraining Regular Matt’s ability to perform compatibility and execu-
tive controls. Twin Matt, on the other hand, is relying on standard practical reasoning,
without having to deal with a state of action readiness that monopolizes attention,
pre-empts access to relevant information, prepares the body for action, etc.
The flexibility of impulsive emotional actions results from the fact that a prioritized
action tendency only determines an abstractly described relational goal, allowing
compatibility and executive control to fill in the details. On this picture, emotional
flexibility is limited by two constraints that neither Cognitivism nor Perceptualism
fully captured. The first is that the actions one selects while in the grip of emotion tend
to have sub-goals of the relational goal of the action tendency. This is why fearful emot-
ers do not take fear-stopping pills nor walk towards tigers, contrary to what Prinz’s
theory would predict. These actions are not means to the relational goal of achieving
safety, even though they are means to the inner goal of eliminating fear.
The second constraint is that the presence of a prioritized action tendency makes
the selection of certain actions hard to implement. This is why, contrary to what B&D
Cognitivism would predict, a fearful agent like Regular Matt would have trouble
standing still next to a tiger even if he believed that the best way to achieve safety was
standing still and desired to achieve safety. A powerful behavioral tendency to avoid
the tiger makes standing still while the tiger approaches hard to achieve.20

20
Although I have so far focused on flexibility constraints related to impulsivity, another source of con-
straint on flexibility is constituted by the very bodily changes involved in prioritized action tendencies. As
Zhu and Thagard (2002, 31) have pointed out, “[i]‌t is hard to put a thread through the eye of a needle when
174 Andrea Scarantino

5.3. Explaining Planned Emotional Actions, Actions Done out of

Expected Emotions, and Reflex-Like Emotional Actions
The two-level structure of control I have introduced can help us understand other
emotional phenomena. In particular, it can explain why emotions may not lead to any
actions at all and why emotions may lead to actions that are far in time and space from
the initial emotional incident.
First, the interaction between prioritized action tendencies and rational control can
lead to what I call the extinction of the action tendency. It is often the case that the
output of compatibility control is the conclusion that pursuing the relational goal of
the action tendency is incompatible with the other goals and values of the emoter. For
example, if my boss insults me at a board meeting and as a result I form a tendency to
attack him, I may quickly conclude that I should not attack him in any form, either now
or at a later time, because having a successful career at the firm is more important to me
than getting even. In this case, the effect of rational control is to extinguish the prior-
itized action tendency, a process a careful observer may pick up on by spotting bodily
leakages at the level of expressions and autonomic changes, the extinction of which
may take a little time (Ekman 1999).
The interaction between prioritized action tendencies and rational control can also
have as an outcome the elicitation of a forward-looking intention with the same rela-
tional goal of the prioritized action tendency (or with a relational sub-goal of it). As
I mentioned in section 3, a forward-looking intention is an intention to act at a later
time. For example, rational control may lead me not to extinguish the attack tendency
I have formed towards my boss, but rather to form a forward-looking intention to
write a letter of complaint about him tomorrow (relational sub-goal) or, more gener-
ally, to get back at him in some way at a later time (relational goal).
Once these forward-looking intentions cause actions, the result is what I call an
emotional planned action, a form of emotional action that manifests maximal flexi-
bility and relies on the full force of practical reasoning.21 Other examples include taking
legal action against one’s landlord out of anger one month after a heated confrontation,
buying a gift for a friend out of gratitude one week after having received his visit at the
hospital, writing a letter of complaint to the IRS out of anger every April 15 for years
after having been audited.
These sorts of planned actions are properly called emotional just in case three condi-
tions apply. First, the forward-looking intention that causes emotional planned actions

you are in a state of rage or anxiety, simply because you cannot accurately control your hands in such a
mood.”
21
Pacherie (2001) refers to what I have called planned emotional actions as semi-deliberate emotional
actions. Her account differs from mine with respect to the role played by action tendencies. Whereas her
proposal is that in semi-deliberate actions “the action tendency gets converted into a conscious intention
to pursue a certain goal” (2001, 80), my view is that the action tendency must continue to exist and exercise
some degree of control precedence after the formation of the forward-looking intention for the resulting
planned action to qualify as emotional.
 The Motivational Theory of Emotions 175

aims to satisfy the relational goal of an earlier prioritized action tendency, or one of its
relational sub-goals. So if the relational goal of the attack tendency characteristic of
anger is removing an obstacle, the forward-looking intention to write a letter of com-
plaint about the boss the morning after is still a means to realize the goal of removing
an obstacle.
Secondly, the forward-looking intention that causes emotional planned actions
is formed while a prioritized action tendency is up and running. As a result,
forward-looking intentions of this sort may partake at least in part in the short-
sightedness of impulsive emotional actions, because they are formed “in the
heat of the moment.” But unlike intentions-in-action, which immediately cause
actions, forward-looking intentions can be revised. This is why we often give up on
forward-looking intentions formed during emotional incidents: Although they passed
the compatibility control performed while in the heat of the moment, they do not pass
the compatibility control performed coldly on the day after.
Thirdly, the prioritized action tendency must not disappear completely after
the forward-looking intention has been formulated. For example, I may form a
forward-looking intention to write a letter of complaint about my boss the day after,
but still spend part of the night obsessively fantasizing about slapping the boss in front
of everyone. As a result, in planned emotional actions, when the forward-looking in-
tention finally causes an intention-in-action, an action tendency with some degree
of control precedence—perhaps involving only mental actions and little to no bodily
preparation—should still be up and running.22
Emotional planned actions are not to be confused with actions done out of expected
emotions.23 Examples include ingesting a beta blocker prior to a public speech out of
the expectation that one will be afraid without it, marrying a high school sweetheart
out of the expectation that one will be happy ever after, turning down an opportunity
to cheat on one’s wife with an attractive woman out of the expectation that one will
later on experience guilt. Actions done out of expected emotions rely on our ability to
use predicted future emotions as input in a standard process of practical reasoning.

22
This is compatible with the fact that the prioritized action tendency may not be up and running at var-
ious points during the period between the emotional incident and the emotional action (e.g., during sleep).
A borderline case would be one in which I rely on a forward-looking intention formed in the heat of the
moment and such intention shares the relational goal of an earlier prioritized action tendency, but the pri-
oritized action tendency has dissipated entirely by the time the forward-looking intention causes an action.
I remain neutral in this chapter on whether such planned actions should also be called emotional (Pacherie
2001 suggests that they should).
23
Actions done out of expected emotions are a species of what Pacherie (2001) calls fully deliberate emo-
tional actions. Other species of such genus include using memory and the imagination to elicit emotions
(e.g., remembering past slights in order to become angry) and using expected emotions as a commitment
device (e.g., announcing one will quit smoking in order to use the expected guilt that will result from in-
fringement to strengthen one’s commitment). I do not consider the use of memories of past emotions, im-
aginings of future emotions, or expectations of future emotions to constitute a species of emotional actions
because such uses do not constitute by themselves actions with control precedence, so I reject Pacherie’s
(2001) suggestion that there exist fully deliberate emotional actions.
176 Andrea Scarantino

My view is that actions done out of expected emotions are not emotional actions,
even though they presuppose the ability to have emotions and to predict future emo-
tions. In ordinary English, the distinction between emotional actions (impulsive or
planned) and non-emotional actions done out of expected emotions is often blurred.
Some may describe the action of taking a beta blocker as being done out of fear (rather
than out of expected fear), and the action of refraining from cheating as being done out
of guilt (rather than out of expected guilt), even though in neither case an actual emo-
tion has taken place.
The final challenge is that of explaining reflex-like emotional actions such as auto-
matically recoiling out of fear of a suddenly looming object or automatically expelling
a cockroach from one’s mouth out of disgust. In this case, the two-level control struc-
ture I have described does not kick in. This is because there is no formation of an action
tendency, and action follows directly the perception of the stimulus, without any input
from consistency control and executive control.
Frijda’s (2007, 31) view is that reflexes are “emotional” in an inverted commas sense
at best, but I disagree. This is because, as Frijda himself pointed out, reflexes exhibit the
highest degree of control precedence: Reflex-like emotional actions take priority over
all other competing processes and involve bodily preparation synchronous with motor
execution. In this sense, they are relevantly similar to prioritized action and inaction
tendencies.
At the same time, there are many reflexes that have nothing to do with emotions.
The knee reflex and the blinking reflex are good examples of non-emotional reflexes.
I propose that we distinguish reflex actions that are emotional from reflex actions that
are not emotional by focusing on their relational goals: A reflex action is an emotional
action just in case it shares the relational goal of a prioritized action tendency. In other
words, for reflex actions to count as emotional, there must exist impulsive emotional
actions with the same relational goal.
This is why the knee reflex and the blinking reflex are not emotions. There is no
prioritized action tendency that shares the goal of either reflex. On the other hand,
the avoidance reflex activated by suddenly looming objects is an emotional action be-
cause it shares with prioritized avoidance tendencies the relational goal of achieving
safety.
It is time to take stock. I have argued that the Motivational Theory of Emotions
(MTE) outperforms Cognitivism and the Perceptualism when it comes to accounting
for the phenomena of emotional motivation. This, however, is not sufficient to con-
sider it a viable philosophical theory of emotions. MTE must also provide solutions
for two standard problems in the philosophy of emotions. One is the problem of in-
tentionality, which requires explaining why emotions are about their core relational
themes (e.g., why is fear about dangers?). The other is the problem of differentiation,
which requires explaining how emotions differ from one another (e.g. how is guilt dif-
ferent from shame?). In what follows, I will illustrate how MTE deals with these two
problems.
 The Motivational Theory of Emotions 177

5.4. The Intentionality of Emotions

Suppose that fear is a prioritized avoidance tendency with the relational goal of achiev-
ing safety, as suggested by Frijda (1986). This fact per se does not explain why fear is
about dangers. Similarly, the fact that anger is a prioritized attack tendency with the
relational goal of removing an obstacle does not explain in what sense anger is about
offenses. In order to become a workable philosophical theory of emotions, MTE must
explain the intentionality of emotions, also known as their ability to represent.
Cognitivists and Perceptualists follow a similar strategy to account for it. First, they
assume that emotions play two representational roles:
(a) A descriptive role: Emotions represent what obtains.
(b) An imperative role: Emotions represent what needs to obtain.
Second, they assume that these two roles are played by distinct components of emo-
tions. For B&D Cognitivists, the two components are beliefs and desires, which play
respectively the descriptive and the imperative role. On this proposal, what explains
the intentionality of emotions is that they are partially constituted by beliefs to the ef-
fect that the core relational theme (CRT) of the emotion is instantiated. On this view,
fear is about dangers and anger is about offences because they are partially constituted
by, respectively, the CRT belief that danger is at hand and the CRT belief that one has
been offended.
For Prinz (2004), the two components are embodied appraisals and valence markers,
which play respectively the descriptive role and the imperative role. On his proposal,
what explains the intentionality of emotions is that they are partially constituted by
embodied appraisals that have the function of being elicited by core relational themes.
On this view, fear is about dangers and anger is about offenses because they each con-
tain embodied appraisals with the function of correlating with, respectively, dangers
and offenses.
I share with B&D Cognitivists and perceptual theorists like Prinz the view that emo-
tions play both a descriptive and an imperative role. Since Frijda’s (1986; 2007) original
theory only accounted for the imperative side, it needs to be supplemented with a de-
scriptive side. What I reject is the further assumption that descriptive and imperative
roles are played by distinct components of emotions.
I propose instead that emotions combine descriptive and imperative roles
into a unified whole. On the view I propose, emotions have what I have previ-
ously called a mind-to-world-to-mind (or dual) direction of fit: they represent how
things are (mind-to-world) and how things are to be (world-to-mind) at the same
time (Scarantino 2010). Millikan (2004) has labeled representations of this sort as
pushmi-pullyu representations, arguing that they “represent facts and . . . represent
goals, both at once” (157).
What we need to do is to make explicit that (in)action tendencies and action reflexes
do not merely represent relational goals: They also represent facts. For the purposes
178 Andrea Scarantino

of this chapter, I accept Prinz’s (2004) teleosemantic framework for explaining how
emotions represent facts, namely that they do so by having the function of being elic-
ited by them. But I supplement it with the idea that emotions have at the same time
the function of achieving a certain relational goal. Thus, emotions have what I call an
informational-cum-motivational function.
According to MTE, what explains the intentionality of emotions is that they are (in)
action tendencies or action reflexes with the informational-cum-motivational func-
tion of achieving relational goals while correlating with core relational themes. On this
view, fear is about dangers because it is a prioritized avoidance tendency/reflex with
the informational-cum-motivational function of achieving the relational goal of
one’s own safety while correlating with dangers. Anger is about offenses because it is
a prioritized attack tendency/reflex with the informational-cum-motivational func-
tion of achieving the relational goal of removing an obstacle while correlating with
offences. Sadness is about losses because it is a prioritized inaction tendency with the
informational-cum-motivational function of achieving the relational goal of not relat-
ing as such while correlating with losses.
I understand informational-cum-motivational functions in the etiological sense,
namely as past effects that explain the current presence of the function bearer (cf. Wright
1973; Wouters 2003). Saying that emotion E has the informational-cum-motivational
function of achieving relational goal G while correlating with core relational theme T
is therefore saying that the past effects of achieving G in the presence of T explain why
E was selected for, relative to some selection process S (e.g., natural selection, cultural
selection).
For instance, saying that fear has the informational-cum-motivational function
of achieving the relational goal of one’s own safety while correlating with dangers
amounts to saying that the past effects of attaining one’s own safety in the presence of
danger explain why fear was selected for. Functions understood etiologically can have
normative import, because they characterize what a function-bearer is supposed to
do. A corollary is that fear will be defective in the absence of danger, anger will be de-
fective in the absence of offences, sadness will be defective in the absence of losses. In
all such cases, emotions do not prioritize relational goals in the presence of those core
relational themes that explain why prioritizing such goals in the past was selected for.

5.5. What Emotions Are and How They Differ from One Another
I am finally in a position to formulate the definition at the heart of the Motivational
Theory of Emotions:
(MTE): An emotion is a prioritizing action control system, expressed either by (in)action ten-
dencies with control precedence or by action reflexes, with the function of achieving a certain
relational goal while correlating with a certain core relational theme.

The flowchart (Figure 8.1) summarizes the causal sequence of events posited by MTE
(the chart focuses on action rather than inaction tendencies). Emotional episodes start
 The Motivational Theory of Emotions 179

Physical or mental
event

Appraisal

Activation of prioritizing
action control system

Prioritized action Compatibility &

Emotional reflex
tendency executive control

Impulsive emotional Planned emotional

Extinction
action action

Figure 8.1

with an initial physical event (e.g., being insulted) or mental event (e.g., recollecting
being insulted) whose appraisal activates the action control system with which I iden-
tify the emotion (e.g., the anger system). The action control system in turn can either
directly lead to a reflex action or to an action tendency with control precedence (e.g.,
an attack tendency), i.e. one that takes precedence over all other action modalities and
involves bodily preparation.
As soon as the prioritized action tendency is up and running, rational control
enters the picture, performing compatibility and executive controls. The outcome of
such controls can be an impulsive emotional action (e.g., striking), the formation of
a forward-looking intention that will eventually lead to a planned emotional action
(e.g., writing a letter of complaint), or the extinction of the prioritized action tendency.
MTE adds three main ingredients to Frijda’s (1986; 2007) original analysis. First, ac-
tion reflexes are explicitly included in the domain of emotional actions proper along
with prioritized action and inaction tendencies. Second, the identity of an emotion
becomes defined in part by its function. Third, the function of emotions is understood
in informational-cum-motivational terms, i.e. achieving a certain relational goal in
the presence of a certain core relational theme.
Before explaining how MTE distinguishes between different emotions, it is worth
emphasizing that appraisals and feelings no longer play a definitional role in MTE.
180 Andrea Scarantino

This marks a major discontinuity in the philosophy of emotions, because it shifts the
focus of analysis from how emotions evaluate (Cognitivism) and how emotions feel
(Perceptualism) to how emotions affect action. It would be a mistake, however, to con-
clude that appraisals and feelings have no important role to play in MTE.
Appraisals are the standard elicitors of prioritized (in)action tendencies and action
reflexes. This is because stimuli do not cause emotions per se, but contingently on how
they are appraised. I have argued elsewhere that emotional appraisals lie on a con-
tinuum (Scarantino 2010). On one end, we have forms of appraisal that operate as a
modular input system (e.g., fast, effortless, mandatory, informationally encapsulated,
with limited central access and fixed neural architecture). An example is the appraisal
of threat involved in reflex fear, which is automatically elicited by suddenly looming
objects and loud noises.
On the other hand, we have forms of appraisal that are centrally driven (e.g., slow, ef-
fortful, non-mandatory, cognitively penetrable, with full central access, without fixed
neural architecture). An example is the appraisal of threat performed by an airplane
pilot who gradually, on the basis of various subtle cues, realizes that there is something
seriously wrong with the plane, which elicits a prioritized avoidance tendency.
Feelings are also often involved in the activation of the action control systems with
which I identify emotions. What is felt according to MTE is that a certain (in)action
tendency has acquired control precedence.24 This complex feeling results from a va-
riety of co-occurring subjective experiences, some associated with the interruption
of ongoing actions, some associated with the focusing of attention, some associated
with the occurrence of facial expressions, some associated with the occurrence of auto-
nomic bodily changes, and so on.
A basic difference between MTE and traditional theories of emotions is that
appraisals and feelings are no longer essential components of emotions. First, excep-
tions to the rule that prioritized (in)action tendencies and action reflexes are caused by
appraisals are allowed. Non-standard mechanisms for the elicitation of prioritized (in)
action tendencies and reflexes include chemical induction, brain manipulation, and
facial feedback (Izard 1993).
Second, prioritized (in)action tendencies and action reflexes can occur in the ab-
sence of concurrent feelings. Candidate examples include unconscious prioritized (in)
action tendencies in humans and prioritized (in)action tendencies in simple animals
like sea slugs whose ability to have subjective experiences in the first place is highly
doubtful.
We now have all the ingredients required to explain how MTE differentiates be-
tween different emotions. It does so by means of three elements: (i) emotion-specific
(in)action tendencies or action reflexes, (ii) emotion-specific core relational themes,

24
Reflexes are too quick for feelings to play a role in their operation, even though feelings often follow
emotional action reflexes, as when one starts feeling fear several seconds after a car accident.
 The Motivational Theory of Emotions 181

Table 8.1

Emotion (In)action tendency/ Relational Goal Core Relational

action reflex Theme

Anger Attacking Removal of obstruction Offense

Fear Avoiding One’s own safety Danger
Sadness Undifferentiated Not relating as such Loss
disengagement
Joy Open engagement Relating as such Positive Event
Disgust Expelling Removal of object Contamination
Guilt Repairing relationship Making up for a flawed Moral transgression
behavior
Shame Disappearing Hiding a flawed self Failure to live up to an
ego ideal

and (iii) emotion-specific relational goals. Table 8.1 offers some tentative examples for
specific emotions.25
Let us consider the distinction between shame and guilt by way of example (cf. Lewis
2008). According to MTE, shame is a prioritized disappearance tendency/reflex with
the function of achieving the relational goal of hiding a flawed self while correlating
with failures to live up to an ego ideal. Guilt is a prioritized reparation tendency/reflex
with the informational-cum-motivational function of achieving the relational goal of
making up for a flawed behavior while correlating with moral transgressions.
This account of their difference is compatible with guilt and shame being indistin-
guishable at the level of bodily changes, or lacking bodily changes entirely, and being
indistinguishable at the level of feelings, or lacking feelings entirely. For example, it
may well be that some forms of guilt and shame only consist of mental actions without
distinctive bodily signatures, and that some forms of guilt and shame are associated
with no subjective experiences at all. But as long as they are associated with prioritized
action tendencies that differ in the way I have indicated, the ground of difference be-
tween them is not threatened.
Furthermore, this account of the difference between guilt and shame is compatible
with significant variation in the complexity of the information processing involved in
the appraisals that elicit guilt and shame. Some varieties of guilt and shame (e.g., vic-
tim’s guilt, shame generated by the presence of high ranking members of one’s group)
will be elicited by appraisals that display several of the markers of a modular input

25
The chart combines Lazarus’ (1991) account of core relational themes (with the addition of contami-
nation as the core relational theme for disgust; see Curtis, DeBarra, and Aunger 2011) with suggestions by
several authors on the action tendencies and relational goals of specific emotions (e.g., Frijda 1986 on anger,
fear, and disgust; Lewis 2008 on shame and guilt; Bonanno 2001 on sadness; Fredrickson and Cohn 2008 on
joy).
182 Andrea Scarantino

system (e.g., fast, informationally encapsulated, effortless), whereas other varieties

of guilt and shame (e.g., guilt about one’s financial success, shame about having been
caught violating a promise) will be elicited by appraisals that are centrally driven (e.g.
slow, informationally penetrable, effortful). The ground of difference between guilt
and shame I have outlined is even compatible with the possibility that guilt and shame
may occasionally not involve appraisals at all, as in the (so far) theoretical possibilities
of guilt and shame being elicited by direct brain stimulation, chemical induction, and
facial feedback.
Finally, MTE offers a recipe for distinguishing between theoretically more homo-
geneous sub-types of the same folk psychological emotion category. The recipe is to
ask what states of affairs emotions have the function of correlating with and what rela-
tionship with the environment they have the function of bringing about. In principle,
this process can lead to the realization that different instances of the same folk psycho-
logical emotion have the function of correlating with different states of affairs and the
function of bringing about different relational goals, potentially leading to splitting the
original folk category into sub-types.
Disgust is a good candidate for this sort of splitting. Some instances of disgust ap-
pear to have the function of producing an action tendency/reflex of oral expulsion
while correlating with physically contaminating items such as poisons and parasites,
whereas other instances of it appear to have the function of producing an action ten-
dency/reflex of social rejection while correlating with morally polluting items such as
racism and hypocrisy (Rozin, Haidt, and McCauley 2008; Kelly 2011). In such a case,
it may be theoretically useful to distinguish between two sub-types of disgust—e.g.,
core disgust and moral disgust—each defined by its own triad of fine-grained action
tendencies, core relational themes, and relational goals.

6. Conclusion
In this chapter I have introduced a new theory of emotions—the Motivational Theory
of Emotions (MTE). On the view I propose, emotion types are defined and differenti-
ated by their distinctive (in)action tendencies/action reflexes, their distinctive rela-
tional goals, and their distinctive core relational themes, on the assumption that the
informational-cum-motivational function of each emotion is to achieve the relational
goal when the core relational theme is instantiated.
MTE explains what I have called the phenomena of emotional motivation—impul-
sivity, flexibility, and bodily underpinnings—better than the two currently most pop-
ular philosophical theories of emotions, namely Cognitivism and Perceptualism. MTE
also accounts for the variety of emotional actions associated with emotions, of which
I have distinguished three species: reflex-like emotional actions, impulsive emotional
actions, and planned emotional actions.
 The Motivational Theory of Emotions 183

Finally, MTE has solutions to offer to the problems of intentionality and differentia-
tion, explaining, respectively, what endows emotions with aboutness and what makes
any two emotions different from one another. In light of these achievements, I con-
clude that the Motivational Theory should be considered a promising new competitor
in the philosophy of emotions.

Acknowledgments
I want to especially thank Dan Jacobson and Justin D’Arms for their generous sup-
port throughout the development of some of the central ideas of this chapter. Their
meticulous and insightful comments on a previous draft have had a major influence
on the current structure of the chapter. I want to acknowledge the importance of a
one-month residency I spent at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, discussing
emotions with Dan and Justin. If only philosophy could always be this much fun! I also
benefited from a Workshop on Moral Psychology and Human Agency held in June
2012 at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Both my residency and the workshop
were sponsored by the “Science of Ethics” Templeton Foundation grant. I am grateful
to Justin D’Arms for inviting me to present a version of this chapter to the participants
to his seminar on emotions at Ohio State University in Fall 2012. Their comments
were very helpful. Finally, I want to thank my colleagues Eddy Nahmias and Neil van
Leuween, as well as the students of my seminar on emotions in Spring 2013 at Georgia
State University for their valuable feedback on a previous draft. The errors, of course,
remain all mine.

References
Arnold, M. B. 1960. Emotion and Personality, vol. 1. New York: Columbia University Press.
Arnold, M. B. (ed.). 1970. Feelings & Emotions. San Diego, CA: Academic Press.
Barrett, L. F. 2006. Are emotions natural kinds? Perspectives on Psychological Science, 1, 28–58.
Benbaji, H. 2012. How is Recalcitrant Emotion Possible? Australasian Journal of Philosophy. doi:
10.1080/00048402.2012.699078
Bonanno, G. A. 2001. Grief and emotion: A socio-functional perspective. In M. Stoebe, R.
O. Hanson, W. Stroebe, and H. Shut (eds.), Handbook of Bereavement Research: Consequences,
Coping, and Care, pp. 493–516. Washington, DC: American Psychological Association.
Bratman, M. E. 1987. Intention, Plans, and Practical Reason. Cambridge, MA: Cambridge
University Press.
Curtis, V., DeBarra, M., and Aunger, R. 2011. Disgust as an adaptive system for disease avoidance
behaviour. Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences, 366, 389–401.
Damasio, A. 1994. Descartes’ Error: Emotion, Reason, and the Human Brain. New York: Grossett/
Putnam.
Damasio A. R. 2003. Looking for Spinoza: Joy, Sorrow, and the Feeling Brain. New York: Harcourt.
184 Andrea Scarantino

D’Arms, J., and Jacobson, D. 2003. The significance of recalcitrant emotions (or
anti-quasijudgmentalism). In A. Hatzimoysis (ed.), Philosophy and the Emotions.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Dewey, J. 1895. The theory of emotion. (2) The significance of emotions. Psychological Review, 2,
13–32.
Döring, S. 2003. Explaining action by emotion. Philosophical Quarterly, 211, 214–30.
Dretske, F. 1988. Explaining Behavior. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
Dunn, B. D., Dangleish, T., and Lawrence, A. D. 2006. The somatic marker hypothesis: A critical
evaluation. Neuroscience and Biobehavioral Reviews, 30, 239–71.
Ekman, P. 1999. Basic emotions. In T. Dalgleish and M. Power (eds.), Handbook of Cognition and
Emotion, pp. 45–60. Chichester: John Wiley and Sons Co.
Elster, J. 2010. Emotional choice and rational choice. In P. Goldie (ed.), Oxford Handbook of the
Philosophy of Emotion, pp. 263–281. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Fredrickson, B. L., and Cohn, M. A. 2008. Positive emotions. In M. Lewis, J. M. Haviland-Jones,
and L. F. Barrett (eds.), Handbook of Emotions, 3rd edn., pp. 777–96, New York: Guilford Press.
Frijda, N. H. 1986. The Emotions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Frijda, N. H. 2007. The Laws of Emotion. Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum.
Frijda, N. H. 2008. The psychologists’ point of view. In M. Lewis, J. M. Haviland-Jones, and L.
F. Barrett (eds.), Handbook of Emotions, 3rd edn., pp. 68–87, New York: Guilford Press.
Frijda, N. H, 2010. Impulsive action and motivation. Biological Psychology, 84, 570–9.
Gallistel, C. R. 1980. The Organization of Action: A New Synthesis. Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence
Erlbaum Associates, Inc.
Goldie, P. 2000. The Emotions: A Philosophical Exploration. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Green, O. H. 1992. The Emotions: A Philosophical Theory. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic
Publishers.
Hursthouse, R. 1991. Arational actions. The Journal of Philosophy, 88(2), 57–68.
Izard, C. E. 1993. Four systems for emotion activation: Cognitive and noncognitive processes.
Psychological Review, 100, 68–90.
James, W. 1884. What is an emotion? Mind, 9, 188–205.
James, W. 1890. The Principles of Psychology. New York: Holt.
Kelly, D. 2011. Yuck! The Nature and Moral Significance of Disgust. Cambridge, MA: The MIT
Press.
Kovach, A., and De Lancey, C. 2005. On emotions and the explanation of behavior. Nous, 39(1),
106–22.
Lazarus, R. S. 1991. Emotion and Adaptation. New York: Oxford University Press.
Lewis, M. 2008. Self-conscious emotions: Embarrassment, pride, shame, and guilt. In M. Lewis,
J. Haviland-Jones, and L. Feldman Barrett (eds.), Handbook of Emotions, 3rd edn., pp. 742–56.
New York: Guilford Press.
Loewenstein, G., and Lerner, J. 2003. The role of affect in decision-making. In R. J. Davidson
(ed.), Handbook of Affective Sciences, pp. 619–42. New York: Oxford University Press.
Lyons, W. 1980. Emotion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Marks, J. 1982. A theory of emotions. Philosophical Studies, 42, 227–42.
Millikan, R. G. 2004. Varieties of Meaning: The 2002 Jean Nicod Lectures. Cambridge, MA: MIT
Press.
Nash, R. 1989. Cognitive theories of emotion. Nous, 23, 481–504.
 The Motivational Theory of Emotions 185

Nussbaum, M. 2001. Upheavals of Thought: The Intelligence of Emotions. Cambridge: Cambridge

University Press.
Pacherie, E., 2001. The role of emotions in the explanation of action. European Review of
Philosophy, 5, 53–91.
Pacherie, E., 2008. The phenomenology of action: A conceptual framework. Cognition, 107,
179–217.
Price, C. 2006. Fearing Fluffy: The content of an emotional appraisal. In Graham MacDonald
and David Papineau (eds.), Teleosemantics. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 208–28.
Prinz, J. 2004. Gut Reactions: A Perceptual Theory of Emotion. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Reimann, M., and Bechara, A. 2010. The somatic marker framework as a neurological theory
of decision-making: Review, conceptual comparisons, and future neuroeconomics research.
Journal of Economic Psychology, 31, 767–76.
Reisenzein, R. In press. What is an emotion in the belief-desire theory of emotion? In F. Paglieri,
L. Tummolini, R. Falcone, and M. Miceli (eds.), The Goals of Cognition: Essays in Honor of
Cristiano Castelfranchi. London: College Publications.
Rozin, P., Haidt, J., and McCauley, C. R. 2008. Disgust. In M. Lewis, J. M. Haviland –Jones, and L.
F. Barrett (eds.), Handbook of Emotions, 3rd edn., pp. 757–76. New York: Guilford Press.
Ryle, G. 1949. The Concept of Mind. London: Hutchinson.
Scarantino, A. 2010. Insights and blindspots of the cognitivist theory of emotions. British Journal
for the Philosophy of Science, 61(4), 729–68.
Scarantino, A. 2012. How to define emotions scientifically. Emotion Review, 4(4), 358–68.
Scarantino, A. Forthcoming. Basic emotions, psychological construction and the problem
of variability. In J. Russell and L. Barrett (eds.), The Psychological Construction of Emotion.
New York: Guilford Press.
Scarantino, A., and Nielsen, M. (MS). Kicking doors and piercing dolls: Why emotions make us
do foolish things.
Searle, J. 1983. Intentionality. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Skinner, B. F. 1953. Science and Human Behavior. New York: Macmillan.
Smith, M. 2010. Humeanism about motivation. In T. O’Connor and C. Sandis (eds.), A
Companion to the Philosophy of Action, pp. 153–8. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell.
Solomon, R. 2003. Not Passion’s Slave. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Watson, J. B. 1919. Psychology from the Standpoint of a Behaviorist. Philadelphia: Lippincott.
Winkielman, P., and Berridge, K. C. 2004. Unconscious emotion. Current Directions in
Psychological Science, 13, 120–3.
Wouters, A. G. 2003. Four notions of biological function. Studies in History and Philosophy of
Biological and Biomedical Sciences, 34(4), 633–68.
Wright, L. 1973. Functions. Philosophical Review, 82, 139–68.
Zhu, J., and Thagard, P. 2002. Emotion and action. Philosophical Psychology, 15, 19–36.
 9
The Reward Theory of Desire in
Moral Psychology
Timothy Schroeder and Nomy Arpaly

In this chapter, we describe and defend the reward theory of desire, and then explore
some of its consequences for moral psychology.1
At least since Plato, moral psychologists have worked hard to understand the nature
of desire, and to incorporate desires into their larger moral-psychological frameworks.
Naturally, one’s theory of desire makes a difference to what it is plausible to hold about
other phenomena.
According to the widely held motivational theory of desire, to desire that p is to tend
to be motivated to bring it about that q, when one believes that q will make it more likely
(or will bring it about) that p.2 The motivational theory is clean and clear, and captures
a good deal of what is commonly thought about desires. It also raises a large number of
worries for anyone who thinks that desire has an important role in moral psychology.
According to the motivational theory, there is nothing more to desire (in its essence)
than a sophisticated, cognitively sensitive behavioral disposition. Behavioral disposi-
tions, however, do not appear to be adequate explainers of things desire has been said
to explain: love and care, having reasons for action, or the differences between acting
on an appetite and acting out of a sense of duty (to name just three worries). That is,
the motivational theory appears to be too clean, too antiseptic, even, to allow desires to
explain important moral-psychological phenomena.
The moral psychologist who thinks desires deserve a central role in her moral psy-
chology has several options. She may defend the clean and clear motivational theory
against its critics. She may keep the motivational theory but hold that desires only

1
The first reward theory of desire to our knowledge is found in Dretske (1988, ch. 5). For a full treat-
ment of the idea see Schroeder (2004). Objections to Schroeder are articulated in Brook (2006), De Sousa
(2006), Latham (2006), Thagard (2006), with a response by Schroeder as well (Schroeder 2006). A similar
approach to the present one is taken, with different results, in Morillo (1990). We have also benefited from
Peter Railton, who is working on related ideas.
2
See, for example, Smith (1994).
 The Reward Theory of Desire in Moral Psychology 187

explain love, generate reasons, and so on when they also have further, supplementary
features. And she may reject the motivational theory in favor of some other theory that
seems to do better with the problem cases.
In this chapter, we suggest that the reward theory of desire offers a promising way of
pursuing the third strategy. Rejecting the motivational theory of desire and replacing it
with the reward theory opens many new avenues for the philosopher who sees desires
having a central role in theories of love and care, of acting for reasons generally, of
acting for moral reasons specifically, and so on.
The reward theory of desire does not make any of the most familiar effects of desires
into the essence of desire. Desires—or, to be precise, intrinsic desires, which are the
only desires we will discuss—have various effects. They have motivation effects, as well
as emotional effects (effects on when pleasure and displeasure are felt) and cognitive
effects (for example, effects on where attention is directed). All of these effects, on the
reward theory, remain common but inessential causal consequences of having desires.
In human beings temporarily subjected to powerful non-rational influences on their
thoughts, feelings, and actions, intrinsic desires can exist while failing to cause their fa-
miliar effects on motivation or feelings or thoughts, or while causing excessively strong
or weak forms of their familiar effects. People who are very sleepy, over-caffeinated, de-
prived of the lithium they rely on, and so on are people whose motivational, emotional,
and cognitive states can substantially vary from what would be expected, given what
they intrinsically desire, though what they intrinsically desire and how much they de-
sire it remains unchanged. And in unhealthy human beings, and perhaps aliens, these
gaps between intrinsic desires and their usual effects can be chronic or permanent. An
addict who greatly intrinsically desires things that can only be gained by ceasing to use
cocaine, and only moderately intrinsically desires things that can be gained by contin-
uing to use cocaine, can nonetheless live for years with a tremendous number of the
motivational, emotional, and cognitive signs of someone with the opposite priorities.
An alien who greatly intrinsically desires justice might lack the capacity to be moti-
vated at all, or to feel anything at all, or both, without desiring justice any less.
The theory that makes the foregoing true takes a fair bit of explaining. The way in
which the reward theory of desire entails the result that desire’s most familiar moti-
vational, emotional, and cognitive signs are the causal consequences of possessing in-
trinsic desires is through holding that the essence of desire is something unfamiliar,
and through holding that this unfamiliar essence nonetheless counts as the essence
of desire because desires form a natural kind. Just as H2O is the unfamiliar essence
of water, so (we will argue) states of the reward system are the unfamiliar essence of
desire.
Explaining this unfamiliar essence of desire is the first job of this chapter. We will
then proceed to show that this unfamiliar putative essence of desire plays the causal
roles that we assume desires play: that desires as theorized by the reward theory of de-
sire turn out to play the roles that desires are thought to play as commonly understood.
Next we go on to argue that it is at least reasonable to think of desires as forming a
188 Timothy Schroeder and Nomy Arpaly

natural kind, and so it is at least reasonable to think that desires are something distinct
from the effects (on motivations, feelings, and thoughts) by which we know them from
the armchair. We finish by suggesting ways in which the reward theory of desire might
ameliorate a range of problems facing desire-centered moral psychology.

1. The Reward and Punishment Systems

The reward system is an unconscious part of the mind that is, in virtue of its particular
states, a normal cause of overt and covert action, of positive and negative feelings, and
of the cognitive effects most associated with intrinsic desires. The reward system is also
the only thing that is a common cause of all of these effects (indeed, it is the only thing
that is even close to a common cause of all these effects). And the reward system is a
psychological natural kind.3 The reward system’s configurations are thus a reasonable
starting point for a theory of intrinsic desire.
The reward system constitutes things as rewards, and we will explain in some detail
what reward is in this context, in just a moment. We will also explain the opposite of
reward, namely punishment. While scientists do not understand punishment as well
as reward, a wealth of indirect evidence exists that the brain also has a punishment
system that mirrors the operations of the reward system, just as mathematical models
of reward and punishment would predict. Hence we will talk about the reward and
punishment systems, though most of our evidence will be drawn from what is known
about the reward system.
Focusing on the reward and punishment systems could give rise to a number of dif-
ferent theories of intrinsic desire. We hold the following.
Reward Theory of Desire: To have an intrinsic desire regarding it being the case that p is to con-
stitute p as a reward or a punishment.

Intrinsic desires come in two sub-types: appetites and aversions.

To have an intrinsic appetitive desire that p is to constitute p as a reward.
To have an intrinsic aversion to p is to constitute p as a punishment.4

To constitute a (conceivable) state of affairs p as a reward is to make it the case that p

counts as a reward, in the relevant sense, and similarly for punishments. And the dis-
tinction between appetitive desires and aversions is, roughly, the familiar distinction
between desiring that things be the case because we want them for their own sakes, and

3
At least, it is by the reasonable test that it is a kind that scientists find useful, at the relevant level of inves-
tigation, for correct explanation, prediction, and control of psychological phenomena. The reward system is
implemented by a biological natural kind: the brain’s dopamine system. But it is still possible to distinguish
the psychological natural kind (a specific sort of learning system) from the biological natural kind (the spe-
cific groups of cells and neuromodulators that implement this learning in animals like ourselves).
4
This theory is fully articulated in Schroeder (2004, ch. 5). For more on the distinction between appetites
and aversions, see Schroeder (2004, chs. 1, 5).
 The Reward Theory of Desire in Moral Psychology 189

desiring that things not be the case because we have an aversion to them in themselves.5
Thus, understanding the reward theory of desire is little more than understanding the
relevant senses of “reward” and “punishment.”
There are two sensible ways to understand each of “reward” and “punishment” in
the reward theory of desire. One is the ordinary way of understanding “reward” and
“punishment,” according to which a child can be rewarded for sitting still at the dinner
table by being granted permission to stay up late, and punished for squirming by being
sent to bed early. The other is a technical way of understanding “reward” and “punish-
ment” which is used in certain mathematical theories of learning and in certain parts
of neuroscience.6 Surprising as it might seem, the reward theory of desire is true on
both understandings. However, if one is seeking a theory of desire that explains what
is less basic in terms of what is more basic, then “reward” and “punishment” need to be
understood in the technical, mathematical, scientific sense. This is because a full ex-
planation of how being granted the right to stay up late can be a reward in the ordinary
sense of “reward” will ultimately appeal to the technical sense of “reward.”7
To understand the technical senses of “reward” and “punishment” it is best to start
with the related notion of reward learning.8
Reward learning is most famously exemplified by the operant conditioning of be-
havior in experimental animals: by rats trained to run mazes for cheese, essentially.
The association of reward learning with rats and mazes is understandable but unfortu-
nate. It is understandable because behaviorists were the first scientists to discover re-
ward learning and give it a theoretical treatment.9 It is unfortunate because any form of
learning associated with behaviorism is likely to be tainted by the association, stigma-
tized as a sort of learning that, while it might explain something about rats in mazes, is
not the sort of learning of interest to someone who wishes to understand the complexi-
ties of the human mind. As section 2 will show, however, the stigma is misplaced. The
reward learning system is in fact the cause of many phenomena that are absolutely cen-
tral to understanding the complexities of the human mind, in both some of the ways it
is like the minds of other mammals and in some of the ways in which it is distinctive.
So what is reward learning? Human beings learn in many ways. We learn by lis-
tening, by observing others, by trying it out for ourselves, by repeatedly practicing until
awkward actions become smooth, precise, and efficient. Different sorts of learning are

5
The evidence that this distinction is significant, and not merely terminological, is discussed in Schroeder
(2004, chs. 1, 5).
6
This technical sense is related to, but distinct from, the technical sense of “reward” long used in the
theory of operant conditioning. The differences will become clear as this particular technical sense is further
characterized.
7
This is fully defended in Schroeder (2004, ch. 2).
8
Here we will use the phrase “reward learning” to encompass what is sometimes also called
“contingency-based learning:” the sort of learning that takes into account both rewards and punishments
as initiators of learning. This is an extension of the most common use of “reward learning,” which excludes
consideration of punishment.
9
The investigation of operant conditioning begins with B. F. Skinner. See Skinner (1938).
190 Timothy Schroeder and Nomy Arpaly

made possible by different mechanisms. There is one mechanism that seems to un-
derlie learning by remembering and recalling events (such as who said what at the
last departmental meeting),10 there is a different mechanism that seems to underlie
learning to perform complex sequences of actions smoothly and fluently (as when
riding a bicycle),11 and so on. Reward learning is another sort of a learning, distinct
from these, and implemented by yet another mechanism.
Reward learning is a form of learning that has an opportunity to take place when
one mental event participates in causing another. Such causings happen all the
time: Groups of edge perceptions participate in causing perceptions of squareness,
thoughts that a claim is universal in scope participate in causing thoughts that surely
there are exceptions, perceptions of the approach of a dance partner participate in
causing efforts to take matching steps backward, and so on.12 So there are hundreds, if
not thousands, of opportunities at each moment for reward learning to have its effects.
In reward learning, there is the causing of one mental state by another, and then that
causal sequence is followed by the unconscious release of a signal in the brain, a signal
that takes one of three forms. One form causes the disposition of the first mental state
to produce the second to increase (all else being equal). This sort of signal can be called
a positive learning signal, though there is nothing positive about it beyond the fact
that it increases the strengths of the relevant disposition. The second form of the signal
causes no change in dispositions; this can be called a neutral learning signal. And the
third form of the signal causes the disposition of the first mental state to produce the
second to decrease (all else being equal). This sort can be called a negative learning
signal.
Imagine Juan is trying to keep up with a more talented dance partner. He perceives
the approach of his dance partner, and this perception participates in causing an ef-
fort to take a matching step backward.13 If this causal sequence is followed by a posi-
tive learning signal, then the ability of that sort of perceptual event to cause that sort
of matching step backward will be strengthened. The probability of Juan making that
sort of step backward in that sort of situation in the future has just increased. On the
other hand, if the causal sequence is followed by a negative learning signal, then the
ability of perceptions of advancing dance partners to cause Juan to take matching steps
backward will be weakened. The probability that such a step will be taken in that sort

10
Episodic learning, made possible (it seems) by a process called “long-term potentiation.” See, e.g.,
Shastri (2002).
11
Theories of skill-learning based on back-propagation of error and recurrent decorrelation are compared
in Porrill, Dean, and Stone (2004), for example.
12
Of course, there is dispute within the philosophy of mind about mental causation. The details of this de-
bate are not particularly important for our purposes. Since it is clear that reward learning takes place in some
sense that is suitable to scientific purposes, the precise metaphysics of how it takes place can be left to other
philosophers without worrying too much about the details.
13
This description of things, with a perception causing an effort, is not meant to suggest that Juan does
not participate “as an agent” in his movement. Even when Juan takes a step backward while acting as a
full-blooded agent, there is still a causal chain leading to the final mental event that causes the movement of
the leg.
 The Reward Theory of Desire in Moral Psychology 191

of situation in the future has just decreased. And if it is followed by a neutral learning
signal then nothing within Juan changes (at least, not through this mechanism). If a
positive learning signal appears every time Juan reacts to his partner’s approach with
a matching step backwards then Juan will, in one ordinary sense of “learn,” learn to
react to his partner’s approach with a matching step backwards. Learning in this sense
is not analogous to learning how to ride a bicycle or to paint but to the sort of learning
we refer to when we say, “she learned to speak more in class,” “she learned to taste
the ‘chocolate’ notes in red wines,” or “by the time a hundred people had asked him
whether as an Irishman he liked Enya’s music, he had learned to hate Enya’s music.”
The obvious question at this point is: What determines whether a positive, neutral,
or negative learning signal will be released in a creature capable of reward learning?
There are two main parts to the answer.
The first part is that the signal coming from the reward learning system is influ-
enced by how the organism perceptually and cognitively represents the world to be.
The representation of certain states of affairs causally affects the reward system such
that it directly increases the chance that a positive learning signal will be released, and
this is what makes these represented states of affairs rewards (technically, “positive
rewards”).14 That is, this is what makes them rewards in the technical sense relevant to
this form of learning. To other represented states of affairs, the reward system does not
directly react, and these are neither rewards nor punishments. And a failure to repre-
sent a reward increases the chance of generating a negative learning signal. This is what
makes the failure of that state of affairs to obtain a punishment (technically, a “negative
punishment”).
What holds for rewards holds in parallel for punishments. The representation of
certain states of affairs causally affects the punishment system such that it directly
increases the chance that a negative learning signal will be released, and this is what
makes these represented states of affairs punishments (technically, “positive punish-
ments”). And the punishment system responds to failure to represent punishments
by increasing the chance of generating a positive learning signal (technically, this is a
“negative reward”).
Note that the labels “reward” and “punishment,” like “positive” and “negative,” have
nothing to do with feelings, self-conscious stances toward states of affairs, the inten-
tions of would-be rewarding and punishing agents, judgments of goodness or bad-
ness, or the actual goodness or badness of any state of affairs. Particularly important
to note, given the associations of the word “reward,” is the fact that the labels “reward,”
“punishment,” “positive,” and “negative” have nothing to do with feelings of pleasure or
displeasure (or pain). Within the theory of reward learning, these terms’ meanings ul-
timately come down to variations on the strengthening and weakening of causal con-
nections, nothing more. If ideas of goodness, or feelings of pleasure, are at all related

14
If a representation that p only increases the chance of a positive learning signal being released because it
causes a representation that q, then the former representation does not cause the relevant effect directly.
192 Timothy Schroeder and Nomy Arpaly

to rewards in a given individual, it is because goodness, or pleasure, happens to be a

reward in the technical, learning-theoretic sense for that individual.15
Returning to Juan, recall that he perceives the approach of his partner and that this
perception causally participates in causing a matching step backward on his part.
Suppose that what follows this step is that Juan’s partner smiles and the dance con-
tinues smoothly. This dancing, or smile (or what it signifies), might be a (positive)
­reward or a (positive) punishment in the sense relevant to reward learning, and it all
depends on how Juan’s brain responds. If Juan’s brain responds by releasing a nega-
tive learning signal, the sort of signal that weakens the power of the perceptual state
to cause matching steps backwards, then Juan’s brain has treated being smiled at (or
continuing to dance smoothly16) as a punishment. On the other hand, if Juan’s brain
responds by releasing a positive learning signal, one that strengthens the power of the
perceptual state to cause matching steps backward, then Juan’s brain has treated being
smiled at (or continuing to dance smoothly) as a reward.
Most animals like ourselves respond to food (when hungry) and water (when
thirsty) in the “positive” way, with the sort of reward learning that increases the
strengths of just-used causal connections between mental states.17 And most human
beings respond to things like money, success at solving problems, our favorite music,
being cooperated with, donating to charities, and seeing our loved ones with the same
sort of learning.18 Food, water, money, success, hearing “A Day in the Life” by The
Beatles, being cooperated with, giving to a good cause, seeing a loved one—these are
all commonly rewards, in the technical sense, for us. And similarly, most animals like
ourselves respond to being deprived of food or water, or to (for instance) having their
tails pinched in the “negative” way, with the sort of reward learning that decreases the
strengths of just-used causal connections between mental states. Being denied supper
or a turn to drink from the water fountain or being pinched are, commonly, punish-
ments for us. And all these things are rewards or punishments because of the way rep-
resentation of them disposes us to learn.

15
It has become common lore among parents that bored children will sometimes learn to do what gets
them attention, even attention for bad behavior, even when bad behavior leads to bad feelings. This is a good
illustration of the sort of learning involved in reward learning: Certain patterns become stronger because
of their consequences (parental attention is a reward for most children), even when those consequences
are quite independent of what is pleasant (or thought of as “good,” for that matter). The fact that other con-
sequences (the scowling, the yelling, etc.) do not undo the reward learning suggests that parental attention
is a stronger reward than parental yelling is a punishment, or that the timing of the reward (the attention is
immediate) vs. punishment (the yelling often follows) matters to the learning process, or both.
16
Or something that such states of affairs seem to Juan to instantiate or make more likely.
17
Actually, it is probably better to think of animals like ourselves as intrinsically desiring a state of homeo­
static balance with respect to things like blood sugar, blood salinity, blood oxygen, and core body tempera-
ture—and perhaps also sex hormones or something tied to them. When we have deficiencies in these things,
we have frustrated intrinsic desires for our homeostatic set points; when we have excesses of these things we
also have frustrated intrinsic desires (as when one feels overfed, and there is an unpleasantness to it that goes
beyond mere distension of the stomach or worry about appearance).
18
For experimental evidence, see, e.g., Stellar and Stellar (1985), Knutson et al. (2001), Johnsrude et al.
(1999), Salimpoor et al. (2011), Rilling et al. (2002), Moll et al. (2006), and Aron et al. (2005).
 The Reward Theory of Desire in Moral Psychology 193

Again, it is worth keeping in mind that the kind of learning under discussion is not
just behavioral learning. In a person for whom hearing “A Day in the Life” is a reward,
hearing this song might cause perceptual learning (so that one hears nuances that
others cannot hear), learned patterns of involuntary attention (so that one by default
attends to nuances that others can in principle hear, but to which they must make an
active effort to attend), and more (if one often hears songs such as “A Day in the Life”
while listening to a particular radio station, that might promote retention of that sta-
tion’s call sign in one’s memory—so long as the mental connection between hearing
the call sign and one’s memory is followed by hearing “A Day in the Life” in the pattern
required to strengthen that connection).
Hidden, perhaps, in the above description of reward learning is a fact of central im-
portance to moral psychology: What makes a conceivable state of affairs p count as a
reward or punishment for a given person (or any creature) is constituted by the contin-
gent power of that person’s representation that p to contribute to the calculation of a
reward or punishment signal. Most of us are born constituting sweet taste experiences,
full stomachs, dry bottoms, and the like as rewards: Representations of these things
contribute significantly in the production of reward signals, right from birth, as a re-
sult of nature’s design. And most of us come to constitute the taste of chocolate, and
hearing “A Day in the Life,” as rewards as we get older: These representations come
to have the power to directly promote the production of reward signals, though they
were not disposed to do so from birth.19 But there is no state of affairs that is, by its very
nature, such that representing it must generate a positive or negative reward signal.20
And there is no evidence to suggest that deliberation or other cognitive processes can,
entirely on the basis of their contents, change what is constituted as a reward or pun-
ishment.21 The little that is known about how the brain comes to treat p as a reward or
punishment when it did not before suggests that this happens when p is appropriately
associated with antecedent rewards or punishments. When a young child finds that
she gets things that are already rewards, such as cookies and positive parental atten-
tion, more often when everyone is cooperative, she is unconsciously changed so that
she comes to constitute cooperation as a reward also.22 So far, no other natural mech-
anism for changing what is constituted as a reward is known.

19
There is some evidence that there is a specific region of orbito-frontal cortex that acts as a sort of junc-
tion box, where input from perception and cognition is either passed forward to the reward system or not,
depending on the particular neural details. See, e.g., Schultz, Tremblay, and Hollerman (2000).
20
Unless one imagines a state of affairs constituted in part by the fact that it causes this sort of response, of
course.
21
Thoughts can change whether one experiences an event as a failure to get X or an opportunity to better
learn to Y, but this reframing relies on facts about whether X or Y is constituted as a reward—facts that the
cognitive reframing does nothing to change.
22
This is a staple of the behaviorist literature on reward learning, but on the assumption that performing a
guessing task successfully is or instantiates rewards for experimental subjects the effect has also been dem-
onstrated over the short term in an experimental context by non-behaviorists: See Johnsrude et al. (1999),
where a mere statistical association between being told “you got that right” and an abstract image caused
greater liking for the associated image in human subjects.
194 Timothy Schroeder and Nomy Arpaly

The second part of the explanation of how a positive, neutral, or negative learning
signal is produced involves a calculation. The mere representation of a state of affairs
that is a reward in the technical sense does not guarantee that a positive learning signal
will be generated, and similarly for the representation of a punishment: Such repre-
sentations are inputs into the calculation of what is sometimes known as a “prediction
error.” It is easier, though, to think of what is being calculated as the difference, at each
moment, between the expected amount of net reward or punishment in the world and
the actual amount. That is, to produce reward learning, an organism must be doing
three things. It must have an expectation regarding the net amount of reward to be
found in the world, it must be evaluating the actual net amount of reward found in
the world, and it must at each moment be taking the latter and subtracting the former
from it.23 If the result of the calculation is positive, then a positive learning signal is
released (and the more positive the result of the calculation, the stronger the positive
learning signal). If the result of the calculation is neutral, then a neutral learning signal
is released. And if the result is negative, then a negative learning signal is produced.
Thus, in reward learning:
Amount of reward learning signal = actual net rewards minus expected net rewards.

Hence, Juan’s partner’s smile causes less reward learning in him if he completely takes
it for granted (viscerally expects) that his partner will smile at him and more if he was
not taking such smiles for granted, assuming that smiles from this partner are (or sig-
nify to him other things that are) rewards in the first place. What we viscerally expect
can often be thought of as what we are used to at a given time.
It appears that in animals like us there is one system that calculates rewards only, and
another system that calculates punishments only, with the two systems having recip-
rocal connections. (Note that this is the sort of detail we have generally suppressed for
the sake of exposition.) Our speculation is that the punishment system performs the
same calculation as the reward system, simply substituting “punishment” for “reward,”
but this is still awaiting full empirical confirmation.
The calculation of the difference between actual and expected reward or punish-
ment looks like an intellectually challenging mathematical task, and not something
that could be carried out unconsciously in human beings, much less monkeys or rats,
but in fact neural computations of this sort are quite tractable. (Here, note, we move
from the psychological level to its realization at the neural level.) A simple subtractive
calculation can be performed unconsciously by some neurons exciting one region of
the brain, while other neurons inhibit activity in that same region. Crudely, the result-
ing activity can be the difference between the sum of the exciting input and the sum of
the inhibiting input. When all these states of neural activity represent magnitudes (on
the same linear scale), then the resulting level of activity in the third group of neurons
will represent a magnitude that is as great as the first magnitude minus the second.

23
See, e.g., Sutton and Barto (1998) for a textbook treatment.
 The Reward Theory of Desire in Moral Psychology 195

These sorts of implicit calculations are ubiquitous in the brain, and not in themselves
problematic.
There might nonetheless seem to be something problematic about expectation.
Surely this, at least, is a sophisticated task requiring explicit reasoning and judgment.
But there are simpler ways to form expectations of reward than going through a thor-
ough conscious reasoning process. The net rewardingness of a given moment can be
expected on entirely associative grounds, without deliberation. A group of neurons
that learn purely by association can determine the net rewardingness that has been
associated, in the past, with the present perceived and conceived states of affairs, and
this value (expressed, one assumes, in the rate of firing of this group of neurons) can
serve as the expected level of net reward for that moment.24
This sort of implementation of expectations does not result in a perfectly accu-
rate prediction of the amount of net reward that should obtain, of course. It might be
that, in the past, circumstances like one’s current circumstances (perhaps, sitting at
a Formica countertop in a Midwestern diner) have not been associated with tasting
a perfect croissant, yet one consciously expects to taste such a croissant because one
knows it is a morsel of such a croissant that one is about to eat. If tasting a perfect crois-
sant is a reward for one, then one’s associations will lead to an expectation of less re-
ward than one might have predicted consciously.
Nonetheless, an unconscious, associative expectation system has substantial advan-
tages over a conscious expectation system. Its expectations are continuously available
without putting other cognitive activity on hold, are automatically available (regardless
of how little one might feel like making more predictions), and can be formed using
intellectual resources available to any creature capable of representing its environment
and forming associations. So there are some virtues to this manner of calculating ex-
pected reward, in addition to there being faults. No doubt these virtues are responsible
for the natural selection of the particular neural mechanisms we have (and share with
other animals), but this particular evolutionary story is not really important.
The degree to which a state of affairs is rewarding or punishing is constituted by
these same connections that make the states of affairs rewards or punishments in the
first place. A connection between the capacity to represent p and the reward system
might be a very strong connection, the sort that will make a large positive contribution
to the calculation of net reward. This would be how p gets to count as a big reward for
the creature so constructed. But the connection could always be stronger or weaker,
contributing a greater or lesser value to the calculation of net reward when p is rep-
resented. And thus how much of a reward p is can range on a continuum from being
barely a reward at all to being by far the number one reward possible for the creature
in question.

24
See, e.g., Schultz, Dayan, and Montague (1997). The scientific investigation of these details is continuing.
The point of these speculations is simply to show that what is being described is possible and sensible; the
details might well be different from what is being suggested.
196 Timothy Schroeder and Nomy Arpaly

Putting all these pieces together gives a clear picture of reward learning. Imagine
an organism constantly perceiving and cognizing its environment. Through a com-
bination of genes and environment, some of the states of affairs it perceives and con-
ceives are constituted by its reward learning system as greater or lesser rewards, while
others are treated as neutral. The net sum of these rewards comes to some amount of
net reward at each moment. At the same time, the organism also unconsciously, asso-
ciatively predicts a given amount of net reward for that moment based on its past asso-
ciations with similar conditions. The net reward of the moment has subtracted from it
the predicted amount of net reward, and the result is either a positive value, zero, or a
negative value. If the result is a positive value, then a positive learning signal is released,
and it causes certain causal connections between mental states (those causal connec-
tions that were just used) to strengthen. If the result is a negative value, then a negative
learning signal is released, and it causes certain causal connections between mental
states (again, those that were just used) to weaken. And if the result is zero, then a neu-
tral learning signal is produced and nothing changes. And as with reward, so too with
punishment.
The upshot of reward and punishment learning is that the mental processes—per-
ceptual, intellectual, agentive, and so on—that lead to rewards (so defined) and the
avoidance of expected punishments (so defined) become more dominant over time
in the agents’ perceptions, thoughts, and actions, while those leading to punishments
and to missing out on expected rewards play a smaller role over time. So long as there
is some non-random pattern to the distribution of rewards and punishments in the
world of the organism, the organism will come over time to perceive, think, and act
in ways that are progressively more likely to lead to rewards and less likely to lead to
punishments.25
Given the nature of reward and punishment, it follows that, according to the reward
theory of desire, what it is to intrinsically desire that p is for the reward system to re-
spond to representations of p in a way that directly increases the chance of a positive
reward learning signal being generated. That is, Juan’s constituting p as a reward (in
the technical sense) is the same thing as Juan’s desiring that p. His intrinsic (appetitive)
desire for the positive regard of his dance partner is his responding (unconsciously,
and not as an agent) to representations of this regard in a way that makes a positive
contribution to the calculation of actual reward and, if the value of that calculation
exceeds what was predicted, makes a positive contribution to the generation of a posi-
tive reward learning signal. Intrinsic aversions to it being the case that p are the mirror
reflection of this arrangement in punishment instead of reward. And for one of Juan’s
intrinsic appetites or aversions to be very strong is for the representation of its content
by Juan to make a large contribution to the calculation of the overall learning signal,

25
For a more mathematical treatment of reward learning theory and contingency-based learning more
generally, see, e.g., Sutton and Barto (1998).
 The Reward Theory of Desire in Moral Psychology 197

while for an intrinsic desire to be weak is for the representation of its content to make a
very small contribution.
Unconsciously responding to p as a reward in the technical, learning-theoretic sense
does not sound very much like desiring that p, and responding in a manner that greatly
increases the chance of one sort of unconscious learning does not sound very much
like greatly desiring that p. Although it might be true that we have the vague sense that
there are unconscious learning processes, and that giving people treats (things that
they intrinsically desire) can assist some of these unconscious learning processes, this
is hardly the first fact about intrinsic desires that will leap to anyone’s mind. Similarly,
the combination of an explosive gas with the gas we need to breathe does not sound
like water. Yet water really is a combination of hydrogen and oxygen. This is our ap-
proach to thinking about intrinsic desires. Though intrinsic desires are not familiar
to us as states of the reward and punishment systems, states of the reward and punish-
ment systems do what intrinsic desires do, and so there is good reason to have a reward
theory of desire.
So far, we have said only what the reward and punishment systems are and what they
do that makes them the sorts of things they are in themselves. So it is time to show that
in addition to driving their own special form of learning, they also play the full range
of roles associated with intrinsic desires: to show that it is states of the learning system
that do what intrinsic desires do.

2. The Reward System Causes What Desires Cause

The reward system deserves the attention of philosophers because it causes what in-
trinsic desires cause. The system that controls reward learning causally influences
actions, feelings, and (to a lesser extent) cognitions, and it is the only system that caus-
ally influences all of these in anything like the manner expected of intrinsic desires.26
In this section, we will show that this is so. To do so, we will rely primarily on neu-
roscience, especially findings from neuroanatomy and neurophysiology. That is, we
will descend from the psychological level to the level of neural realization. By doing so,
we believe, we can make the most secure case possible for the claimed causal roles of
the reward system. After all, it is at the level of neural realization that cause and effect
can be observed in the most direct, theory-neutral manner, as neuroscientists observe
physical connections between discrete regions of the brain, and observe the causal
powers of these connections.
Begin with action production. The reward system’s impact on action production is
both profound and very well studied, and much of what is known is very standard text-
book material.27
26
This argument is made in full in Schroeder (2004, chs. 2, 3, and 4).
27
The impact of the punishment system on action is less well understood, and is not textbook neurosci-
ence. However, if one line of contemporary thought is borne out and the brain’s serotonin system imple-
ments its punishment system, then there is a long history of empirical study of the way that the punishment
198 Timothy Schroeder and Nomy Arpaly

The brain’s realization of the reward system sends some of its output to a key in-
tegrative structure for action production, known as the dorsal striatum. The dorsal
striatum receives further input from all of the brain’s sensory and cognitive regions.
Finally, it receives information about what basic actions (such as opening a hand,
uttering a syllable, . . .)28 are primed for performance at the moment. Thus, informa-
tion about what is the case and what is intrinsically desired combines in the dorsal
striatum with information about what basic actions are available to be performed.
The output of the dorsal striatum directly controls the regions of the brain known as
motor and pre-motor cortex. These regions contain the brain’s capacity to command
the performance of simple bodily movements, and their activity fully dictates the vol-
untary bodily movements people make. The motor cortex and pre-motor cortex can
be thought of as made up of many different “keys,” like a multi-tiered organ keyboard,
with each key capable of producing a basic bodily movement (such as opening a hand
or uttering a syllable). The keys are primed by what is being thought and perceived
at any given moment, but the actual “pressing” of the keys is under the control of the
dorsal striatum, and so of belief and perception, on the one hand, and the reward and
punishment systems, i.e., intrinsic desires, on the other.
The reward system is not an optional component of action production: In its most
extreme form, Parkinson’s disease kills all of the cells of the part of the reward system
that contributes directly to action production, and the result is complete paralysis.29
This is not to say that a positive reward signal is required for action: Obviously, one
does not need to constitute pinching one’s forearm as a reward in order to pinch one’s
forearm. But the action production system is not designed to work independently of
the reward system. If one is to pinch one’s arm, the production of this action through
the dorsal striatum etc. must proceed in a manner that is at least somewhat sensitive
to the strengths of reward signals (positive, neutral, or negative) that are being gener-
ated. (The specific way in which cognitive input, the reward signal, and the intrinsic
structure of the dorsal striatum work together to select specific actions is still being
studied.) What is important about the paralysis that can result from Parkinson’s dis-
ease is that it is not relieved by beliefs about what is right or good or reasonable. No
such belief suffices to restore the capacity to act on its own, independently of what is
constituted as a reward (i.e., intrinsically desired).
Another striking way in which the reward system is a compulsory contributor to
action is that there are known conditions that can override the output of the dorsal
striatum, and so cause movements independently of the reward and punishment

system contributes to inhibiting action and freezing movement, just as the reward system contributes to
releasing action and promoting movement. See, e.g., Deakin (1983), Soubrié (1986).
28
Though we will not explore it in this chapter, there is substantial empirical evidence for Danto’s cate-
gory of basic actions, which is essentially Davidson’s category of primitive actions. See Danto (1963; 1965),
Davidson (1980), and any textbook account of the neuroscience of action and, e.g., the “motor homunculus.”
See also Schroeder (2004, ch. 4).
29
Langston and Palfreman (1995) is a sophisticated lay account of this phenomenon.
 The Reward Theory of Desire in Moral Psychology 199

systems (i.e., independently of intrinsic desires), but these conditions produce mere
movements, not actions. For instance, direct electrical stimulation of parts of the brain
can override the output of the dorsal striatum, and thus ignore the normal causal con-
tribution of intrinsic desires to action, but these movements are experienced by their
makers as not their own, and most philosophers would agree: These are not actions
performed by the person, but mere movements forced out of the agent by a curious
neuroscientist. Tourettic tics also appear to sometimes override the normal operation
of the integrative action-production structure, forcing movements (not actions) out of
the person with the disorder.30
The effect of the reward system on mental actions is not textbook neuroscience. Here
the claim that these actions are influenced by the reward system is based on a limited
number of research findings, but these are nonetheless suggestive. The best-studied
mechanisms for mental action are those that are responsible for our capacities to vis-
ualize and to talk to ourselves. These mechanisms rely on distinct structures in the
frontal lobes of the brain which can causally influence the same regions of the brain
that are directly involved in seeing (for visualizing) and hearing (for talking to our-
selves).31 So the question arises: what controls the activity of these specialized struc-
tures in the frontal lobes of the brain? It appears to be the same combination of reward
signal and cognitive information (intrinsic desire plus belief) as serves overt action.
The same neural structures in dorsal striatum that take input from belief plus desire
and send output to control overt action also send output to the specialized structures
in the frontal lobes with which we are concerned. If this output is not for the voluntary
control of visualizing and talking to oneself, it would be quite a surprise.
Having considered actions, let us consider feelings—another thing that desire seems
to cause. To keep things simple, begin with feelings of pleasure and displeasure. The
evidence that increases in the activity of the reward system cause increases in feelings
of pleasure is widespread and powerful, and returns us to the realm of textbook neu-
roscience. Many pleasure-causing drugs (including the illegal ones) are known to act
directly or indirectly upon some part of the reward system,32 electrical stimulation of
parts of the reward system appears sufficient to cause pleasure under certain condi-
tions,33 conditions that produce subjective pleasure also produce increased activity in
the reward system,34 and so on.35 Furthermore, expected but not actualized rewards
cause drops in the reward signal, and these same events cause feelings of displeasure.

30
Though it is important to note that Tourette syndrome is a complicated disorder, and not every Tourettic
tic is involuntarily produced. See Schroeder (2005) for more on this.
31
A lovely overview is found in Baddeley (2003).
32
A nice pair of experiments is Liechti et al. (2000), Liechti and Vollenweider (2000). Schroeder (2004, ch.
3) contains a review.
33
See, e.g., Stellar and Stellar (1985).
34
An elegant experiment showing this is reported in Salimpoor et al. (2011).
35
For an overview, see Schroeder (2004, chs. 2 and 3).
200 Timothy Schroeder and Nomy Arpaly

Evidence that increases in the activity of the punishment system causes displeasure is sug-
gestive, though much less well established.36
If there is room to explain feelings of pleasure and displeasure through the actions of the
reward and punishment systems, then what about the wider range of positive and negative
feelings? What about feelings of fear and anger, or schadenfreude, or bliss? These feelings
contain pleasure and displeasure. Insofar as these are feelings, they go beyond pleasure
and displeasure in how one’s body feels while in their grips. Fear without the feeling of a
pounding heart or hair standing on end does not feel much like fear; bliss without a feeling
of muscles relaxing throughout one’s body does not feel much like bliss; and so on. Not
surprisingly, these bodily changes are not independent of the reward and punishment sys-
tems. There are outputs from the punishment system that reach the amygdala, a neural
structure that has a famous role as the central “junction box” causing the bodily states
most associated with fear and anger and disgust (it is involved in feelings linked to other
emotions as well).37 Thus, the reward and punishment systems have causal connections of
the sort required to bring about the feelings we expect to be brought about by getting, or
being denied, what one intrinsically (appetitively) desires (or is averse to).
Finally, consider the cognitive effects associated with intrinsic desires, among which
are changes in attention and some types of motivated irrationality. There is evidence
that these effects are also commonly generated by the reward and punishment systems.
Unfortunately, this evidence is the furthest from textbook ready; it is all the product of
evolving research programs. Nonetheless, it is suggestive. A little should be said about
both attention and motivated irrationality.
Insofar as the direction of attention is a voluntary (not necessarily premeditated)
action, one would predict that it would be under the control of the dorsal striatum and
hence the reward and punishment systems. Evidence for this can be found by consid-
ering the deficits that people with Parkinson’s disease show in the voluntary direction
of attention. In various experiments, it has been found that people with Parkinson’s
disease, who share in common damage to their reward systems, have difficulty direct-
ing or redirecting their attentions when the direction of such attention is up to the
person in the experiment. For instance, in one such experiment, subjects were asked
to hold their eyes fixed on a particular target, but cued to pay attention (“covertly”) to
a location nearby the target; this voluntary direction of attention made a discrimina-
tion task easier. But people with Parkinson’s disease were found to not improve on the
discrimination, showing that they were having trouble keeping their attentions fixed
on the cued locations.38 People with Parkinson’s disease thus appear to have difficulties
directing their attentions where they want.

36
For a start, the reader might consult Lowry et al. (2008) for a review.
37
For a review of what we know about the amygdala, see LeDoux (2000). On the connection of the pun-
ishment system to the amygdala, there are a number of works cited in Lowry et al. (2008).
38
See Sampaio et al. (2011), where every effort is made to ensure that only difficulty in controlling attention
explains the experimental findings. Older work focused specifically on the voluntary direction of attention
 The Reward Theory of Desire in Moral Psychology 201

As for motivated irrationality, there is a hint toward the role that the reward sys-
tem plays. It is textbook science that cocaine stimulates parts of the reward system
directly, mimicking (by our lights) the effects of strong intrinsic desire satisfaction. It
is also a commonplace that people consuming cocaine are typically convinced (while
intoxicated) that they are more interesting, attractive, powerful, and so on than they
would otherwise take themselves to be. Cocaine thus appears to induce something like
motivated irrationality by mimicking the effects of strong intrinsic desire satisfaction,
suggesting—if very tentatively—a role for the reward system in the explanation of eve-
ryday forms of motivated irrationality.
At this point, the effects of the reward and punishment systems on action, feelings,
and cognitions have been canvassed, and the results have been the same. In each case,
the reward and punishment systems play the roles played by intrinsic desires. Further,
the realizers of the reward and punishment systems are the only things in the brain
that play all of these roles. This negative thesis is of course an empirically risky one.
However, given the current state of neuroscientific knowledge, the negative thesis is
not much riskier than the structurally equivalent thesis that the heart is the sole struc-
ture in the body that pumps blood. There are human beings with tremendously im-
paired reward systems who are otherwise intact—people with the most severe forms
of Parkinson’s disease. These people provide scientists with an opportunity to discover
other systems capable of playing the same roles as the reward system: other systems
capable of driving action even when the reward system cannot, and other systems ca-
pable of producing elation even when the reward system cannot. But no such systems
have come to light. There are more and less important kinds of functionality spared in
people with severe Parkinson’s disease, but no coordinated package of functions that
does most or all of what is expected from intrinsic desires.

3. Intrinsic Desires are a Natural Kind

Intrinsic desires play a large number of causal roles. And there is a natural psycholog-
ical kind, the reward learning system, that plays these same causal roles.39 This suggests
a natural-kind strategy for theorizing about intrinsic desires. Following this strategy,
intrinsic desires should be theorized as being the natural kind that does, in fact, play all
of the causal roles that intrinsic desires play.40 And so, following this strategy, intrinsic
desires are states of the reward learning system: They are what the reward theory of de-
sire says they are.

in people with Parkinson’s disease goes back to at least Brown and Marsden (1988), another suggestive if less
controlled study with the same upshot.
39
A natural kind, again, on the assumption that playing a central explanatory role in scientific psychology
is a good test for being a natural kind.
40
This strategy is described and defended in Schroeder (2004); a similar strategy for theorizing desire is
articulated in Morillo (1990). Compare methodology and results to the similar investigation of the emotions
in Griffiths (1997).
202 Timothy Schroeder and Nomy Arpaly

To treat intrinsic desire as a natural kind is to treat it as akin to, for example, water.41
Water is that substance found in rain, in lakes, in the ocean, that is liquid, transparent,
able to quench thirst, make crops grow, dissolve salt crystals. Water is not identical to,
or constituted by, any of these properties or powers: It is the thing that has them. These
powers might have been had by other natural kinds (some subsets of them actually
are), or had by no natural kind at all, but water is the natural kind found around us that
happens to be the source of these properties and powers coming together so reliably.42
To treat intrinsic desire as a natural kind is to hold that intrinsic desires are the
things, whatever they turn out to be in themselves, found in people and other ani-
mals, causing the actions, feelings, and cognitions that we associate with terms such
as “desire” and “want” and, especially, phrases such as “wanting for its own sake” and
“desired just for itself.” If they form a natural kind, then intrinsic desires need not be
identical to, or constituted by, any of their most familiar effects: The natural kind can
be merely the common cause of them in human beings. If intrinsic desires are a natural
kind, then all of their familiar effects might in principle (and might, in practice) stem
from other causes, though intrinsic desires would be the sole common cause of these
effects in us.
Why, though, should philosophers treat intrinsic desires as a natural kind? There
are at least four arguments worth considering, and each has some weight—but in the
present context, we will not claim that any of the four is more than suggestive.
The first argument is that, if there is a good a priori knowable (or armchair verifi-
able) theory of intrinsic desire that reveals its essence to be something other than the
natural kind (whatever it turns out to be) that causes what intrinsic desires cause, then
that theory is likely to theorize intrinsic desires in terms of action, pleasure, or both
action and pleasure. But a number of philosophers have argued against these views on
armchair grounds.43
The most obvious problem with this first argument is, of course, that these debates
are far from resolved. But for our purposes, it will be enough to note that it has not
been resolved against the natural-kind approach, and move on. Obviously, much more

41
Putnam (1975).
42
Note that, to treat intrinsic desires as a natural kind is not necessarily to commit to the thesis that, if there
is no suitable natural kind, then there are no desires (compare Churchland 1981). Consider the study of the
elements: earth, air, fire, and water. Only water turned out to be a natural kind, but it was not unreasonable
for early science to approach all four elements with the hypothesis that each one was a natural kind. The fal-
sification of that hypothesis in three out of four cases did not reveal that there was no such thing as earth, air,
or fire. It showed only that, whatever earth, air, and fire are, they are not the sort of thing suitable for scientific
study. We take a similar approach to desire. Intrinsic desire should be approached with the hypothesis that
it is the natural kind, whatever it might be, that gives rise to (at least, nearly) all the phenomena we associate
with intrinsic desire. If there is such a kind, then it is what intrinsic desires are. If there is not, some other
hypothesis can be formed; Elimination of the kind from our ontology would be rather premature, even if it
would be eliminated from our science (and so, from the explanatory categories of scientific psychology).
43
Against the pure action-based theory, see arguments in Stampe (1986), Schroeder (2004), Schueler
(1995), and Strawson (1994). Against the pure pleasure-based theory, see arguments in Schroeder (2004).
And for arguments against combined theories, see Schroeder (2004), Strawson (1994).
 The Reward Theory of Desire in Moral Psychology 203

needs to be said about the specific nature of intrinsic desires, but this will not be the
place where we attempt that task.
The second argument is an entirely general argument based on the nature of thought
and speech: Every kind we think or talk about is best thought of as a natural kind, if
there is a natural kind that is a reasonable candidate to be the extension of our concepts
and the referent of our words (except for kinds introduced by stipulation or for tech-
nical purposes, or the like). Consider air. If air had turned out to be one specific mole-
cule then “air” would, like “water,” be a natural kind term. The only reason “air” is not a
natural kind term is that there is no natural kind that is a reasonable candidate to be the
referent of “air.” The air is mostly nitrogen gas, which accounts for most of the forceful-
ness of wind on windy days (just by being the main gas present, by a large margin) but
which does not explain why we need to breathe air. The air is also made up of a lot of
oxygen gas, which does explain why we need to breathe air, but it does not do most of
the explaining of the forcefulness of the wind. So, without a reasonable candidate nat-
ural kind to refer to, “air” does not refer to a natural kind. But it could have been oth-
erwise. From our present vantage point, “air” does not feel like a natural kind term, but
had the facts about the atmosphere been different, and had science learned and widely
disseminated those facts, our feelings would be different. “Desire” might be more like
“water” or like “air,” in that it might have a single natural kind that is a reasonable can-
didate for its referent, or it might not. But if there is a candidate natural kind suited to
be the referent of “desire,” then desire should be treated as a natural kind.
The most obvious problem with this second argument is that it relies on a controver-
sial principle about the referential dimension of language and thought: that concepts
and terms for kinds are always best understood as referring to a natural kind if there is
a candidate natural kind available to be the thing conceived or referred to. And this is
certainly not the place to embark on a defense of such a principle.
A third argument is that the parts of the mind studied by philosophers will, ideally,
be both real and well suited to feature in ideal explanations of human thought, feeling,
and action. And one good test of the reality and explanatory robustness of putative
parts of the mind is that they are appealed to by our best psychological sciences,44 or
could be if only our psychologists were slightly better philosophers, and would see
that their technical term x is really a term for familiar part of the mind y. It seems
likely that the psychological sciences will continue to appeal to the reward and punish-
ment systems and make them robust parts of larger explanations of various aspects of
thought, feeling, and action, for all the reasons canvassed in the previous section and

44
In saying this, we at least partly accept the terms of the debate set out by well-known eliminative mate-
rialists: If intrinsic desires are more like air than water, then there will be little use in focusing on intrinsic
desires in any explanation of important phenomena, though it will not be any more wrong to say that there
are intrinsic desires than to say that there is air. If intrinsic desires are less like water and more like fire
(a totally heterogeneous collection of processes, including solar fusion and high-speed highly exothermic
chemical oxidation, it seems) then it will not just be sloppy or unhelpful to appeal to intrinsic desires in
explanations, it will be downright embarrassing. See, e.g., Churchland (1981) for an early starting point.
204 Timothy Schroeder and Nomy Arpaly

many more besides. If the reward and punishment systems are going to be a staple of
psychological explanations, then either philosophers will have to be able to interpret
the reward system as realizing intrinsic desires, or they will have to be able to interpret
the reward system as realizing some other mental state, or they will have to cede the
explanation of these aspects of thought, feeling, and action to something philosophers
do not study and give no role in their theories of action, virtue, moral worth, and so on.
This lattermost option would be intolerable, however. So insofar as the psychological
sciences continue to rely on the reward and punishment systems as robustly independ-
ent causal explainers of various aspects of thought, feeling, and action, philosophers
would do well to determine what mental states or events should be understood to be at
work in these explanations. It seems to us that these mental states are best thought of as
intrinsic desires. And so there is a reason from scientific practice to embrace a reward
theory of desire.
A problem with this third argument is that a number of philosophers, including
some with substantial involvement in action theory and moral psychology, have
denied that mental states need to be treated as scientifically respectable entities that
enter into non-trivial, interesting causal explanations of various aspects of thought,
feeling, and action. And again, while this is an interesting debate, it is not one that will
be pursued in the present work.
The fourth argument for treating intrinsic desires as a natural kind is aimed solely
at philosophers who are sympathetic to desire-centered action theory or moral psy-
chology. By treating intrinsic desires as a natural kind, it is possible to go a long way
toward answering many of the most damning objections to desire-centered moral psy-
chology. This claim will be defended in section 4, but it has no doubt already occurred
to the reader how useful the reward theory of desire could be to a desire-centered moral
psychology. And a special virtue of responding to these objections in this way is that
treating intrinsic desires as a natural kind, while not uncontroversial by any means,
is neither controversial nor defensible on grounds that are primarily action-theoretic
or moral-psychological. As a result, it does not beg any questions to strengthen one’s
desire-centered theory by holding that intrinsic desires are a natural kind. The debate
over whether mental terms are, insofar as possible, natural kind terms is a debate in the
philosophy of language, philosophy of science, and philosophy of mind, and premises
about love, care, acting for reasons, or even compatibilist theories of free will are not
generally important premises in such debates.
Of course, the four arguments just presented are far from conclusive, and are
intended much more to suggest our general lines of thought than to convince the
skeptic. An extended argument meant to convince the skeptic is made in Schroeder
(2004, especially ­chapter 6), but even that is far from the last word in our eyes.
Nonetheless, we do find something independently appealing to the straightforward
thesis that when we say “desire” we are talking about something real inside us that
plays a complex set of causal roles but has an essence or nature that is not automati-
cally transparent to us.
 The Reward Theory of Desire in Moral Psychology 205

4. Solutions and Promissory Notes

Suppose, then, that intrinsic desires are identical to states of the reward and punish-
ment systems. Intrinsic desires are causally involved in movements, feelings, and cog-
nitions, but they could fail to be involved in any of these things, and these things can
be, and routinely are, influenced by things other than desires. Intrinsic desires have
strengths, but the strength of any given episode of motivation, emotion, or cogni-
tive influence could be quite a bit different from the strength of the intrinsic desire
being expressed. What would be the importance of this for action theory or moral
psychology?
If intrinsic desires are states of the reward and punishment systems, then there is
room for the desire-centered moral psychologist to hold that many of the most prob-
lematic objections to her position can be answered. In this section, we show how the
reward theory of desire helps to solve certain problems, and how it shows promise to
solve others.
Start with love and care. A number of theories put intrinsic desires at the heart of
what it is to love someone or to care for her: The theories of Harry Frankfurt are per-
haps the most prominent examples here.45 Such theories have been criticized, both
implicitly and explicitly, by philosophers who hold that, regardless of the fine details,
intrinsic desires are just the wrong sorts of things on which to ground theories of love
or care.
One possible objection to desire-based theories of love and care is that it is possible
to imagine a person who has the theoretically demanded qualities—who intrinsically
desires the well-being of the beloved, and so on—but who does not appear to really
love or care. For instance, it is possible to imagine a person who is very strongly moti-
vated to tend to the well-being of the beloved, but whose motivation to do so seems
much more like a neurosis, a compulsion, or a tic than like true love or caring.46 Here
the reward theory of desire can help.
The first thing to do is to be careful about the case under consideration. It is no threat
to a desire-based theory of love or care to say that a person might feel alienated from
her impulse to care for Miguel on a given occasion, or that she might feel rueful about
doing so or might do so akratically. In none of these circumstances would there be a
temptation to deny that the act done out of an intrinsic desire for Miguel’s well-being
genuinely counts as an act done out of love: What we do out of love, all too often, is
judged not to be best, is less than fully rational, and (less often, but still occasionally)
provokes feelings of alienation (especially when the beloved is a very socially inappro-
priate object of love or care). For it to be a problem for a desire-based theory of love or
care, a case needs to be one in which there is very little sign of anything like genuine

45
See Frankfurt (1988; 1999).
46
Some prominent examples include Darwall (2002, ch. 1) and Jaworska (2007a; 2007b) on care, and
Velleman (1999) on love.
206 Timothy Schroeder and Nomy Arpaly

love or care, however conflicted or conducive to folly on a particular occasion. There

must be very little sign of anything like genuine love or care, while there is nonetheless
a powerful motivation to act so as to do what seems to improve another’s well-being, a
motivation independent of its instrumentality to other things that might be intrinsi-
cally desired. The motivation must appear very much a sort of neurosis, compulsion,
or tic.
A feature of people who seem merely neurotic, merely compelled, or merely sub-
ject to exotic behavioral tics is that these people are not, in general, made delighted
or contented by the actions they neurotically, compulsively, or in tic-like fashion per-
form. A person who feels merely forced to tend to Miguel’s well-being might feel relief
that she is not prevented from acting on her compulsion, but not delight that Miguel
is well or contentment that he is flourishing. But it follows from the reward theory of
desire that, in human beings, getting what you intrinsically desire is a normal cause of
pleasure and more complex positive emotions.
It seems there are two possibilities. Either the apparently compelled person is
acting on what the reward theory identifies as a genuine intrinsic desire for Miguel’s
well-being, and is somehow being prevented from having the feelings that are ap-
propriate to the satisfaction and frustration of her intrinsic desire, or the apparently
compelled person is not acting on a genuine intrinsic desire for Miguel’s well-being.
If the first possibility holds, then the person who feels compelled to tend to Miguel’s
well-being is someone who, if only she were not depressed, brain-injured, associatively
scarred, or otherwise damaged, would often feel delight in helping Miguel. She would
often feel good about his flourishing whether or not she were the agent of it, and she
would look forward to chances to help him out when he was in difficulties—at least, to
the extent that people who love and care for others ordinarily have these feelings. And
if this is how the compelled-feeling person would feel if only she were undamaged,
then it seems that she does indeed love or care for Miguel, and she is simply unable
to access the normal feelings that reveal love or care to us. Those feelings are normal
given her desire, according to the reward theory of desire and the earlier claims about
reward’s relation to pleasure and displeasure. And if those feelings would be normal,
then it seems wrong to say that the imagined person is merely compelled, merely acting
on a tic. The first possibility, in short, reveals no problem for a desire-based theory of
love or care, given the reward theory of desire. But then, the second possibility does not
even appeal to an intrinsic desire for Miguel’s well-being. It appeals to some other state
capable of causing the behavioral impulses imagined. And such impulses are obviously
not a threat to a desire-based theory of love or care, since they are understood to not
stem from intrinsic desires for Miguel’s well-being. Thus, the specter of a compulsive
well-being tender who counts as loving or caring on a desire-based theory of love or
care is merely apparent.
Another possible objection to desire-based theories of love and care is that it is pos-
sible to imagine a creature who lacks the theoretically demanded qualities—who does
not intrinsically desire the well-being of the beloved—but who nonetheless appears to
 The Reward Theory of Desire in Moral Psychology 207

really love or care. By turning to thought experiments, one can imagine a person who
lacks any capacity for motivation, but whose feelings (and perhaps patterns of atten-
tion) convincingly attest that she loves another—perhaps, as David Velleman might
have it, by being emotionally open to the other’s value as a rational agent.
Does this unmotivated person nonetheless have an intrinsic desire for the well-being
of the beloved? If the reward theory of desire is correct, then the answer might be “yes.”
It might be the case that the unmotivated person has an intrinsic desire in virtue of
having an appropriate state of her reward system; changes in the satisfaction of this
state would be represented in the person’s feelings, but the state would (by the terms
of the thought experiment) have no access to any mechanisms by which actions might
be produced. This would still be an intrinsic desire. Furthermore, if this feeling but
unmotivated being gets pleasure from the well-being of the beloved, and displeasure
from the misfortunes of the beloved, then it can be asked whether these feelings are
normal or not given its state. They are normal just in case the being does intrinsically
desire the well-being of the beloved. So the unmotivated feeler either feels about the
beloved in a way that is biologically normal or not. If the feelings are normal, then the
being intrinsically desires the well-being of the beloved, and the reward theory of de-
sire shows how this is possible in a creature incapable of motivation. But if the feelings
are not normal, then it is hard to see the imagined being as genuinely loving. If one
feeling but non-acting creature feels bad at the injury of another feeling but non-acting
creature, but this feeling bad is not normal given its inner psychological makeup, then
it can hardly be said that the first creature loves the second—since love, it seems, suf-
fices to make such feelings normal responses to the injury of the beloved.
Of course, the desire-based theorist of love who holds the reward theory of desire
must grant that it is possible that a person lack all capacities to act and all capacities to
feel—and even all capacities for voluntarily directed attention—and yet still love. To
love, that is, without showing any of the ordinary signs of love at all. But this conclusion
need not be particularly problematic. When a loving creature is stripped of its capacity
for emotional warmth its love will appear cold; when a loving creature is stripped of its
capacity for actions expressing concern for the well-being of the beloved, its love will
appear unconcerned. But these are just appearances. As love is stripped of more and
more of its common effects, it looks less and less like love, the desire-based theorist of
love can hold, because all of the signs of love are disappearing. Our ordinary epistemic
access to that love is disappearing—but the love itself might remain. Given the reward
theory of desire and its relation to pleasure, an emotionless person who putatively
loves is a person for whom feelings of joy at the salvation of a putative loved one would
be normal if the person were capable of feelings of joy. This suggests that this normal
sign of love—taking joy in the salvation of the beloved—is missing, but the thing that
would normally lead to the sign (that is, the love itself) is not, because what is missing
is the response, not the thing normally causing the response. And likewise, given the
reward theory of desire, an unmotivated person who putatively loves is a person for
whom trying to assist the well-being of a loved one would be very reasonable if the
208 Timothy Schroeder and Nomy Arpaly

person were capable of action.47 Again, this normal sign of love might be missing, but
the thing that would normally lead to it is still present: The reasonable act is missing,
but the thing making the action reasonable exists. If intrinsic desires are things that
are potentially hidden from the casual eye, then so too will be love, on a desire-based
theory of love. But if it is true of a creature that it contains a state normally causing the
feelings we associate with love (only it cannot feel) and warranting the actions we asso-
ciate with love (only it cannot act), then it seems reasonable that the creature loves: that
it is love itself that makes normal the feelings and makes reasonable the actions.
Perverse behavioral impulses of all sorts have been thought to be problems for
desire-based moral psychology. The person who has a behavioral impulse to turn
on radios,48 the person who has a behavioral impulse to count the blades of grass on
squared-off lawns,49 the person who has a sudden impulse to drown her screaming
baby in its bathwater,50 the person who has a behavioral impulse to seek out cocaine to
the exclusion of all else in life, and the person who has a behavioral impulse to twitch,
jerk, and shout obscenities (as happens in cases of Tourette syndrome) all seem like
people who put theoretical pressure on the desire-based moral psychologist. Do these
people have rationalizations for their actions? Good rationalizations (assuming the be-
havioral impulses are very strong)? Do these people illustrate the claim that rational
action must always be action guided by reason, not desire?51 If these people knowingly
do something morally good or required as a result of their behavioral impulses, will the
desire-based moral psychologist grant them moral credit? If these people knowingly
do something morally bad or forbidden as a result of their behavioral impulses, will the
desire-based moral psychologist call them selfish or malicious rather than victims of
mental states gone awry?
All of these problems loom for the desire-based moral psychologist because of the
assumption that, if a person is behaviorally impelled to act in a coherent way that is
responsive to the person’s instrumental beliefs, then what motivates the person must
be an intrinsic desire—and if the behavioral impulse is strong, then the intrinsic de-
sire must be a strong one. An action-based theory of desire, or some variant of it, is
being presupposed. But if the reward theory of desire is correct, then there remains
the possibility that in none of the above cases is the person in question one who desires
the end to which the person is behaviorally impelled. On the reward theory of desire,
being motivated to bring it about that p is not a sufficient condition for intrinsically
desiring that p, or even desiring that q when p seems instrumental to, or a realizer of, q.
Thus, the reward theory of desire allows the possibility that the people just described
do not actually desire to turn on radios or count blades of grass, drown the baby, buy
cocaine, or shout obscenities. The reward theory of desire leaves open the possibility

47
Assuming that intrinsic desires can make actions reasonable, of course.
48
Quinn (1993, 237).    49 Rawls (1971, 432).
50
Watson (1975, 210).
51
Quinn (1993), Watson (1975), and many others have drawn such conclusions.
 The Reward Theory of Desire in Moral Psychology 209

that the desire-based theorist of moral psychology need not worry about any of these
cases. We will not show that all of these cases in fact come out as the desire-centered
moral psychologist would wish; that is a project for another occasion or three. But
the foregoing arguments have made it clear how such arguments might proceed. On
the reward theory, there are many opportunities for the signs of intrinsic desires to be
present or absent, strong or weak, without the underlying intrinsic desires themselves
being present or absent, strong or weak.
Of course, the reward theory of desire merely leaves the possibility open. Whether
or not the possibility is actual depends on the psychological details. Are the states that
would bring about the kinds of radio-turning-ons, grass-countings, baby-drownings,
cocaine-buyings, and obscenity-shoutings of interest to moral psychology states of the
reward or punishment systems or are they not? Are they of a kind with the things that
we recognize as intrinsic desires, or are they of some other, distinct kind—a kind that,
by being distinct from intrinsic desire, can pose no objection to the desire-based theo-
rist of moral psychology? These questions need more evidence before being answered.
Turning back to the objections raised to desire-based theories of moral psychology,
there is another family of objections to be highlighted here. According to these objec-
tions, it is obvious that desires cannot be the foundation of moral psychology because
it is obvious that sometimes we are moved by things other than desires in many cases
of acting for reasons, acting with moral worth, and so on. The person who is tempted
to skip the PTA meeting in order to read in front of the fire but who goes to the meeting
anyway is a central sort of case here.52 Then there is the person who helps another out
of “mere inclination” (i.e., a desire to do so) standing in contrast to the person who
helps another out of “duty” (i.e., a cognition of something in the domain of reasons or
values).53 Or again, there is the distinction between the person who is seduced by his
desires (i.e., his reason is persuaded to make a choice it would not otherwise have made
because of the influence of desire) and the person who is overwhelmed by his desires
(and so his reason plays no part in what he does).54
As before, all of these problems loom for the desire-based moral psychologist be-
cause of assumptions about the nature of desire. In the first case above, the idea that
one does not go to the PTA out of a desire to do so is supported principally by the idea
that when one acts successfully on a desire one can expect to be pleased to be getting
what one wants, along with the observation that there are many cases, such as giving
up an evening by the fire for a PTA meeting, in which one is motivated without there
being any reasonable expectation that one will be pleased if one succeeds. A similar
line of thought might lie behind the idea that being motivated by duty is something
other than (or more than) being motivated by an intrinsic desire to do the right thing

52
See Schueler (1995, 29); for similar thoughts, see also Davis (1986), Vadas (1984).
53
Obviously Immanuel Kant is the primary modern source of this idea: See Kant (1998). More recently the
idea can also be found clearly expressed in, e.g., Herman (1993, ch. 1).
54
Watson (1975).
210 Timothy Schroeder and Nomy Arpaly

(or something similar). And then, the idea that desires can seduce—the idea that se-
duction is an apt metaphor for the process by which desire can influence action in
certain cases—strongly suggests that our experiences of pleasure are an important part
of the evidence for the idea. A pleasure-based theory of desire, or some variant of it,
seems to be what is behind these ideas.55 But again, if the reward theory of desire is
correct, then there remains the possibility that in none of the above cases is the feeling
of pleasure a flawless guide to the role being played by intrinsic desires. Since, on the
reward theory of desire, being pleased by improved prospects of it being the case that p
is not a necessary condition for desiring that p, the reward theory of desire allows there
to be a possibility that the person going to the PTA does so out of an intrinsic desire,
that there is no distinction in kind between apparently acting out of inclination and
apparently acting out of duty, and that there is no distinction in kind between apparent
motivation by reason seduced by desire and apparent motivation by desire independ-
ently of reason. Alternatively, one might use the reward theory of desire to argue that
the distinction in kind is between appetitive desires, where success in attaining the
desired end promotes a reward signal, and aversions, where success in avoiding the
aversive end merely avoids promoting a punishment signal. The reward theory of de-
sire leaves open the possibility that the desire-based theorist of moral psychology need
not worry about any of these cases.
Although the above-mentioned potential benefits are potential benefits of holding
the reward theory of desire, there are other ways of achieving these benefits too. Some
of our reasons for preferring the reward theory of desire are found in the defense of
the theory presented in Schroeder (2004), and we showcase the virtues of the reward
theory in moral psychology in Arpaly and Schroeder (2014). But none of these reasons
for preferring the reward theory of desire to other theories, in moral psychology or
elsewhere, will be decisive.
Other desire-based theorists of moral psychology have taken other approaches to
the sorts of problem cases we just listed, and this chapter will finish with a short dis-
cussion of them. These approaches have generally taken the form of placing restric-
tions on the kinds of desires that a desire-centered moral psychology should be built
upon. Such desires should be ones that one wholeheartedly wants to have,56 or should
be ones that could survive cognitive reflection,57 or should be ones generated by one’s
beliefs about what one would intrinsically desire if one were rational,58 or should be
properly integrated into one’s overall psyche,59 or . . . Inevitably (or so it seems to us),
these extra restrictions on the sorts of desires that count create additional problems

55
Davis (1986) defends a motivation-plus-pleasure theory of desire.
56
Frankfurt comes to something like this view by his paper “Identification and wholeheartedness,” though
perhaps by that time Frankfurt had also backed away from the broad moral psychological ambitions on dis-
play in “Freedom of the will and the concept of a person.” Compare Frankfurt (1971) to Frankfurt (1987).
57
Tiberius (2002).   58 Smith (1994).   
59
E.g., Fischer and Ravizza (1998).
 The Reward Theory of Desire in Moral Psychology 211

for the moral psychologist.60 One of us has written extensively about the fact that
people can take foolish meta-attitudes toward their own desires, and so restrictions
based on meta-attitudes (both cognitive and conative) face serious challenges: What
shall we make of a person who disapproves of her homosexual desires, for instance?61
Are these desires “not truly her own”? What about the person who, like Huckleberry
Finn, appears to have a virtuous heart but false moral beliefs? Restrictions based on the
desires being properly integrated within the overall psyche face challenges from the or-
dinary sorts of desires, such as sexual desires, that spring themselves upon us through
non-psychological processes without being lesser partners in our moral-psychological
lives for all that. And restrictions based on rational acceptability are restrictions
that give up too much of what one is looking for in a genuinely desire-based moral
psychology.
This mention of challenges faced by other desire-based theorists is not intended as
a refutation of the opposing views. We merely state our reasons for staking out a dif-
ferent path: that of treating all intrinsic desires on a par, for purposes of action theory
and moral psychology, while being more mindful than most of what intrinsic desires
really are. If this path can provide solid responses to the many objections that have
been leveled at desire-based theories without subdividing intrinsic desires into those
we like as theorists and those we need to push aside, then that seems a mark in favor
of our theory: It is unified in its treatment of intrinsic desires. But this would only be a
small mark in favor. As at so many points in this chapter, our point is ultimately a mod-
est one: to suggest that there is an approach here, inspired by our best scientific knowl-
edge, that might repay serious philosophical attention.

Acknowledgments
Our work here is largely drawn from c­hapter 6 of Arpaly and Schroeder (2014).
We thank Justin D’Arms and Dan Jacobson for extensive comments on the present
paper, and Peter Railton for challenging feedback on an earlier talk covering the same
material.

References
Aron, A., Fisher, H., Mashek, D., Strong, G., Li, H., and Brown, L. 2005. Reward, motiva-
tion, and emotion systems associated with early-stage intense romantic love. Journal of
Neurophysiology, 94, 327–37.

60
A very early expression of some of our reservations about using a restricted set of desires (or anything
else) to delineate the “real” self, the motives of which are the only ones that render one apt for moral praise
or blame, is found in Arpaly and Schroeder (1999). While our positive claims in that work are quite different
from our present claims, we think that the negative arguments still stand.
61
See, e.g., Arpaly (2003).
212 Timothy Schroeder and Nomy Arpaly

Arpaly, N. 2003. Unprincipled Virtue. New York: Oxford University Press.

Arpaly, N., and Schroeder, T. 1999. Praise, blame, and the whole self. Philosophical Studies, 93,
161–88.
Arpaly, N., and Schroeder, T. 2014. In Praise of Desire. New York: Oxford University Press.
Baddeley, A. 2003. Working memory: Looking back and looking forward. Nature
Reviews: Neuroscience, 4, 829–39.
Brook, A. 2006. Desire, reward, feeling: Commentary on Three Faces of Desire. Dialogue, 45,
157–64.
Brown, R., and Marsden, C. 1988. Internal versus external cues and the control of attention in
Parkinson’s Disease. Brain, 111, 323–45.
Churchland, P. 1981. Eliminative materialism and the propositional attitudes. Journal of
Philosophy, 78, 67–90.
Danto, A. 1963. What we can do. Journal of Philosophy, 60, 435–45.
Danto, A. 1965. Basic actions. American Philosophical Quarterly, 2, 141–8.
Darwall, S. 2002. Welfare and Rational Care. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Davidson, D. 1980. Essays on Actions and Events. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Davis, W. 1986. The two senses of desire. In J. Marks (ed.), Ways of Desire: New Essays in
Philosophical Psychology on the Concept of Wanting, pp. 63–82. Chicago: Precedent.
Deakin, J. 1983. Role of serotonergic systems in escape, avoidance, and other behaviors. In S.
Cooper (ed.), Theory in Psychopharmacology, vol. 2, pp. 149–93. New York: Academic.
De Sousa, R. 2006. Dust, ashes, and vice: On Tim Schroeder’s theory of desire. Dialogue, 45,
139–50.
Dretske, F. 1988. Explaining Behavior: Reasons in a World of Causes. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
Fischer, J., and Ravizza, M. 1998. Responsibility and Control: A Theory of Moral Responsibility.
New York: Cambridge University Press.
Frankfurt, H. 1971. Freedom of the will and the concept of a person. Journal of Philosophy, 68,
5–20.
Frankfurt, H. 1987. Identification and wholeheartedness. In Frankfurt 1988, 159–76.
Frankfurt, H. 1988. The Importance of What We Care About. New York: Cambridge University
Press.
Frankfurt, H. 1999. Necessity, Volition, and Love. New York: Cambridge University Press.
Griffiths, P. 1997. What Emotions Really Are: The Problem of Psychological Categories.
Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Herman, B. 1993. The Practice of Moral Judgment. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Jaworska, A. 2007a. Caring and full moral standing. Ethics, 117, 460–97.
Jaworska, A. 2007b. Caring and internality. Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, 74,
529–68.
Johnsrude, I., Owen, A., Zhao, W., and White, N. 1999. Conditioned preference in
humans: A novel experimental approach. Learning and Motivation, 30, 250–64.
Kant, I. 1998. Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, trans. M. Gregor. New York: Cambridge
University Press.
Knutson, B., Adams, C., Fong, G., and Hommer, D. 2001. Anticipation of increasing monetary
reward selectively recruits nucleus accumbens. Journal of Neuroscience, 21, 1–5.
Langston, J., and Palfreman, J. 1995. The Case of the Frozen Addicts. New York: Pantheon.
Latham, N. 2006. Three compatible theories of desire. Dialogue, 45, 131–8.
 The Reward Theory of Desire in Moral Psychology 213

Ledoux, J. 2000. Emotional circuits in the brain. Annual Review of Neuroscience, 23, 155–84.
Liechti, M., Saur, M., Gamma, A., Hell, D., and Vollenweider, F. 2000. Psychological and physio-
logical effects of MDMA (‘Ecstasy’) after pretreatment with the 5-HT2 antagonist ketanserin
in healthy humans. Neuropsychopharmacology, 23, 396–404.
Liechti, M., and Vollenweider, F. 2000. Acute psychological and physiological effects
of MDMA (‘Ecstasy’) after haloperidol pretreatment in healthy humans. European
Neuropsychopharmacology, 10, 289–95.
Lowry, C., Hale, M., Evans, A., Heerkens, J., Staub, D., Gasser, P., and Shekhar, A. 2008.
Serotonergic systems, anxiety, and affective disorder. Annals of the New York Academy of
Sciences, 1148, 86–94.
Moll, J., Krueger, F., Zahn, R., Pardini, M., Oliveira-Souza, R., and Grafman, J. 2006. Human
fronto-mesolimbic networks guide decisions about charitable donation. Proceedings of the
National Academy of Sciences, 103, 15623–8.
Morillo, C. 1990. The reward event and motivation. Journal of Philosophy, 87, 169–86.
Porrill, J., Dean, P., and Stone, J. 2004. Recurrent cerebellar architecture solves the motor-error
problem. Proceedings of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences, 271, 789–96.
Putnam, H. 1975. The meaning of “meaning.” Minnesota Studies in the Philosophy of Science, 7,
131–93.
Quinn, W. 1993. Morality and Action. New York: Cambridge University Press.
Rawls, J. 1971. A Theory of Justice. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Rilling, J., Gutman, D., Zeh, T., Pagnoni, G., Berns, G., and Kilts, C. 2002. A neural basis for
social cooperation. Neuron, 35, 395–405.
Salimpoor, V., Benovoy, M., Larcher, K., Dagher, A., and Zatorre, R. 2011. Anatomically dis-
tinct dopamine release during anticipation and experience of peak emotion to music. Nature
Neuroscience, 14, 257–62.
Sampaio, J., Bobrowicz-Campos, E., André, R., Almeida, I., Faria, P., Januário, C., Freire, A., and
Castelo-Branco, M. 2011. Specific impairment of visual spatial covert attention mechanisms
in Parkinson’s Disease. Neuropsychologia, 49, 34–42.
Schroeder, T. 2004. Three Faces of Desire. New York: Oxford University Press.
Schroeder, T. 2005. Tourette Syndrome and moral responsibility. Philosophy and
Phenomenological Research, 71, 106–23.
Schroeder, T. 2006. Reply to critics. Dialogue, 45, 165–74.
Schueler, G. 1995. Desire: Its Role in Practical Reason and the Explanation of Action. Cambridge,
MA: MIT Press.
Schultz, W., Dayan, P., and Montague, R. 1997. A neural substrate of prediction and reward.
Science, 275, 1593–9.
Schultz, W., Tremblay, L., and Hollerman, J. 2000. Reward processing in primate orbitofrontal
cortex and basal ganglia. Cerebral Cortex, 10, 272–83.
Shastri, L. 2002. Episodic memory and cortico-hippocampal interactions. Trends in Cognitive
Sciences, 6, 162–8.
Skinner, B. 1938. The Behavior of Organisms. New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts.
Smith, M. 1994. The Moral Problem. Oxford: Blackwell.
Soubrié, P. 1986. Reconciling the role of central serotonin neurons in human and animal be-
havior. Behavioral and Brain Sciences, 9, 319–64.
214 Timothy Schroeder and Nomy Arpaly

Stampe, D. 1986. Defining desire. In J. Marks (ed.), Ways of Desire: New Essays in Philosophical
Psychology on the Concept of Wanting, pp. 149–73. Chicago: Precedent.
Stellar, J., and Stellar, E. 1985. The Neurobiology of Motivation and Reward.
New York: Springer-Verlag.
Strawson, G. 1994. Mental Reality. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
Sutton, R., and Barto, A. 1998. Reinforcement Learning: An Introduction. Cambridge, MA: MIT
Press.
Thagard, P. 2006. Desires are not propositional attitudes. Dialogue, 45, 151–6.
Tiberius, V. 2002. Practical reason and the stability standard. Ethical Theory and Moral Practice,
5, 339–53.
Vadas, M. 1984. Affective and non-affective desire. Philosophy and Phenomenological Research,
45, 273–80.
Velleman, D. 1999. Love as a moral emotion. Ethics, 109, 338–74.
Watson, G. 1975. Free Agency. Journal of Philosophy, 72, 205–20.
 10
Does Evolutionary Psychology
Show That Normativity Is
Mind-Dependent?
Selim Berker

1. Introduction
Suppose we grant that evolutionary forces have had a profound effect on the contours
of our normative judgments and intuitions. Can we conclude anything from this about
the correct metaethical theory? In particular, can we conclude anything about the ulti-
mate grounds of normativity? I will argue that, for the most part, we cannot.
I focus here on the powerful line of argument developed by Sharon Street in an im-
portant series of articles (Street 2006; 2008b; 2009a; 2011; MSa; MSb).1 Street claims
that the evolutionary origins of our normative judgments and intuitions cause insuper-
able epistemological difficulties for a metaethical view she calls “normative realism.”
I will be claiming, in reply, that there are two largely independent lines of argument
in Street’s work which need to be teased apart. The first of these involves a genuine ap-
peal to evolutionary considerations, but it can fairly easily be met by her opponents.
The second line of argument is more troubling; it raises a significant problem, one of
the most difficult in all of philosophy, namely how to justify our reliance on our most
basic cognitive faculties without relying on those same faculties in a question-begging
manner. However, evolutionary considerations add little to this old problem, and
rejecting normative realism is not a way to solve it.
My way of arguing for these conclusions will involve two basic strategies, deployed in
tandem. First, I will be insisting that Street’s own preferred metaethical view, so-called

1
Similar evolutionary arguments have been offered by Richard Joyce (2001, ch. 6; 2006; forthcoming)
and Matthew Bedke (2009; forthcoming). The original version of this chapter was a response to all three
authors, under the title “The Metaethical Irrelevance of Evolutionary Theory.” However, when I returned to
that piece after several years spent working on other projects, I found that I had so much to say about Street’s
articles, much of it not applicable to Joyce’s and Bedke’s work, that it no longer made sense to treat all three
authors as offering versions of essentially the same argument. I hope on a future occasion to give Joyce’s and
Bedke’s evolutionary arguments the attention they deserve.
216 Selim Berker

“Humean constructivism,” is just as threatened by her arguments as her opponents’

views are. I do so because seeing why Street is mistaken in thinking that Humean con-
structivism is better placed to avoid her evolutionary challenge than varieties of nor-
mative realism are will allow us to separate the two independent lines of argument in
Street’s work, and will allow us to recognize which of her explanatory demands are
reasonable and which unreasonable. Second, I will be paying close attention to two dif-
ferent dependency relations: the causation relation and the in-virtue-of relation. I do
so because I believe Street’s first line of argument only looks troubling for her oppo-
nents if we ignore the second of these relations. This is ironic, because Street’s own ex-
planation of why Humean constructivism avoids that first line of argument involves an
appeal to the in-virtue-of relation. But if she is allowed to appeal to this relation, then
her opponents should be allowed to appeal to it as well. By doing so, normative real-
ists can defuse Street’s first line of argument. Of course, they must still contend with
Street’s second line of argument. But so too, I will argue, must Street.

2. Street on Realism versus Antirealism

Street takes her evolutionary argument to refute a metaethical view she dubs “nor-
mative realism” and to support a metaethical view she dubs “normative antirealism.”
However, Street uses these terms in a somewhat idiosyncratic manner, so it is worth
pausing to get clear on what, exactly, Street takes the target of her argument to be.
Following Street, let us use the expression “evaluative attitudes” to cover at least the
following: “desires,” “attitudes of approval or disapproval,” “unreflective evaluative
tendencies” (such as a tendency to experience fact F as counting in favor of or as de-
manding ϕ-ing), and “consciously or unconsciously held normative judgments” (such
as the judgment that F is a reason for agent A to ϕ in circumstance C).2 As Street sees
it, the realism versus antirealism dispute in metaethics 3 turns on whether normative
facts are grounded in our evaluative attitudes. More precisely, she defines realism and
antirealism about normativity as follows:
normative realism: There are at least some normative facts or truths that hold independently of
all our evaluative attitudes.

2
See Street 2006, 110; 2008b, 226 n. 3; 2009b, 295 n. 8; and MSb, 39 n. 3. Perhaps a better term for this
cluster of attitudes would be “normative attitudes,” since many of them concern what is fitting and what
is required, not just what is good. (In her 2006, Street uses “evaluative” as the most general term for any-
thing having to do with oughtness, goodness, appropriateness, and so on; in subsequent work, however, she
adopts the more standard practice of using the term “normative” to play this role, with one main exception,
namely continuing to call the relevant set of attitudes “evaluative attitudes.”)
In the literature on the metaphysics and epistemology of intuitions, there is currently a debate over
whether an intuition is a type of judgment or rather some other sort of entity, such as an intellectual seeming.
(For references, see Pust 2012, §1.) Street’s category “evaluative attitude” is wide enough that, whichever way
we side in this debate, normative intuitions count as evaluative attitudes.
3
In this chapter I use the term “metaethics” broadly, to cover the second order investigation of all first
order norms, not just distinctively moral ones and not just those governing action.
 NORMATIVITY MIND-DEPENDENT? 217

normative antirealism: There are no normative facts or truths that hold independently of all our
evaluative attitudes.4

The sort of dependency at issue here is an asymmetric relation of metaphysical de-

pendence between individual facts or truths.5 Let N be some normative fact, such as [I
have reason to ϕ], and let A be some attitudinal fact, such as [I judge that I have reason
to ϕ].6 To say that N depends on A, in the relevant sense, is to say any of the following:
A grounds N.
A makes it the case that N obtains.
N obtains in virtue of A.
N obtains because A obtains.

To say that N holds independently of A is to say that N does not depend, even in part,
on A. This variety of dependence should be familiar from discussions of the Euthyphro
dilemma.7 Socrates asked: Is an act pious because it is loved by the gods, or is it loved by
the gods because it is pious? The modern, secular version of this question becomes: Do

4
See Street 2006, 110; 2008a, 207; 2008b, 208; 2009a, 214; 2009b, 274; and MSb, 2. There are two extra
complications that Street occasionally adds to her definitions of realism and antirealism, but which I think
we do best to ignore.
First, Street sometimes defines normative realism as the view that there are at least some normative facts
or truths that hold independently of all our evaluative attitudes “and what follows, as a logical or instru-
mental matter, from those attitudes in combination with the non-normative facts,” and qualifies her def-
inition of normative antirealism in a similar way (Street 2009b, 274; see also Street 2009a, 214, and MSb,
2). However, there is no need to include this extra conjunct in our definitions of realism and antirealism.
The fact [P follows, as a logical or instrumental matter, from our evaluative attitudes together with the
non-normative facts] does not hold independently of the facts about our evaluative attitudes. Therefore the
definitions of realism and antirealism without the extra conjunct are logically equivalent to the definitions
with the extra conjunct. (Moreover, talk of what “follows, as a logical or instrumental matter,” from a set of
evaluative attitudes plus the non-normative facts only makes sense given the truth of the metaethical view
Street calls “constructivism,” so defining antirealism with the additional conjunct threatens to collapse the
distinction between antirealism and constructivism, whereas Street intends constructivism to be only one
variety of antirealism.)
Second, Street sometimes requires normative realists to hold that at least some of the evaluative-
attitude-independent normative truths concern what one has reason simpliciter to do or what one ought
simpliciter to do (Street 2008b, 221–5). I think it is a mistake to build this requirement into the definition
of normative realism. It is not uncommon for theorists to hold that there exist mind-independent, genu-
inely normative facts despite there being no facts about what one ought to do, full stop. (To give but one
example: Consider the view that there are facts about what we objectively ought to do, and facts about what
we subjectively ought to do, but no facts about a variety of “ought” that takes into account both objective and
subjective considerations.) Even if, ultimately, such views are unsatisfactory, they should not be ruled out of
court by terminological decree.
5
Henceforth I write “fact” instead of “fact or truth.” Don’t read too much into my use of the word “meta-
physical” in the phrase “metaphysical dependence”; I am simply using it to flag that the sort of dependence
being discussed is not of a causal, conceptual, semantic, or epistemic variety. If you prefer talk of normative
dependence, feel free to use that terminology instead.
6
Throughout, I follow Gideon Rosen (2010) in using “[p]” as shorthand for “the fact that p,” and I follow
Matthew Evans and Nishi Shah (2012) in using “attitudinal fact” as shorthand for “fact about evaluative
attitudes.”
7
Street identifies the type of dependence at issue in the normative realism/antirealism debate with the
type of dependence at issue in the Euthyphro dilemma in her 2009a, 213; 2009b, 274; 2010, 370; 2012, 41; and
MSb, 40 n. 8.
218 Selim Berker

I have reason to perform some act because my evaluative attitudes favor it, or do my
evaluative attitudes favor that act because I have reason to perform it? Or, in other
words, is normativity mind-dependent? Are reasons, values, and duties found or
created?
There are two main varieties of normative realism:8
naturalist normative realism: There are at least some normative facts that hold independently
of all our evaluative attitudes, and all of these normative facts are either identical to or entirely
grounded in natural facts.9
non-naturalist normative realism: There are at least some normative facts that hold independ-
ently of all our evaluative attitudes, and at least some of these normative facts are non-natural
and ungrounded.

There are two varieties of normative antirealism:

nihilist normative antirealism: There are no normative facts.
non-nihilist normative antirealism: There are at least some normative facts, and all of these nor-
mative facts are at least partially grounded in facts about our evaluative attitudes.

According to Street, non-nihilist versions of normative antirealism include Bernard

Williams’s account of internal reasons, David Lewis’s dispositional theory of value,
Christine Korsgaard’s Kantian constructivism, and her own Humean constructivism.10
Using the labels “realism” and “antirealism” to pick out the two sides of this dispute
over the mind-dependence of normativity leads—or, at least, threatens to lead—to
some surprising taxonomic consequences. In particular, it seems that preference util-
itarianism and the combination of ethical egoism and an actual-desire-based theory of
well-being both count as antirealist on Street’s definition. Consider the following ver-
sions of such views (similar points hold for other versions):
preference utilitarianism: Agent A ought to ϕ in circumstance C if and only if, and because, A’s
ϕ-ing in C better serves everyone’s preferences than any alternative available to A in C.
actual-desire-based ethical egoism: Agent A ought to ϕ in circumstances C if and only if, and be-
cause, A’s ϕ-ing in C better promotes A’s desires than any alternative available to A in C.

The “because” in these formulations picks out the in-virtue-of relation. Thus, ac-
cording to the former view, [Agent A ought to ϕ in circumstance C] is grounded in
[A’s ϕ-ing in C better serves everyone’s preferences than any alternative available to

8
I say “main” because there are other forms of normative realism beyond these two. For example, a realist
view on which every normative fact is at least partially grounded in another normative fact does not count as
either naturalist or non-naturalist, by these definitions.
9
In what follows I shall, for ease of exposition, ignore the varieties of naturalist normative realism that
take normative facts to be identical to natural facts. Everything I go on to say about versions of naturalism
formulated in terms of grounding will apply, mutatis mutandis, to versions of naturalism formulated in
terms of identity.
10
Street cites Williams as an antirealist in her 2009b, 295; 2012, 42 n. 6; and MSa, 11–12; she cites Lewis as
an antirealist in her 2006, 163 n. 57; 2011, 16, 31; and 2012, 42 n. 6; and she cites Korsgaard as an antirealist in
nearly every article she has written.
 NORMATIVITY MIND-DEPENDENT? 219

A in C], which itself is grounded in facts about everyone’s evaluative attitudes (prefer-
ences being one form of evaluative attitude). And according to the latter view, [Agent
A ought to ϕ in circumstances C] is grounded in [A’s ϕ-ing in C better promotes A’s
desires than any alternative available to A in C], which itself is grounded in facts about
A’s evaluative attitudes (desires being one form of evaluative attitude). It follows that
both of these theories qualify as forms of antirealism.11 But shouldn’t preference utili-
tarianism and ethical egoism be compatible with realism?
In one way, it is not particularly troubling if Street’s use of the labels “realism” and
“antirealism” forces us to deem preference utilitarians and ethical egoists to be antire-
alists. The reason these examples seem to cause trouble for Street’s taxonomy is due to
the widespread belief that (i) utilitarianism and egoism are positions in normative (i.e.
first order) ethics, (ii) realism and antirealism are positions in meta- (i.e. second order)
ethics, and (iii) any position in normative ethics is compatible with just about any pos-
ition in metaethics (except, perhaps, for metaethical views such as nihilism which en-
tail that there is no such subject as normative ethics). But maybe we should give up
on some or all of these assumptions. Maybe some normative ethical views have direct
metaethical implications. Maybe mind-dependence is an issue in normative ethics,
not metaethics.12 And maybe utilitarianism and egoism are best thought of as meta­
ethical positions, or as positions both in metaethics and in normative ethics. In the
end, does it matter too much whether a philosophical position falls on one or the other
side of the metaethics versus normative ethics divide? Indeed, does it even matter that
there be a coherent metaethics versus normative ethics divide? Subdisciplinary tax-
onomy is not an end in itself.
But there is another, more pressing reason why deeming preference utilitarianism
and ethical egoism to be forms of antirealism should trouble Street. Street wants her
evolutionary argument for antirealism to have a surprising conclusion. However, if
preference utilitarianism and ethical egoism end up being forms of antirealism, in
Street’s sense, then it will turn out that many naturalists can accept Street’s evolutionary
argument without worry. Indeed, given that, according to Street (2006, 146–52), expe-
riences of pleasure and pain are best thought of as being constituted by evaluative atti-
tudes, it will turn out that almost all naturalists are untouched by Street’s argument,
since there are very few naturalists who ultimately ground normative facts in some-
thing other than conative states such as desires and experiential states such as pleasure

11
I assume here that the grounding relation is transitive. I also assume that these theories either deny
that there are any other normative facts beyond the ones within their scope, or ground those other norma-
tive facts in the same sorts of considerations that ground facts about what one ought to do (for example,
grounding [A is epistemically justified in believing that p] in facts about everyone’s preferences or facts
about A’s desires; see Kornblith 1993 and Petersen 2013 for views of this sort).
12
As Simon Blackburn, Ronald Dworkin, and Allan Gibbard have all urged. (Street expresses a willingness
to concede this point to Blackburn, Dworkin, and Gibbard for the sake of argument in multiple places; see
her 2008b, 227 n. 23; 2009a, 215; 2009b, 295 n. 9; 2010, 378; and MSb, 9, 40 n. 8.)
220 Selim Berker

and pain.13 Naturalist normative realism will be a position in logical space, but one not
occupied by any practicing philosophers.
It is for this reason, I suspect, that Street in effect embraces a second way of respond-
ing to the taxonomic puzzle I have raised.14 On this approach, we insist that facts about
what grounds normative facts themselves count as normative facts. Then whether a
given form of preference utilitarianism is a realist or antirealist position will depend
on whether the grounding fact [[A ought to ϕ in C] is grounded in [A’s ϕ-ing in C
better serves everyone’s preferences than any alternative available to A in C]] is itself
grounded in facts about evaluative attitudes. And similarly for forms of ethical egoism
that embrace actual-desire-based theories of well-being: They will be compatible with
both realism and antirealism, depending on whether a certain grounding fact is itself
grounded in facts about evaluative attitudes.
This move saves the debate, but it is not without its costs. I mention here just two.
First, it commits the antirealist to an infinite hierarchy of grounding facts. For every
normative fact N, not only must N be grounded in at least one attitudinal fact, but that
first order grounding fact must itself be grounded in at least one attitudinal fact, that
second order grounding fact must itself be grounded in at least one attitudinal fact, and
so on, ad infinitum. Thus if Ai are all attitudinal facts, we have the following:15
[N ← A1],
[[N ← A1] ← A2],
[[[N ← A1] ← A2] ← A3],
....

The existence of such an infinite hierarchy of grounding facts—not groundings “all the
way down,”16 but rather groundings “all the way out”—might make some queasy. For

13
Knut Skarsaune makes a related point in his 2011, 240–1.
14
My evidence that Street embraces this reply is threefold. First, she explicitly states that whether varieties
of naturalism formulated in terms of natural–normative identities count as realist or antirealist depends
on whether those identities are themselves grounded in attitudinal facts (Street 2006, 135–41; 2008b, 223).
The natural extension of this proposal to varieties of naturalism formulated in terms of natural–normative
grounding claims is to say that whether such views count as realist or antirealist depends on whether the
relevant natural–normative grounding claims are themselves grounded in attitudinal facts. Second, one of
Street’s ways of replying to a common objection to her evolutionary argument crucially relies on the claim
that facts about the grounds of normative facts are substantive normative facts (see §5 in this chapter). Third,
Street’s own metaethical view, Humean constructivism, is a proposal about the ultimate grounds of all nor-
mative truths (see §6), and she regularly treats that view as itself a normative truth grounded in the very
thing which, according to that view, grounds all normative truths (see Street 2009a, 216 n. 7; 2010, 378, 382
n. 16; MSa, 14–17; and MSb, 36–8).
15
Throughout, I use “F1 ← F2” as shorthand for “F1 is at least partially grounded in F2.” (This is a slight var-
iant of Rosen’s conventions in his 2010.)
16
Groundings “all the way down” would have the following form:
[N ← A1],
[A1 ← A2],
[A2 ← A3],
....
 NORMATIVITY MIND-DEPENDENT? 221

instance, we might wonder whether there are enough evaluative attitudes to ground
everything in this infinite hierarchy.17
A second cost of this move is that Lewis and Williams, two of Street’s canonical
examples of antirealists, now no longer count as antirealists, in her sense. Lewis can
plausibly be read as grounding facts about value in attitudinal facts, and Williams can
plausibly be read as grounding facts about reasons for action in attitudinal facts.18 But
neither Lewis nor Williams can plausibly be read as holding that the fact that value or
reason facts are grounded in attitudinal facts is itself grounded in attitudinal facts.19
I have gone through this excursus on Street’s definitions of realism and antireal-
ism for two reasons. First, it shows just how strong a view Streetian antirealism is.
Indeed, I doubt that anyone other than Street has ever defended a non-nihilist ver-
sion of normative antirealism, in her sense. This makes it all the more impressive if

17
A partial reply to this worry: Because we are dealing with groundings “all the way out” and not “all the
way down,” allowing that Ai = Aj when i ≠ j does not commit us, via transitivity, to a fact partially grounding
itself. Thus it is open to the antirealist to ground this infinite hierarchy of grounding facts in a finite number
of attitudinal facts. (And, as we shall see, this is precisely what Street proposes: for Street, the same attitudinal
facts which ground [N ← A1] also ground each subsequent fact in our regress. See n. 54.)
18
For a contrary interpretation of Williams, see Manne 2014, 106.
19
Given these two costs, some might wonder whether the medicine I have offered Street, and which I be-
lieve she herself takes (see n. 14), is worse than the disease. Maybe Street should pursue one of the following
strategies instead:
•
 Insist that facts about the grounds of normative facts are not themselves normative, and try to find
a way of rephrasing the definitions of realism and antirealism so that preference utilitarianism and
ethical egoism are deemed to be compatible with either realism or antirealism, whereas Lewis’s and
Williams’s views are automatically categorized as antirealist.
•
 Insist that the because/grounding relation featured in first order ethical theories is distinct from the
because/grounding relation employed in metaethics (and hence in Street’s definitions of realism and
antirealism), and hold that only facts concerning the extension of the former relation count as norma-
tive facts.
I am dubious of the assumptions that underlie both of these proposals. (I doubt that facts about the grounds
of normative facts are somehow not normative despite entailing the normative facts being grounded, and
I doubt that we have two sorts of grounding relation here, one “internal” to first order ethical theory and the
other “external” to it; for more discussion of this second issue, see Berker MSc.) But even if we put my reser-
vations to one side, these two strategies will not succeed in what is presumably their primary aim, which is
to avoid saddling Street with a commitment to an infinite hierarchy of groundings “all the way out.” For as
we shall see, even if facts about the grounds (or groundsmetaethics) of normative facts are not themselves nor-
mative, facts of this sort—because they lack causal powers—will be just as susceptible to Street’s Darwinian
challenge as normative facts are. Hence if Street’s argument for the attitude-dependence of normative facts is
sound, a similar argument can establish that facts about the grounds (or groundsmetaethics) of normative facts
are attitude-dependent, whether or not those facts count as normative. Thus even if antirealism as such is
not committed to an infinite hierarchy of groundings “all the way out,” the sort of antirealism motivated by
Street’s evolutionary argument is so committed. (For similar reasons, even if we can find a way of reformu-
lating antirealism so that Williams and Lewis count as antirealists, it will still turn out that Williams’s and
Lewis’s views fall within the target of Street’s Darwinian argument, since Williams and Lewis do not take
their claims about what certain normative facts depend on to themselves be attitude-dependent claims.)
In order to avoid having to distinguish between antirealism as such and the sort of antirealism motivated
by Street’s evolutionary argument, I will, in what follows, work under the assumption that facts about the
grounds of normative facts qualify as normative facts, and under the assumption that the sort of grounding
or in-virtue-of talk at issue in metaethics is not distinct from the sort of grounding or in-virtue-of talk at
issue in normative ethics.
222 Selim Berker

Street’s evolutionary argument can show that normative antirealism is true. Second,
this excursus establishes what will become a common theme in this chapter: that when
evaluating Street’s argument, what grounds grounding facts is where most of the phil-
osophical action is.

3. Street’s Darwinian Dilemma for Normative

Realists
Street’s evolutionary argument against normative realism starts from the following
premise:
the Darwinian hypothesis: Natural selection and other evolutionary factors have had a tremen-
dous influence on the content of our evaluative attitudes.

Given this hypothesis, Street holds that realists must take a stand on the relation be-
tween the evolutionary forces that have influenced the content of our evaluative attitudes
and the attitude-independent normative truths posited by the realist. This leads to a di-
lemma for the realist:
first horn (pushing-toward horn): Hold that evolutionary forces have tended to push our nor-
mative judgments (and other evaluative attitudes) toward the attitude-independent normative
truth.
second horn (at-best-random horn): Hold that evolutionary forces have tended to push our nor-
mative judgments (and other evaluative attitudes) either away from or neither away from nor
toward the attitude-independent normative truth.20

Talk of pushing here is of course metaphorical: The crucial issue is whether evo-
lutionary forces have tended to influence our judgments about reasons, values,
duties, and other normative matters in such a way as to make them line up with the
attitude-independent facts about such matters. The first horn holds that this is the case;
the second horn holds that it is not.21

20
In what follows, I drop the “and other evaluative attitudes” qualifiers in these horns and restrict my dis-
cussion to evolution’s impact on our normative judgments; parallel issues arise for other types of evaluative
attitudes.
21
Let us use “EF” as shorthand for “the evolutionary forces that have influenced the content of our evalua-
tive attitudes” and “NT” as shorthand for “the attitude-independent normative truths posited by the realist.”
In her early work, Street characterizes her dilemma by saying that, on the first horn, the realist “asserts [or
affirms] a relation” between EF and NT, whereas, on the second horn, the realist “denies a relation” between
EF and NT (Street 2006, 121; 2008, 208–9). I find this way of describing the horns of Street’s dilemma un-
helpful. In the logician’s sense of “relation,” there is always a relation between EF and NT: There always exist
infinitely many two-place relations that hold between EF and NT. But if we use “relation” in a more restricted
sense, then it is far from clear what relation Street means to be picking out. (David Copp makes a similar
point in his 2008, 205 n. 9.) Luckily, in her later work, Street clarifies which relation she has in mind, namely
the pushing-toward relation I have invoked in my formulation of her dilemma (Street 2008b, 208, 226 n. 4;
2011, 12).
 NORMATIVITY MIND-DEPENDENT? 223

According to Street, the problem with the first horn is empirical (Street 2006, 125–
35; 2008b, 209; 2009a, 234–6; 2011, 12–13). Street claims that realists who embrace this
horn are forced to endorse the following explanation:
the tracking account: Evolutionary forces have tended to make our normative judgments track
the attitude-independent normative truth because it promoted our ancestors’ reproductive suc-
cess to make true normative judgments (or to make proto versions of them).

But Street thinks the tracking account is bad science; she insists that a far more scien-
tifically respectable account—in terms of parsimony, clarity, and degree of illumina-
tion—is the following:
the adaptive-link account: Evolutionary forces have pushed us toward making certain normative
judgments because (i) making (proto versions of) those judgments made our ancestors more
likely to act in accordance with them, and (ii) it promoted reproductive success to act in those
ways.

Suppose evolutionary factors are partially responsible for my judging the proposi-
tion <I have conclusive reason to ϕ> to be true.22 Figure 10.1 shows the sort of depend-
ency structure put forward by the tracking and adaptive-link accounts for the fact that
I make this judgment.23 The tracking account postulates the existence of normative
facts, whereas the adaptive-link account does not, so the tracking account is less parsi-
monious than the adaptive-link account (Street 2006, 129). The tracking account leaves
it mysterious how the truth of certain normative facts could make judgments about
the obtaining of those facts reproductively advantageous, whereas the adaptive-link
account contains no such obscurities, so the tracking account is less clear than the
adaptive-link account (Street 2006, 129–32). And, when we look at the full pattern of
normative judgments influenced by evolutionary factors, the adaptive-link account
reveals an illuminating unity to these judgments which the tracking account is unable
to detect (Street 2006, 132–4). All told, Street argues, the tracking account does not fare
well in comparison to the adaptive-link account, as a purely empirical matter.
So perhaps the realist is better off embracing the second horn of Street’s dilemma,
according to which evolutionary forces have tended to push our normative judgments
in ways that are at best random with respect to the attitude-independent normative
truth. Here Street thinks the problem is not empirical but epistemological (Street
2006, 121–5; 2008b, 208–9; 2009a, 233–4; 2011, 13–14). She writes:
As a purely conceptual matter, the independent normative truth could be anything. . . . But if
there are innumerable things such that it’s conceptually possible they’re ultimately worth pursu-
ing, and yet our [normative judgments] have been shaped from the outset by forces that are as
good as random with respect to the normative truth, then what are the odds that our [normative

22
Throughout, I use “<p>” as shorthand for “the proposition that p.”
23
In all figures in this chapter, dashed arrows represent the “tends to (at least partially) cause” relation, and
solid arrows represent the “tends to (at least partially) ground” relation.
224 Selim Berker

Tracking account: Adaptive-link account:

[I judge <I have conclusive reason to φ >] [I judge <I have conclusive reason to φ >]

[Judging <I have conclusive reason to φ > promoted [Judging <I have conclusive reason to φ > promoted
reproductive success in my ancestors’ environment] reproductive success in my ancestors’ environment]

[My ancestors had conclusive reason to φ]

[Judging <I have conclusive reason to φ > [φ -ing promoted reproductive success
made my ancestors more likely to φ] in my ancestors’ environment]

Figure 10.1

judgments] will have hit, as a matter of sheer coincidence, on those things which are independ-
ently really worth pursuing? (Street 2011, 14)

Thus on the second horn the realist is forced to embrace the “skeptical conclusion”
that “our normative judgments are in all likelihood hopelessly off track” (Street
2008b, 208). Since this horn is just as unpalatable as the first one, and since the realist
has no option but to choose one of them, Street concludes that normative realism is
false.
Street presents her argument as if it is an argument for normative antirealism. But
she does not actually argue against the skeptical conclusion which threatens the realist
on the second horn of her dilemma: She simply dismisses this possibility as “implau-
sible” (Street 2006, 109, 122; 2008b, 209; 2011, 14; MSb, 18, 21, 35) or “unacceptable”
(Street 2006, 135; 2008b, 211; 2009a, 228, 238; MSa, 11; MSb, 37). This is too quick.
Skepticism with regard to normative matters—much like skepticism about other mat-
ters (the external world, induction, and so on)—is a legitimate theoretical possibility
that must be reckoned with, not casually brushed aside. So really Street’s evolutionary
argument is for a disjunctive conclusion: Either normative antirealism is true, or nor-
mative skepticism is true (where the former is a metaphysical thesis about the grounds
of normative truths, the latter an epistemological thesis about our inability to know
such truths). No matter, though: It would still be an incredibly significant contribution
if even this disjunctive conclusion could be established.24

24
At times Street gestures toward what might seem to be an argument against normative skepticism, when
she claims that “one must reject [normative skepticism] if one is to go on making normative judgments at
all” (Street MSb, 35; see also Street 2010, 383 n. 60, and 2011, 16). However, this is not an argument against the
truth of normative skepticism; rather, it is an argument against the rational coherence of accepting norma-
tive skepticism while continuing to make normative judgments.
 NORMATIVITY MIND-DEPENDENT? 225

4. Complications with the First Horn

The general thrust of Street’s argument is clear, but once we look under the surface,
complications arise. In particular, there are two problems with the pushing-toward
horn of Street’s dilemma.25
First problem: the adaptive-link account is inadequate as it stands. As applied to
the proposition <I have conclusive reason to ϕ>, the adaptive-link account starts by
assuming a version of motivational internalism (Street 2006, 157 n. 13; 2008a, 228 n. 37,
230; 2010, 376):
(MI) Necessarily, if an agent judges <I have conclusive reason to ϕ>, then she is at least some-
what motivated to ϕ.26

Then the thought is that if ϕ-ing promoted reproductive success in our ancestors’ envi-
ronment, those of our ancestors who judged <I have conclusive reason to ϕ> did better
at propagating their genes than those who didn’t. However, this explanation is not fully
satisfactory. First, to apply the adaptive-link account across the board, we need a ver-
sion of motivational internalism to hold with regard to every normative proposition.
But it is far from clear that all normative claims have a distinct necessarily accompany-
ing motivational shadow. For example, consider the following propositions:
<I have a reason to ϕ, but it is heavily outweighed by other considerations>;
<I am permitted but not required to ϕ>;
<In virtue of [p], I have conclusive reason to ϕ>.27

25
There are also problems with the at-best-random horn, but I pass them over on this occasion. First
issue: Does Street think our normative judgments fail to be justified or to constitute knowledge if they in fact
do not track the normative truth, or do they only fail to be justified or to constitute knowledge if we realize
that our normative judgments do not track the normative truth? Second issue: What exactly is this tracking
relation? The textual evidence suggests that Street takes the relevant tracking relation to be a Nozick-style
sensitivity condition (if it were false that p, S would not judge that p), but where instead of evaluating the
relevant subjunctive conditional in terms of metaphysically possible worlds, as is customary, we instead
evaluate it in terms of conceptually possible worlds. (Presumably this last bit is to avoid the consequence
that judgments about metaphysically necessary propositions automatically satisfy the tracking require-
ment, since subjunctive conditionals with impossible antecedents are trivially true.) But requiring our judg-
ments to satisfy such a constraint in order to be justified or in order to constitute knowledge leads to deeply
counterintuitive consequences: Some of these consequences are the familiar ones that bedevil all sensitivity
views, and some of these consequences are new ones arising from the appeal to conceptual possibility. I hope
to discuss these matters in greater detail in future work.
26
Street stresses the importance of motivational internalism for the adaptive-link account, but in fact even
motivational externalists can endorse a version of the adaptive-link account, as long as they hold that judg-
ing <I have conclusive reason to ϕ> is highly correlated in the actual world with being at least somewhat
motivated to ϕ.
27
Why the first of these is problematic: It’s one thing to claim that an agent’s motivations must reflect
her all-things-considered verdicts about her reasons, but quite another to claim that every single judgment
about an overridden pro tanto reason must have a motivational residue. Why the second of these is problem-
atic: Motivation’s scalar structure does not map well onto non-scalar categories such as the merely permit-
ted. Why the third of these is problematic: If the adaptive-link account explains why we evolved to have a
tendency to judge <In virtue of [p], I have conclusive reason to ϕ> in addition to having a tendency to judge
<p, and I have conclusive reason to ϕ>, then the motivational profile of the former must be different from
the motivational profile of the latter. But it is not clear that they are. (Note that parallel problems arises even
226 Selim Berker

Second, the adaptive-link account leaves it mysterious why we didn’t evolve merely
to have the relevant motivations on their own, without any accompanying normative
judgments. If the only evolutionary value of normative judgments are their motiva-
tional effects, wouldn’t it have been much cheaper for evolutionary forces to instill in
us those motivational effects by themselves without any accompanying judgments (or
proto-judgments)?28
I am not denying that there is an acceptable evolutionary explanation of our ten-
dency to make certain normative judgments. I am not even denying that the mecha-
nisms highlighted by the adaptive-link account could play an important role in this
more complete explanation.29 My point, rather, is that the more complete evolutionary
explanation will lack the beguiling simplicity of the adaptive-link account.
The second problem with the pushing-toward horn of Street’s dilemma is more
serious: Street’s argument for why realists who embrace this horn must accept the
tracking account rests on an equivocation. Here is what Street says:
The only way for realism both to accept that [our evaluative] attitudes have been deeply influ-
enced by evolutionary causes and to avoid seeing these causes as distorting is for it to claim that
these causes actually in some way tracked the alleged independent truths. There is no other way
to go. To abandon the tracking account . . . is just to adopt the view that selective pressures either
pushed us away from or pushed us in ways that bear no relation to these [normative] truths.
(Street 2006, 134–5)

But this passage uses the label “tracking account” in a broader way than Street uses it
elsewhere. In these sentences Street is understanding the tracking account as follows:
tracking account (in the broad sense): Evolutionary forces have tended to make our normative
judgments track the attitude-independent normative truth.

In contrast, when she first introduces the tracking account (Street 2006, 125–6), and
when she argues that it is scientifically unacceptable (Street 2006, 126–34), Street
understands the tracking account more narrowly:
tracking account (in the narrow sense): Evolutionary forces have tended to make our normative
judgments track the attitude-independent normative truth because it promoted our ancestors’
reproductive success to make true normative (proto) judgments.30

for versions of the adaptive-link account formulated in terms of motivational externalism: The motivational
profiles here need not be necessary ones.)
28
Michael J. Deem makes a similar point in his 2012. See also Parfit 2011, 2: 527–8.
29
For example, maybe we can make Street’s adaptive-link account more empirically adequate by append-
ing to it an account which appeals to Allan Gibbard’s idea of normative governance, according to which our
linguistically infused normative judgments have a tendency to influence each other’s normative judgments
through discussion and avowal. See Gibbard 1990, ch. 4.
30
In fact, sometimes Street understands the tracking account more narrowly still:
tracking account (in the even more narrow sense): Evolutionary forces have tended to make
our normative judgments track the attitude-independent normative truth because it pro-
moted our ancestors’ reproductive success to make true attitude-independent normative
(proto) judgments.
 NORMATIVITY MIND-DEPENDENT? 227

According to the first horn of the Darwinian dilemma, evolutionary forces have tended
to push our normative judgments toward the attitude-independent normative truth. If
we take “pushing our normative judgments toward the normative truth” to be equiv-
alent to “making our normative judgments track the normative truth,” then this horn
does indeed entail the broad tracking account—does indeed entail that evolutionary
forces have tended to make our normative judgments track the attitude-independent
normative truth. But this entailed fact is compatible with any number of stories con-
cerning in virtue of what evolutionary forces have tended to make our normative judg-
ments track the attitude-independent normative truth. The narrow tracking account is
only one of those many stories.31
Therefore Street has not successfully shown that the first horn forces realists to ac-
cept a tracking account in the narrow sense, which is what she needs for her argument
to go through. We can formulate this problem as a dilemma: Either we understand
the tracking account in the broad sense, in which case Street has not provided an ar-
gument that the tracking account is scientifically unacceptable, or we understand the
tracking account in the narrow sense, in which case Street has not established that real-
ists who take the first horn of her dilemma must endorse the tracking account. Either
way, Street’s first horn requires sharpening before it can impale the realist.32

5. The Third-Factor Response

One popular way of resisting Street’s Darwinian dilemma is to exploit the opening left
by the second problem I have just mentioned for its pushing-toward horn. The typical
way of doing this is to offer, instead of a narrow tracking account, an explanation of the
following form:
a third-factor account: Evolutionary forces have tended to make our normative judgments track
the attitude-independent normative truth because, for each normative judgment influenced by
evolution in this way, there is some third factor, F, such that
(i) F tends to causally (help) make it the case that (proto) judging in that way promotes repro-
ductive success (when in our ancestors’ environment), and
(ii) F tends to metaphysically (help) make it the case that the content of that judgment is true.33

Street uses “tracking account” to pick out the narrow tracking account in her 2006, 109, 125–8, 129–34, 151;
2009a, 240, 242; and 2011, 13; and she uses “tracking account” to pick out the even-more-narrow tracking
account in her 2006, 129, 141, 151, 154; 2008b, 209–10; 2009a, 234, 241; and 2011, 12, 13. The only place where
Street uses “tracking account” to pick out the broad tracking account is in the one place where she explicitly
argues that realists who embrace the first horn of her Darwinian dilemma must endorse the tracking ac-
count, in her 2006, 134–5.
31
Copp makes a similar point, when he distinguishes between what he calls “the tracking thesis” and “the
tracking account” (Copp 2008, 194–5).
32
In her 2008b, 209, 211, Street seems to recognize that a narrow tracking account is not the only option on
the first horn of her Darwinian dilemma. However, in her 2009a, 234, and 2011, 12–13, she goes back to saying
that a narrow tracking account is the only option on that horn.
33
I assume here, for convenience, that facts are among the causal relata. If you think that, say, only events
can be causes and effects, feel free to reformulate everything I say accordingly.
228 Selim Berker

The first person to offer a third-factor account in response to an argument much like
Street’s was Robert Nozick, who in his 1981 book Philosophical Explanations wrote:
The ethical behavior will serve inclusive fitness through serving or not harming others, through
helping one’s children and relatives, through acts that aid them in escaping predators, and
so forth; that this behavior is helpful and not harmful is not unconnected to why (on most
theorist[s’] views) it is ethical. The ethical behavior will increase inclusive fitness through the
very aspects that make it ethical, not as a side effect through features that only accidentally are
connected with ethicality. (Nozick 1981, 346)

Third-factor accounts of various forms have also been offered by Kevin Brosnan (2011),
David Copp (2008), David Enoch (2010), Knut Skarsaune (2011), and Erik Wielenberg
(2010).34
As I see it, there are two basic thoughts behind third-factor accounts. The first is that
we don’t, in general, need to posit a direct dependency relation between a judgment
that p and the fact that p in order to explain why it is not a cosmic coincidence that the
former tracks the latter. Certainly a direct dependency relation will do: If my judgment
that p is caused by the fact that p, or if my judgment that p causes the fact that p, then it
is no mystery why judgment tracks fact. But this is not the only option. For example, a
common-cause structure will suffice as well. Suppose you intend to stay home sick to-
morrow and tell me so; as a result, I judge that you will stay home sick tomorrow. When
tomorrow you do in fact stay home, it is no mystery why my judgment that you would
tracked the truth, but in this case we do not have a direct causal link: My judgment
did not cause you to stay home (I don’t have this much influence on you, alas), and
your staying home did not cause my judgment the day before (no backwards causation
here). Rather, a common-cause structure explains the tracking relation between judg-
ment and fact: Your intention to stay home both caused my judgment and caused the
content of that judgment to be true.35
The second thought behind third-factor accounts is that, when explaining why a
given judgment tracks a given fact, any sort of a dependency relation is enough: We
need not restrict ourselves to the causation relation. In particular, the grounding re-
lation (and its converse, the in-virtue-of relation) will do. Thus in order to explain
why my judgment that p tracks the fact that p, we can take a common-cause structure
and swap in the grounding relation for one of the two causal relations. What results,
when <p> is normative, is a third-factor account (see Figure 10.2): We posit some
non-normative third fact on which my judgment that p causally depends and on which
the fact that p metaphysically depends. Doing so allows us to explain tracking relations

34
These authors all offer third-factor accounts as ways of defending realism against Street’s evolutionary
challenge. Simon Blackburn (MS) and Jamie Dreier (2012; see esp. p. 283) in effect offer third-factor accounts
as ways of defending quasi-realism against Street’s challenge. The label “third-factor account” originates,
I believe, in Enoch 2010.
35
I assume here, for illustrative purposes, that an intention causes (rather than partially constitutes) its
corresponding action.
 NORMATIVITY MIND-DEPENDENT? 229

A third-factor account:

[I judge <I have conclusive reason to φ >]

[Judging <I have conclusive reason to φ > promoted

reproductive success in my ancestors’ environment] [I have conclusive reason to φ ]

Figure 10.2

between normative facts and normative judgments, without taking normative facts to
have causal powers.
Several comments about third-factor accounts are in order. First, there is no need, in
a third-factor account, to hold that the third factor entirely grounds the relevant nor-
mative fact; a relation of partial grounding is enough. After all, in more mundane cases
in which one explains why a non-normative judgment tracks a non-normative fact
by appealing to a direct causal relation between judgment and fact, there is no need
for the fact to cause the judgment entirely on its own, or for the judgment to cause the
fact entirely on its own; partial causation is, in most cases, enough. (Hence the “help”
qualifiers in my formulation of third-factor accounts.) Second, given that the sort of
tracking at issue here is not perfect tracking, but rather fairly good tracking, we need
not postulate that our third factor, when present, always causes the judgment in ques-
tion and always grounds the fact judged to obtain; a strong enough tendency to cause
the judgment and to ground the fact will do. (Hence the appeal to tendencies in my
formulation of third-factor accounts.) Third, once we grasp the general idea behind
third-factor accounts, we can see that really they are a template for a whole host of dif-
ferent accounts that posit a complex dependency structure involving both causal and
grounding links. For example, depending on how the evolutionary facts pan out, it may
well be more plausible to posit the following instead of a strict third-factor account:
A fourth-factor account: Evolutionary forces have tended to make our normative judgments
track the attitude-independent normative truth because, for each normative judgment influ-
enced by evolution in this way, there is some factor, F, and some factor, F*, such that
(i) F tends to causally (help) make it the case that (proto) judging in that way promotes repro-
ductive success (when in our ancestors’ environment),
(ii) F* tends to metaphysically (help) make it the case that the content of that judgment is true,
and
(iii) F and F* stand in a suitable causal relation with one another (where identity is treated as
the limiting case of a causal relation).
230 Selim Berker

This proposal involves adding intricacies to the causal side of a third-factor account.
We might also, in addition, complicate the normative end of things. For instance,
we might posit that our fourth factor, F*, (tends to) partially ground a normative
fact which (tends to) stand in various partial grounding relations—either upwards
or downwards—with the normative fact being judged to obtain.36 (A fifth-factor ac-
count?) And so on: The possibilities are legion.37
Thus third-factor accounts, and others of their ilk, represent an extremely versa-
tile way of embracing the first horn of Street’s dilemma without resorting to a narrow
tracking account. This versatility explains, I believe, why so many authors have—ap-
parently independently—hit upon this way of replying to Street. Indeed, if you don’t
think that normative facts have causal powers, a third- (or fourth-, or . . .) factor ac-
count of how our normative judgments track the normative truth despite being heavily
influenced by evolutionary forces is almost inevitable.
But this is not the end of the story, for we can find in Street’s work two very powerful
objections to third-factor accounts.38 According to the first of these objections, Street
can simply rerun her Darwinian dilemma “one level up.”39 The third-factor theorist
relies on at least one claim of the following form:
(G) Non-normative fact F (at least partially) grounds normative fact N.

Being a realist, the third-factor theorist presumably thinks that (G)’s truth does not
depend on any facts about our evaluative attitudes.40 But now we can ask: How does

36
Enoch (2010, 431) also broaches the possibility of a broadly third-factor account with this sort of
structure.
37
There are difficult questions here about exactly which dependency structures of the sort I have sketched
are sufficient to underwrite a tracking relation between judgment and fact. How complicated can we make
the overall dependency structure, and how tight must each link in that dependency structure be? Taking a
stand on these issues, however, would require us to give a substantive account of what tracking comes to,
and that is not a task I have undertaken in this chapter. (See n. 25.) Note, also, that these difficult questions
arise even when we have a purely causal dependency structure underwriting a tracking relation; they are not
unique to dependency structures involving both causal and grounding links.
38
Henceforth I use “third-factor account” as a general term encompassing third-factor accounts,
fourth-factor accounts, and all others of that sort.
39
See Street 2006, 135–41. Street explicitly formulates the objection to be considered as an objection to
versions of naturalist normative realism that are framed in terms of natural–normative identities. However,
a similar objection can be offered against versions of naturalist normative realism framed in terms of
grounding relations between natural and normative facts, and this latter objection is easily extended into an
objection against all third-factor accounts.
40
Actually, there is a problem for Street here. Strictly speaking, a normative realist might hold that N is
not grounded in any attitudinal facts, even though (G)—a fact about what grounds N—is itself grounded in
attitudinal facts. (In general, it is not true that if F1 partially grounds the fact [F2 partially grounds F3], then
F1 partially grounds F3.) So Street is not entitled to the assumption she needs to get this objection running,
namely that the realist must deem (G) to be attitude-independent. (A similar problem arises for the version
of this objection directed against varieties of naturalist realism formulated in terms of identity, since in gen-
eral it is not true that if F1 partially grounds the fact [F2 = F3], then F1 partially grounds F3.) But even though
I believe there is a problem here, I shall ignore it in what follows. The form of normative realism that Street
overlooks when offering her objection is extremely recherché, and it would be better if third-factor theorists
could provide their reply to Street without committing themselves to such an unusual view.
 NORMATIVITY MIND-DEPENDENT? 231

the third-factor theorist know that (G) is true? Whatever method we use to judge that
(G) is true (whether it be reflective equilibrium or some other method) is, no doubt,
greatly saturated with evolutionary influences. And this raises the familiar ques-
tion: What, according to the realist who resorts to a third-factor response, is the re-
lation between the evolutionary forces that have influenced our judgment that (G) is
true and the evaluative-attitude-independent fact that (G) is true? On the one hand,
if evolutionary forces have tended to push us toward making a correct verdict about
(G)’s truth, then—Street would insist—the only explanation open to the realist of why
this is so is a tracking account, which loses out to the more scientifically acceptable
adaptive-link account. On the other hand, if evolutionary forces have tended to push
us in ways that are at best random with respect to the truth of (G), then—Street would
insist—we are in all likelihood wrong in judging (G) to be true. In other words, the
third-factor theorist is caught in a Darwinian dilemma, one level up.41
Street’s second powerful objection to third-factor accounts rests on the charge that
such accounts are “trivially question-begging” (Street 2008b, 214–17; 2011, 17–19; MSb,
17–30). Here is how Street puts the point, in response to Copp’s version of a third-factor
account:
It is no answer to [the Darwinian] challenge simply to assume a large swath of substantive views
on how we have reason to live . . . and then note that these are the very views evolutionary forces
pushed us toward. Such an account merely trivially reasserts the coincidence between the inde-
pendent normative truth and what the evolutionary causes pushed us to think; it does nothing to
explain the coincidence. (Street 2008b, 14)42

Does Street’s objection here mean that, when it comes to truths of other sorts, we are
also prohibited from appealing to substantive truths of that sort when explaining how
we were selected, either directly or indirectly, to track those truths? And wouldn’t
such a ban lead to universal skepticism—not just skepticism about our ability to track
facts about reasons (if normative realism is true), but also skepticism about our ability
to track tables, chairs, and all other mind-independent entities? Not so, says Street.
She distinguishes two sorts of explanations we might give as to why evolutionary

41
Note that although it is natural to assume that (G) is normative when offering a “one level up” objec-
tion against it, the objection in question does not actually depend on the assumption that (G) is normative.
Rather, all it relies on (in addition to the assumption that (G) is attitude-independent; see n. 40) is the as-
sumption that (G) does not stand in causal relations with other facts, which is independently plausible even
if (G) is non-normative. Similarly, even though third-factor theorists usually appeal to a version of (G) in
which the relevant grounding relation is the sort employed in first order ethical theories, Street’s “one level
up” objection applies just as much to versions of (G) in which the grounding relation is of a distinctively
metaethical sort, since—if there is such a relation—facts about its extension do not have causal powers. (This
is why I said in n. 19 that neither the strategy of denying that facts about the grounds of normative facts are
normative nor the strategy of distinguishing between an “internal” normative-ethical grounding relation
and an “external” metaethical grounding relation will avoid committing Street to an infinite hierarchy of
groundings “all the way out.”)
42
Note that, in offering this reply to third-factor theorists, Street is assuming (G) to be a substantive nor-
mative view. This is my second piece of evidence, mentioned in n. 14, that Street takes facts about the grounds
of normative facts to be normative.
232 Selim Berker

forces have made us track truths about the presence of midsized objects in our immediate
environment:
Account A: There are six chairs, a laptop, and a table in my immediate environment. But evolu-
tionary forces gave rise to the capacity I used to make this very judgment. This gives me reason to
think my capacity about midsized objects in my immediate environment is reliable.
Account B: Midsized objects in our immediate environment are the kinds of things one can run
into, be injured by, eat, and be eaten by. Other things being equal, then, creatures with an ability
accurately to detect midsized objects in their immediate environment tended to survive and repro-
duce in greater numbers than creatures who lacked this ability. I am a product of this evolutionary
process. This gives me reason to think my capacity to make judgments about midsized objects in my
immediate environment is reliable. (Street 2008b, 216–17; cf. Street 2011, 19, and MSb, 25)

Street concedes that there is a sense in which Account B is question-begging, since

many of its claims (that midsized objects in our immediate environment can injure and
eat us, that evolutionary processes occur in the world around us, and so on) are ones
we came to believe partly through use of our faculties for making judgments about
the presence of midsized objects in our immediate environment. Nevertheless, Street
maintains, there is an epistemic contrast between A and B: Account B is, according to
Street, ultimately question-begging but still gives us good reason to think we’re reliable
on these matters, whereas Account A is trivially question-begging and gives us no reason
to think we’re reliable. Moreover, Street insists that third-factor accounts are of the
same form as Account A.
Thus things do not look good for the normative realist. At first it seemed that
third-factor accounts would present the realist with a promising way of grasping the
pushing-toward horn of Street’s dilemma without committing to a scientifically inde-
fensible (narrow) tracking account of the relation between evolutionary forces and the
attitude-independent normative truth. But now we have seen two formidable objections
to third-factor views: They appear to be susceptible to a version of Street’s dilemma one
level up, and they appear to question-beggingly assume the very thing they aim to show.
In fact I do not think that matters are nearly so dire for the realist. But before I argue
why this is so, it will help to take a detour through Street’s explanation of why her own
metaethical view avoids the Darwinian dilemma.

6. Street’s Solution to the Darwinian Dilemma

According to Humean constructivism, Street’s preferred variety of antirealism,
(G′) The non-normative fact [A judges <I have conclusive reason to ϕ>, and her ϕ-ing does not
conflict with anything else she more deeply judges that she has reason to do] grounds the
normative fact [A has conclusive reason to ϕ].43

43
See Street 2008a, esp. 234–6. (G′) follows, by the transitivity of the grounding relation, from two more
specific claims that Street makes:
(G′′) [A judges <I have conclusive reason to ϕ>, and her ϕ-ing does not conflict with any-
thing else she more deeply judges that she has reason to do] grounds [A’s judgment
 NORMATIVITY MIND-DEPENDENT? 233

How does such a view avoid the Darwinian dilemma? In fact, we find in Street’s work
two different explanations of why antirealists such as the Humean constructivist can
meet her evolutionary challenge. The first of these I call the grounding account, and the
second I call the theoretical-reasoning account.44
According to the grounding account, our judgments about our reasons tend to track
the truth about what reasons we have because the former is what grounds the latter.45
Suppose (G′) is true, and suppose A’s judgments about what she has conclusive reason
to do don’t conflict too greatly with one another. It follows that A’s judgments about
what she has conclusive reason to do are mostly true, and hence she is not “hope-
lessly off track” in making such judgments. Moreover, this will be so regardless of the
evolutionary story we tell about A’s tendency to make judgments of this sort: Given
any causal story “upstream” in the order of explanation from the judgments them-
selves, A’s judgments about what she has conclusive reason to do will—cases of con-
flict aside—make themselves true “downstream” in the order of explanation. In other
words, if Humean constructivism is correct, then our judgments about our own rea-
sons mostly track the truth, because they serve as the ground of their own truth. Thus
the Darwinian dilemma is avoided, at least with respect to such normative judgments.

<I have conclusive reason to ϕ> withstands scrutiny from the standpoint of A’s other
normative judgments].
(G′′′) [A’s judgment <I have conclusive reason to ϕ> withstands scrutiny from the standpoint
of A’s other normative judgments] grounds [A has conclusive reason to ϕ].
Note that (G′) is not the only way in which, for a Humean constructivist, non-normative facts about evalua-
tive attitudes can ground normative facts about reasons. For example, Street is also committed to
(G*) [A judges <I have conclusive reason to ϕ>, ψ-ing is a necessary means to ϕ-ing, and A’s
ψ-ing does not conflict with anything else she more deeply judges that she has reason to
do] grounds [A has conclusive reason to ψ].
According to the Humean constructivist, the ultimate grounds of a person’s reasons are always of the sort
found in (G′) and (G*): they concern that person’s judgments about her reasons, how deeply those judg-
ments are held, and the instrumental connections between the actions (or attitudes) which the person
judges that she has reason to perform (or hold). So for illustrative purposes I will simply work with (G′) in
the body of the text.
44
In her early work, Street tends to stick to the grounding account: See, in particular, Street 2006, 153–4,
where she explicitly states that the grounding account is the official explanation of why antirealists escape the
Darwinian dilemma. In her more recent work, however, Street slides back and forth between the grounding
and theoretical-reasoning accounts (sometimes on the very same page): See Street 2011, 22 n. 41, and MSb,
12, for endorsements of the grounding account, and see Street 2011, 16, and MSb, 12, 30, for endorsements of
the theoretical-reasoning account.
45
A qualification here is in order. Sometimes Street says that the normative truth obtains in virtue of (i.e.
is grounded in) the facts about our judgments about reasons (as she does throughout Street MSa), and other
times she says that the normative truth is constituted by the facts about our judgments about reasons (as she
does throughout Street 2008a). I think it is a live issue whether the grounding relation is identical to the
constitution relation. But even if they are distinct relations, this has no bearing on any of the claims I make
in this chapter: At any point in my argument, we can replace mention of the grounding relation with men-
tion of the constitution relation, whether in my discussion of Street’s own view or in my discussion of her
third-factor opponents. Constitution, like grounding, is a non-causal form of dependence, so it can play the
same role that grounding does in any of these accounts. (Similar comments apply to other non-causal forms
of dependence, such as reduction, if that is something distinct from grounding, constitution, and identity
[whether synthetic or analytic].)
234 Selim Berker

There is, however, a major problem with the grounding account. Focus on our hy-
pothetical character A again. Humean constructivism plus the grounding account pro-
vides a nice explanation of why A’s judgments about her own reasons mostly track the
truth. However, A’s judgments about her own reasons are just a tiny subset of her judg-
ments about reasons: Presumably she also makes a vast number of judgments about other
people’s reasons. But the same story cannot be told about why these other judgments tend
to track the truth, since the truth of A’s judgments of these other sorts depend, according
to Street, on other people’s normative judgments. From A’s perspective, the truth about
what other people have reason to do is a mind-independent matter—independent, that
is, of A’s mind. However, the grounding account only applies to those of A’s judgments
whose truth is dependent on A’s mind. So the grounding account, on its own, is unable to
explain why A’s judgments about other people’s reasons tend to track the truth.46
Here is another way of putting the point. Humean constructivism posits a funda-
mental disunity among A’s normative judgments. When it comes to A’s normative judg-
ments about her own reasons, thinking makes it so (cases of conflict aside). But when it
comes to A’s judgments about other people’s reasons, thinking does not make it so (even
when A is unconflicted)—judgments of that sort do not possess the magic property of
ensuring their own truth. And it is precisely this magic property which plays a central
role in the grounding account. Thus, from the perspective of the grounding account,
the Humean constructivist is no better off than the normative realist when it comes to
explaining why A’s judgments about other people’s reasons tend to track the truth.47
This problem was obscured by Street’s talk of “our” evaluative attitudes in her for-
mulation of antirealism. Once we see that this pronoun must be used in a distributive
(rather than a collective) sense for the grounding account to work in the case of one’s
judgments about one’s own reasons, we can see that this problem is perfectly general,
applying to all antirealist theories that attempt to make use of the grounding account in
order to avoid the Darwinian dilemma.48
An obvious reply suggests itself. Perhaps the evolutionary factors in virtue of which
I tend to make the judgments I do about your reasons also make it the case that you
tend to make similar judgments about your own reasons. This causal hypothesis, to-
gether with (G′), could then be used to explain why my judgments about your rea-
sons mostly track the truth. However, this reply is unconvincing. First, it requires the

46
In fact, the same point applies to A’s judgments about her own past and future reasons, since Humean
constructivism ties the truth about one’s reasons at a given time to one’s judgments at that time about one’s
reasons at that time.
47
After writing this chapter I discovered that Matthew Chrisman makes a somewhat similar point in his
2010, 338–9, although here Chrisman is discussing whether Street’s constructivism can account for ethical
knowledge, not whether it can avoid the Darwinian dilemma via the grounding account.
48
The objection I have just pressed against the grounding account reveals another class of normative prop-
ositions, beyond the ones I mentioned in §4, that Street’s adaptive-link account is ill-equipped to handle on
its own, namely propositions about other people’s reasons. My judging that you have conclusive reason to ϕ
does not entail that I am at least somewhat motivated to ϕ. (It might, however, entail that I am at least some-
what motivated to help you ϕ, to praise you for ϕ-ing, and so on.)
 NORMATIVITY MIND-DEPENDENT? 235

Humean constructivist to posit a level of convergence in our judgments about reasons

that seems incompatible with the existence of persistent normative disagreements.
Second, and more seriously, this response does not help explain why our judgments
about the reasons of people who do not share our evolutionary history are generally re-
liable (including many of the judgments that Street herself makes about the reasons
of various hypothetical figures during the course of her arguments both against nor-
mative realism and for Humean constructivism). In the end, I think there is no way
around this problem for the grounding account.49
It is perhaps because she recognizes this problem for the grounding account that, in
more recent work, Street sometimes provides a quite different account of how antireal-
ists such as the Humean constructivist are able to avoid the Darwinian dilemma. On
this account, rather than us, as theorists, appealing to the truth of (G′) in order to ex-
plain why a given agent’s judgments about reasons mostly track the truth, instead we
imagine that our agent knows the truth of (G′) and uses it in her deliberations to reason
her way to the correct theoretical verdict about what both she and other people have
reason to do. Since we are assuming that facts about people’s normative judgments are
purely non-normative facts, our agent’s judgment <A judges <I have conclusive reason
to ϕ>, and her ϕ-ing does not conflict with anything else she more deeply judges that
she has reason to do> is not the sort of judgment that, according to Street, is susceptible
to a Darwinian dilemma. So our agent can use her knowledge of this proposition and
her knowledge of (G′) to reason her way to judgments about the normative proposi-
tion <A has conclusive reason to ϕ> which track the truth, regardless of whether A is
the deliberator herself or someone else.
Thus the theoretical-reasoning account avoids the previous problem for the
grounding account, and perhaps for this reason is to be preferred. However, the
theoretical-reasoning account faces a serious problem of its own.50 This is not so much

49
There is an additional problem for the grounding account beyond the main one mentioned in the text.
Presumably in order to address the epistemological threat that evolutionary considerations present, it is not
enough to show that our normative judgments track the truth: We also want those judgments to constitute
knowledge. However, the sort of tracking relation that we get from the grounding account seems irrelevant
to knowledge. Consider the proposition <There are beliefs>. Whenever I believe this proposition, I make
it true, and hence my belief in this proposition tracks the truth in the sense we have been considering here.
However, it does not follow that whenever I believe that there are beliefs, I know that there are beliefs, for
I might believe that there are beliefs for utterly idiotic reasons. State-given tracking of the sort featured both
in this example and in the grounding account does not seem to be the right sort of tracking relation to un-
derwrite knowledge.
50
It also faces less serious problems. In particular, its story about how someone apprised of the truth of
Humean constructivism is to gain knowledge of her own reasons is rather awkward. In such a case, our de-
liberator is supposed to run through the following train of thought: “I judge that I have conclusive reason to
ϕ, and my ϕ-ing does not conflict with anything else I more deeply judge myself to have reason to do. By (G′)
it follows that I have conclusive reason to ϕ. So I have conclusive reason to ϕ.” Thus our deliberator comes to
judge that she has conclusive reason to ϕ on the basis of her own judgment that she has conclusive reason to
ϕ, and only the second time around does this judgment constitute knowledge. This is a truly bizarre picture
of how knowledge of one’s own reasons is possible. (Thus perhaps the best option for Street is to combine
a grounding account with respect to one’s judgments about one’s own reasons with a theoretical-reasoning
account with respect to one’s judgments about the reasons of others.)
236 Selim Berker

a problem for the account itself, as it is a problem for Street’s claim that only antireal-
ists can make use of this account as a way of avoiding her Darwinian dilemma. What
makes (G′) a distinctively antirealist claim is its grounding of a normative fact in the
truth of some fact about our evaluative attitudes—in this case, the evaluative attitude
of making a judgment about one’s own reasons. But the theoretical-reasoning account
doesn’t in fact rely on this feature of (G′). All that matters for the theoretical-reasoning
account are two things: that (G′) itself is knowable, and that (G′) grounds a normative
fact in some fact which we can use normal empirical means to ascertain. As far as the
theoretical-reasoning account goes, the crucial issue isn’t whether (G′) makes [A has
conclusive reason to ϕ] mind-dependent, but rather whether it makes that fact know-
ably dependent on something empirically knowable. Whence, then, Street’s claim that
antirealism is the only non-skeptical way of avoiding her dilemma?
Here a comparison with third-factor accounts is particularly revealing. Recall that
the most basic version of a third-factor account involves us, as theorists, appealing to
the truth of
(G) Non-normative fact F (at least partially) grounds normative fact N

in order to explain why a given agent’s judgment about N tends to track the truth.
Thus the realist’s third-factor account is very close to the antirealist’s grounding ac-
count: Third-factor accounts posit a slightly more complicated structure, but their
basic idea is the same one found in Street’s grounding account, namely that we can
bridge the gap between the normative and non-normative realms by appealing to the
grounding relation.51 Moreover, once we see this parallel, it is easy enough to formulate
a theoretical-reasoning version of a third-factor account in which we imagine a delib-
erator who knows (G) making use of that principle, together with her knowledge that
F obtains, to reason her way to knowledge that N obtains. All of which suggests the fol-
lowing conclusion: If the antirealist can make use of the theoretical-reasoning account
to explain how our normative judgments are able to track the normative truth, then
the realist can make use of this account as well. The theoretical-reasoning account is
not a distinctively antirealist way of avoiding the Darwinian dilemma.52

7. Hoist by Her Own Petard?

I have just considered the two different accounts that we find in Street’s work of
how antirealists in general and Humean constructivists in particular can fend off

51
Or by appealing to some other non-causal form of dependence, such as constitution or reduction. (See
n. 45.)
52
A referee offered the following objection to my claim of parity here: Maybe the antirealist can avail her-
self of the theoretical-reasoning strategy whereas the realist cannot because although the realist’s depend-
ence claim, (G), is beyond our ken, the antirealist’s dependence claim, (G′), is not beyond our ken. However,
this response assumes the very thing which, at this stage in the dialectic, we are aiming to show. The whole
 NORMATIVITY MIND-DEPENDENT? 237

her evolutionary challenge. I have argued that the first of these—the grounding ac-
count—is at best a defense of the epistemic standing of a small subset of our norma-
tive judgments, whereas the second—the theoretical-reasoning account—is just as
available to the realist as it is available to the antirealist. We have also seen how the
grounding account is very similar in spirit to third-factor accounts, and how it is pos-
sible to construct a variant of a given third-factor account which makes it into an in-
stance of a theoretical-reasoning account. Given these close parallels between Street’s
antirealist strategies for defusing the Darwinian dilemma and third-factor ways of
defusing that dilemma, it is only natural to revisit Street’s “one level up” and “trivially
question-begging” objections to third-factor accounts, to see whether they apply to
her antirealist strategies as well.
And, in fact, I think it is quite clear that they do.53 Recall that according to Street’s
first objection, third-factor accounts are not a response to the Darwinian dilemma be-
cause they rely on grounding claims such as (G), and we can rerun the Darwinian di-
lemma “one level up” with respect to the third-factor theorist’s judgment that (G) is
true. A version of this same objection applies to both of Street’s antirealist strategies.
Both strategies rely on a grounding claim such as (G′) being judged to be true, either
by us as theorists (in the case of the grounding account) or by our imagined deliberator
(in the case of the theoretical-reasoning account). Thus we can rerun the Darwinian
dilemma “one level up” with respect to either our or the deliberator’s judgment that
(G′) is true. According to Street’s second objection, third-factor accounts are “trivially
question-begging” since they appeal to substantive normative truths such as (G) when
trying to explain how our normative judgments track the truth. However, (G′) is just
as much a substantive normative truth as (G) is, so Street’s two antirealist strategies
also involve a question-begging appeal to normative truths, whether on the part of us
as theorists (in the grounding account) or on the part of our imagined deliberator (in
the theoretical-reasoning account). Conclusion: If third-factor accounts fall prey to
Street’s “one level up” and “trivially question-begging” objections, then so too do her
two antirealist strategies.
Here is another way of reaching that same conclusion. Focus on the grounding
account for the moment. (Parallel comments apply to the theoretical-reasoning ac-
count.) The grounding account is designed so that it can be appended to Street’s
adaptive-link account of the evolutionary origins of our normative judgments, as in
the left half of Figure 10.3. But third-factor accounts are also perfectly compatible with
the adaptive-link account. The right half of Figure 10.3 shows one way of embedding
the adaptive-link account within a third-factor account. Now stare hard at the depend-
ency structures in the left and right halves of Figure 10.3. Both dependency structures
posit essentially the same story about the causal facts, and both tether that causal story

point of Street’s evolutionary argument is to give us a reason to think that realism faces epistemological dif-
ficulties which antirealism does not; we cannot simply assume that conclusion at the outset.
53
Russ Shafer-Landau makes a similar point in his 2012, 13–14.
 Grounding + adaptive-link account: Third-factor + adaptive-link account:

[I have conclusive reason to φ]

(G’)

[I judge <I have conclusive reason to φ >] [I judge <I have conclusive reason to φ >]

[Judging <I have conclusive reason to φ > promoted [Judging <I have conclusive reason to φ > promoted
reproductive success in my ancestors’ environment] reproductive success in my ancestors’ environment]

[Judging <I have conclusive reason to φ > [φ -ing promoted reproductive success [Judging <I have conclusive reason to φ > [φ -ing promoted reproductive success
[I have conclusive reason to φ ]
made my ancestors more likely to φ ] in my ancestors’ environment] made my ancestors more likely to φ ] in my ancestors’ environment]

(G)
F = [φ -ing has property P]

Figure 10.3
 NORMATIVITY MIND-DEPENDENT? 239

to the normative realm via a grounding link, the only difference being where in the
causal story this tether occurs. But why is this a distinction that makes a difference? If
it is “trivially question-begging” for the third-factor theorist to tie her tether near the
bottom of the causal structure common to the left and right halves of Figure 10.3, it
should also be “trivially question-begging” for the antirealist to tie her tether near the
top of that structure. And if we can rerun the Darwinian dilemma on the third-factor
theorist’s lower-down tether, we should also be able be to rerun that dilemma on the
antirealist’s higher-up tether. The two dependency structures in Figure 10.3 are equally
question-begging, and they are equally susceptible to additional Darwinian dilemmas
“one level up.”
Street anticipates that her “one level up” and “trivially question-begging” objections
might be thought to apply to the antirealist’s position as well as the realist’s, and in both
cases she replies in the same way. She insists that there is no room to run the Darwinian
dilemma “one level up” against the antirealist because “in arriving at his or her meta-
ethical view, the antirealist does not need to rely on our substantive [normative] judg-
ments.” She continues:
This may be seen by imagining an alien investigator who (1) quite recognizably possesses [nor-
mative] concepts; (2) accepts [normative] judgments . . . with entirely different substantive con-
tent than our own; and who nevertheless (3) arrives at the same metaethical view as the human
antirealist; and (4) does so based on the exact same considerations. Examples of such considera-
tions might include the Darwinian dilemma itself . . . . (Street 2006, 163 n. 57)

Street’s thought here is that if no substantive normative judgments or intuitions are

relied upon to reach the truth of antirealism, then we cannot rerun a version of the
Darwinian dilemma on the judgments and intuitions which the antirealist uses to sup-
port her antirealism, and the antirealist is begging no questions by appealing to the
truth of antirealism in the grounding or theoretical-reasoning accounts. Elsewhere,
Street makes the same point for the specific case of constructivism (rather than for
antirealism in general). She insists that all agents are committed to the truth of con-
structivism: “. . . no matter what one’s starting set of normative judgments [is], con-
structivism follows from within the standpoint constituted by those judgments”
(MSb, 37).54 As no normative judgments are used to derive constructivist principles
such as (G′), there are no materials on which to rerun the Darwinian dilemma one
level up, and no questions are begged when the antirealist appeals to (G′) during her

54
Other places where Street asserts that the truth of constructivism follows from any arbitrary set of nor-
mative judgments together with the non-normative facts include Street 2009a, 216 n. 7; 2010, 378, 382 n. 16;
and MSa, 16–17. Thus Street holds that if NJ is a fact summarizing a given person’s complete set of normative
judgments at a given time, NJ grounds the truth of every constructivist claim about the grounds of nor-
mative truths. One such claim is (G′). But another is the claim that NJ grounds the truth of (G′). Therefore
we have [(G′) ← NJ], [[(G′) ← NJ] ← NJ], and so on. This is how Street accounts for the infinite hierarchy of
groundings “all the way out” to which she is committed by her definition of antirealism.
240 Selim Berker

explanation of how our normative judgments are able to track the attitude-dependent
normative truth.
I am deeply suspicious of this reply on Street’s part. I mention here three objec-
tions. First: Her reply doesn’t actually address the “trivially question-begging” issue.
Suppose that—given Street’s understanding of what these expressions come to—it
does “follow” from “within” everyone’s “practical standpoint” that Humean construc-
tivism is true. This fact is only relevant if we already assume the truth of Humean
constructivism, and hence beg the very question at issue. Showing that a theory is
by its own lights not question-begging is not the same as showing that a theory is not
question-begging.55
Second objection: Despite her claims to the contrary, Street’s argument for anti-
realism in general does, in fact, rely on substantive normative judgments and
intuitions. Her Darwinian dilemma against realism relies on substantive norma-
tive intuitions of the following sort, among others: intuitions about the epistemic
relevance of tracking the truth, intuitions about the good- and bad-making fea-
tures of explanations (scientific and otherwise), intuitions about the nature of the
in-virtue-of relation when it takes normative relata, intuitions about when pain does
and does not provide reasons (Street 2006, 149), and intuitions about whether be-
lief attributions qualify as normative judgments (Street 2009a, 224–5). Moreover,
Street acknowledges (in her MSb, 31–6) that the Darwinian dilemma on its own is
not enough to conclusively support antirealism; one also has to make a case that
the force of the Darwinian dilemma in favor of antirealism is not outweighed by
the counterintuitiveness of antirealism’s apparent consequence that (for example)
an ideally coherent Caligula has conclusive reason to torture others for fun. Street
devotes an entire article to arguing that this consequence is not as counterintuitive as
it might seem (Street 2009b). This, in effect, is to concede that an alien investigator
who accepts <An ideally coherent Caligula does not have conclusive reason to tor-
ture others for fun> more deeply than any other normative proposition is not com-
mitted to the truth of antirealism.
Third objection: Street’s argument for Humean constructivism in particular also
relies on substantive normative judgments and intuitions. An argument for antireal-
ism is not yet an argument for Humean constructivism. And when we turn to Street’s
arguments for Humean constructivism, we find a variety of implicit appeals to nor-
mative intuitions of a substantive sort. I focus here on two particularly striking exam-
ples. The first of these occurs during Street’s central defense of Humean constructivism

55
Suppose I hold a theory on which there is no such thing as the fallacy of begging the question. When you
ask me why this theory is true, I say, “My theory is true because it’s true. Moreover, I’m not begging the ques-
tion in asserting this, because there’s no fallacy of begging the question.” Within the confines of my theory,
my reasoning in impeccable. But I nonetheless count as begging the question.
 NORMATIVITY MIND-DEPENDENT? 241

in the case of instrumental normativity. She starts by insisting that the following two
claims hold as a matter of conceptual necessity (Street 2008a, 227–9):
(C1) If A judges <I have conclusive reason to ϕ>, judges <My ψ-ing is a necessary means to my
ϕ-ing>, and attends to the matter in full awareness, then A judges <I have a reason to ψ>.56
(C2) If A judges <I have conclusive reason to ϕ> and it is true that A’s ψ-ing is a necessary means
to A’s ϕ-ing (whether or not A is aware of this), then by A’s own lights A has a reason to ψ.

In the next section (Street 2008a, §8) Street then slides, without argument, from this
last claim to the following one:
(C3) If A judges <I have conclusive reason to ϕ> and it is true that A’s ψ-ing is a necessary means
to A’s ϕ-ing (whether or not A is aware of this), then A has a reason to ψ.

However, this last move requires the backing of substantive intuitions, and it is
doubtful that (C3) is true as a matter of conceptual necessity (if indeed it is even true).
We can see this by considering analogues of these three claims in which A’s normative
judgments are in the third-person:57
(C1*) If A judges <B has conclusive reason to ϕ>, judges <B’s ψ-ing is a necessary means to B’s
ϕ-ing>, and attends to the matter in full awareness, then A judges <B has a reason to ψ>.
(C2*) If A judges <B has conclusive reason to ϕ> and it is true that B’s ψ-ing is a necessary means
to B’s ϕ-ing (whether or not A is aware of this), then by A’s lights B has a reason to ψ.
(C3*) If A judges <B has conclusive reason to ϕ> and it is true that B’s ψ-ing is a necessary means
to B’s ϕ-ing (whether or not A is aware of this), then B has a reason to ψ.

(C1*) and (C2*) may well be true as a matter of conceptual necessity, but (C3*) is defi-
nitely false. Thus there is no easy inference from <A has, by her own lights, a reason
to ψ> to <A has a reason to ψ>, and as a result bridging the gap between (C2) and (C3)
requires substantive judgment.
A second place where Street relies on substantive normative judgments while
defending Humean constructivism occurs during her discussion of how Humean con-
structivists are to handle cases in which an agent’s normative judgments conflict with
one another. (C3) only concerns whether A has a single pro tanto reason to ψ; what,
though, might we say about the conditions under which instrumental considerations

56
Actually, Street wavers between two different versions of this principle. Sometimes (Street 2008a, 228;
2012, 43–4) she endorses (C1), and other times (Street 2008a, 227; 2010, 374; 2012, 43, 46) she endorses a
weaker principle, namely:
(C0) If A judges <I have conclusive reason to ϕ>, judges <My ψ-ing is a necessary means to
my ϕ-ing>, and attends to the matter in full awareness, then A doesn’t judge <I don’t
have a reason to ψ>.
(C0) is weaker than (C1) since <A doesn’t judge <not-p>> does not entail <A does judge <p>>, even under
conditions of full awareness (suspension of judgment is also an option).
57
I learned this trick from Scanlon 1998, 28–9.
242 Selim Berker

make it the case that A has conclusive overall reason to ψ? It is tempting to think that
the Humean constructivist should hold
(C4) If A judges <I have conclusive reason to ϕ> and it is true that A’s ψ-ing is a necessary means
to A’s ϕ-ing (whether or not A is aware of this), then A has conclusive reason to ψ.

However, (C4) quickly leads to paradox. Suppose—to use an example of Street’s (2008a,
235)—Beth judges that she has conclusive reason to eat a bowl of chili in front of her,
and she also judges that she has conclusive reason to live a long, healthy life. Suppose,
moreover, that Beth has a fatal58 allergy to peanuts, which unbeknownst to her the bowl
of chili in front of her contains. Applying (C4) to Beth’s first judgment, we get the result
that she has conclusive reason to eat the bowl of chili. (A’s ϕ-ing is trivially a necessary
means to A’s ϕ-ing.) Applying (C4) to Beth’s second judgment, we get the result that she
has conclusive reason to not eat the bowl of chili. But one can never, at the same time,
both have conclusive reason to ϕ and have conclusive reason to not-ϕ. So something
has gone wrong.59
Street’s way out of this problem is to insist that whichever of Beth’s two normative
judgments is more deeply hers is the one that carries the day. In other words, Street pro-
poses that the Humean constructivist endorse the following instead of (C4):
(C5) If A judges <I have conclusive reason to ϕ>, A’s ψ-ing is a necessary means to A’s ϕ-ing, and
A’s ψ-ing does not conflict with anything else she more deeply judges that she has reason to
do, then A has conclusive reason to ψ.

However, this move requires the backing of substantive normative judgment: (C5) does
not follow from (C1), (C2), and (C3) by means of conceptual truths alone. A way of
bringing this out is to consider Street’s proposal for how to determine which of A’s two
competing normative judgments is more deeply hers: “this is a function,” Street writes,
“of how strongly [A]‌holds the normative judgments in question and how close to the
center of [A’s] total web of normative judgments they lie” (Street 2008a, 235). But ex-
actly what function is this? Do we have some way of measuring the strength of a nor-
mative judgment, and another way of measuring a judgment’s nearness to the center of
our agent’s total web of normative judgments, and finally a way of combining these two
factors into an overall “depth score” that can be compared to the “depth score” for any
other normative judgment made by that agent? This suggestion is, of course, absurd.
But it brings out the degree to which figuring out the nature of Street’s alluded-to func-
tion is a highly non-trivial matter. Moreover, it is a matter over which substantive dis-
agreement can occur: If I hold that comparative depth among normative judgments

58
Street says “life-threatening” allergy (2008a, 235), but this is not strong enough to ensure that Beth’s not
eating the chili is a necessary means to living a long, healthy life. (Another complication: Maybe, even though
Beth’s not eating the chili is necessary for her continuing to live, it is not a means to her continuing to live. But
if so, then this is merely a problem for this particular example, and we can easily find another example with
the desired structure.)
59
Note that a similar problem does not arise for (C3): There is nothing paradoxical about asserting that
Beth both has a pro tanto reason to eat the bowl of chili and has a pro tanto reason to not eat the bowl of chili.
 NORMATIVITY MIND-DEPENDENT? 243

is determined via function F1, and you hold that it is determined via slightly different
function F2, it seems a stretch to think that one of us must be conceptually confused.
We are in the realm of substantive judgments here, not conceptual truths.60
In fact, matters are even worse than this. The sorts of conflict cases that a Humean
constructivist must contend with when filling in the details of her theory are not re-
stricted to cases involving an instrumental conflict between a single judgment about
what one has conclusive reason to do and another single judgment about what one has
conclusive reason to do. The Humean constructivist also owes us a story about what
happens in more complex instrumental conflict cases—for example, cases in which A’s
judgment that she has conclusive reason to ϕ conflicts with several of her normative
judgments about what she has conclusive reason to do. In such cases do we “add up”
the depth score of each of these competing judgments to get a total depth score to
compare to that of A’s judgment that she has conclusive reason to ϕ, or is some more
complicated aggregation function at work? There are also higher order conflict cases,
such as a case in which A judges that she has conclusive reason to ϕ, but also judges
that she has conclusive reason not to judge that she has conclusive reason to ϕ.61 Does
the higher order judgment always take precedence in such a case? Or does it matter
how strongly held and near to the center of one’s web of belief the higher and lower
order judgments are? Finally, the Humean constructivist must say something about
what we might call cross-categorical conflict cases, in which an agent’s judgments using
one normative category conflict with her judgments using another normative category
(together, possibly, with her judgments about how those categories connect). What if
A’s judgment about her reasons for and against ϕ-ing are in tension with her judgment
that she ought not ϕ (together, possibly, with her judgments about the connection be-
tween individual reasons and overall oughts)?62 Does whichever of these normative

60
In a footnote, Street addresses the worry that she is appealing to substantive assumptions in moving
from (C4) to (C5), but what she says is unconvincing. She writes:
One might worry that in according priority to those normative judgments which are more
strongly held and which lie closer to the core of a person’s interlocking web of norma-
tive judgments, the account smuggles in a substantive value. My reply is that the priority
accorded these normative judgments doesn’t reflect a substantive value, but rather reflects
the fact that we are asking about agent A’s reasons, not someone else’s reasons, and agent
A is, in an important sense, to be identified with her most strongly and centrally held values.
(Street 2008a, 235 n. 45)
There are two problems here. First, the issue of whether (C5) relies on substantive normative assumptions is
not the same as the issue of whether (C5) smuggles in substantive values: Not all normative claims are claims
about whether something is of value; in particular, some concern how values play off against each other.
Second, and more importantly, Street does not avoid appealing to substantive normative assumptions in
her reply: The claim <An agent’s identity determines what she has reason to do> is a non-trivial claim that
requires the backing of substantive normative judgment/intuition to defend.
61
If epistemic akrasia is not possible, then this specific example of a higher order conflict will never arise.
But the non-existence of epistemic akrasia is compatible with other, less extreme varieties of higher order
conflict.
62
Or maybe the mere truth of how individual reasons connect with overall oughts is enough to generate a
tension between A’s reasons judgments and her ought judgment.
244 Selim Berker

categories is in fact more basic determine which judgment gets priority? Or does it
matter which normative category A takes to be more basic? What if the judgments
employing the less-basic (or taken-to-be-less-basic) category are more deeply A’s than
the judgments employing the other category?
I bring up these issues to demonstrate just how complicated filling in the details of
Humean constructivism becomes, once we realize the full range of conflicts that can
arise amongst a person’s normative judgments. In one way, the lack of specifics here is
not a problem: Sorting out those specifics is a research project waiting to happen, a dis-
sertation begging to be written. However—and this is the central point—that research
project does not seem to be one which can be conducted purely through an appeal to
conceptual truths. Substantive disagreement over the best way to formulate Humean
constructivism is possible, and resolving those disagreements requires making sub-
stantive normative judgments and appealing to substantive normative intuitions. Thus
it is simply a mistake to say, as Street does, that arguing for Humean constructivism is
merely a matter of “descriptive philosophical analysis” in which we figure out “what is
constitutive of the . . . attitude of normative judgment” without relying on any substan-
tive normative intuitions (Street 2010, 374). As a result, Street’s way of deflecting her
own “one level up” and “trivially question-begging” objections fails.

8. Our Epistemic Predicament

I have just argued that Street’s own metaethical view is just as vulnerable to her evolu-
tionary challenge as realist views are. Where does this leave us? Does this mean that
Street’s Darwinian dilemma is in fact an argument for normative skepticism?
Not necessarily. Three features of Street’s reply to her own “one level up” and “trivi-
ally question-begging” objections are particularly revealing. First, Street’s appeal to an
alien investigator shows that evolutionary theory is really beside the point in generat-
ing her challenge. After all, our alien investigator might not be the outcome of evolu-
tionary forces. Yet our alien investigator is supposed to be able to use a version of the
Darwinian dilemma to realize the truth of antirealism. How could this be? Answer: A
problem akin to the Darwinian dilemma arises even if the alien investigator was the
outcome of non-evolutionary causal forces, or even if the alien investigator popped
into existence five minutes ago.63 All we need to generate this problem is the fact that
our normative judgments have causal origins, regardless of what those origins are.
Evolutionary theory makes the causal origins of our normative judgments particularly
vivid, but it is not essential for generating the puzzle.64

63
Or even, I would argue (though I shan’t argue for it here), if the alien investigator was created by God.
64
As Street herself admits in the final section of her 2006. Bedke (2009; forthcoming) also stresses that
evolutionary influences are just one causal force among many when developing his version of a debunking
argument.
 NORMATIVITY MIND-DEPENDENT? 245

Second, Street’s way of trying to fend off her own “one level up” and “trivi-
ally question-begging” objections does not actually rely on the antirealist nature of
Humean constructivism. The crucial move in Street’s reply to those objections is her
insistence that the central tenets of Humean constructivism, such as grounding claim
(G′), can be established without appeal to substantive normative judgments and intui-
tions. The fact that (G′) grounds a normative fact in facts about our evaluative attitudes
plays no role in her response. Swap a different non-normative fact into (G′) and Street’s
response would work just as well, provided that the new version of (G′) can be defended
without reliance on substantive normative judgments and intuitions.
But why does Street think that (G′) and the other grounding claims made by the Humean
constructivist can be defended without recourse to substantive normative judgments and
intuitions? It is because she—mistakenly, I have argued—thinks that (G′) and the like are
conceptual truths.65 This leads to my third observation. Really what is doing all of the work
in Street’s response to her own “one level up” and “trivially question-begging” objections is
her contention that the Humean constructivist’s central claims about what grounds nor-
mative facts are conceptual truths. However, no claims about which non-normative facts
ground normative facts are conceptual truths: Moore’s open-question argument blocks all
roads here. So what Street is hankering after is impossible.
Thus we should be suspicious of Street’s demand that we show, of all the conceptu-
ally possible normative truths, that evolution has allowed us to land on the correct one.
If the only way of replying to Street’s “one level up” and “trivially question-begging”
objections is to appeal to normative grounding claims which are conceptual truths,
then there is no way to respond to those objections, whether they are leveled against
third-factor accounts or against antirealist proposals. Just as Street can ask the
third-factor theorist, “Of all the conceptually possible ways in which the normative
facts could be partially grounded in the non-normative facts, what are the odds that
you’ve hit on the right one when you judge (G) to be true?” so too we can ask Street,
“Of all the conceptually possible ways in which the attitudinal facts might determine
the normative facts, what are the odds that you’ve hit on the right one when you judge
(G′) to be true?” Indeed, if conceptual connections are required between successive
layers of facts in one’s explanation of why a given variety of judgment tracks the truth
despite being influenced by evolutionary factors, then Street’s “one level up” and “triv-
ially question-begging” objections also apply to explanations of our ability to make
judgments about the presence of midsized objects in our immediate environment: “Of
all the conceptually possible ways in which the causation relation could work, what are
the odds that we’ve hit on the right one when, in offering Darwinian explanations, we
make judgments about the causal properties of predators, progeny, and the like?”66 In

65
Street often says things like “It is constitutive of normative judgment that p,” where <p> is some claim
about normative judgments, but for her this is just a fancy way of saying, “It is a conceptual truth that p.” For
evidence that she uses these two expressions interchangeably, see Street 2008a, 228; Street 2009a, 226, 228–9,
231–2, 234, 236, 242; and Street 2012, 43, 46, 51, 55.
66
See Clarke-Doane 2012, 323, and 2014, 251–2, for a somewhat similar point.
246 Selim Berker

short, Street’s conceptual demand threatens to make all synthetic knowledge impos-
sible. But it’s one thing to voice the old empiricist worry over how synthetic a priori
knowledge is possible, and quite another to call into question synthetic knowledge of
any sort.67
As a result, I think we should simply ignore Street’s insistence that the sort of tracking
at issue is tracking with regard to all of the conceptually possible normative truths. The
only reasonable demand in the vicinity is one formulated with regard to metaphysically
possible truths. This removes one important obstacle to be overcome when answering
Street’s Darwinian challenge.68
What about the remaining obstacles? Let us distinguish between Street’s original
Darwinian dilemma (as presented in Street 2006) and her amped-up Darwinian di-
lemma (once considerations about whether an explanation is question-begging are
on the table). In response to the original Darwinian dilemma, I think that the fol-
lowing “divide and conquer” strategy is a perfectly adequate response on the part of
the realist:69
• Argue that our tendency to make some normative judgments (such as, perhaps,
our tendency to judge that incest is inherently wrong) is the outcome of evolu-
tionary forces pushing us away from the truth.
• Argue that our tendency to make other normative judgments (such as, per-
haps, our tendency to judge that our own pain is, other things being equal,

67
For similar reasons we should be suspicious of Bedke’s appeal to conceptual possibility in his 2009 and
forthcoming. Bedke only considers conceptually possible worlds in which all of the natural facts are the
same as they are in the actual world but the normative facts are different. However, if we consider concep-
tually possible worlds in which some of the natural facts are fixed while others vary, Bedke’s debunking
argument threatens to undermine any justification we might have on the basis for perception for believing
synthetic non-normative truths.
68
I have just interpreted Street as holding that the central claims of Humean constructivism are concep-
tual truths. I do so because I think this is the best way to make sense of why she holds that Humean con-
structivism can be defended without recourse to substantive normative judgments and intuitions, and the
best way to make sense of why she thinks Humean constructivism is better placed than realism to avoid
her Darwinian dilemma when that dilemma is formulated in terms of conceptual possibilities. However,
more recently (in her MSa, p. 9 of the draft of 20 October 2011), Street tells us that although “there once
was a time—very long ago” when she thought that her constructivist account of the grounds of normative
reasons was a conceptual truth, she now no longer believes this. (She does not tell us when this change in
her thinking occurred.) In the end, this interpretive issue has no bearing on my argument from the past few
paragraphs, since I can phrase that argument as a dilemma. Either Humean constructivism is being put for-
ward as a conceptual truth, or it is not. If it is being put forward as a conceptual truth, then Street is right that
the theory she puts forward would, if true, be especially well placed to meet a conceptual-possibility-based
version of her evolutionary challenge, but this is no help, since that theory is demonstrably false. On the
other hand, if Humean constructivism is not being put forward as a conceptual truth, then Street has just
as much trouble with the conceptual-possibility-based version of her evolutionary challenge as realists do.
Conclusion: it is unreasonable to formulate that challenge in terms of conceptual possibilities.
69
It is also open to the realist to insist that some of our normative judgments are not influenced by evolu-
tionary factors. Derek Parfit (2011, chs. 32–3), Katarzyna de Lazari-Radek and Peter Singer (2012), and Russ
Shafer-Landau (2012, 5–8) pursue this strategy. I have been setting that strategy aside in the current chapter,
since the primary question I am asking is: If we concede that our normative judgments are heavily shaped by
Darwinian forces, what follows?
 NORMATIVITY MIND-DEPENDENT? 247

to-be-avoided) is the outcome of evolutionary forces pushing us toward the truth,

by giving a third-factor account of how this is possible.
• Argue that our tendency to make yet other normative judgments (such as,
perhaps, our tendency to make grounding claims with normative relata) is a
by-product of our having a selected-for general faculty that allows us to make
judgments of a given sort, both normative and non-normative (such as a general
faculty for reasoning our way to grounding claims).70
In essence, what I am urging is that the realist survey those of our normative judg-
ments which evolutionary factors push us toward making, and then think hard about
the truth of each of those judgments. If the judgment does not strike the realist as being
plausible, all things considered, then she should take the first option. If the judgment
does strike her as plausible, all things considered, and there is a direct evolutionary
story for our tendency to make it, the second option is the way to go. If the judgment
strikes the realist as all-things-considered plausible but the evolutionary story for our
tendency to make it is an indirect one, then the third option is a possibility. There is no
need to adopt a uniform account with regard to all normative judgments.
If this response to the original Darwinian dilemma is successful, then it is also
successful against any Darwinian dilemmas that might be offered “one level up.” In
particular, there is nothing to stop a realist who invokes a third-factor explanation
of our ability to reliably make some first order normative judgment from offering a
third-factor account of our ability to make the grounding judgment (G) featured in
the original first order explanation. After all, this in effect is what Street urges when
the “one level up” objection is levied against her own explanation of how our first order
normative judgments are able to track the truth. At the first order level she invokes
a Humean constructivist grounding claim. When the Darwinian dilemma is pressed
against our ability to judge this grounding claim to be truth, Street appeals to another
Humean constructivist grounding claim, namely the claim that the truth of the orig-
inal Humean constructivist grounding claim is grounded in our evaluative attitudes,
since the truth of Humean constructivist follows from within everyone’s practical
standpoint. When the Darwinian dilemma is pressed against this second grounding
claim, Street responds in a similar way, and so on, ad infinitum. But if reiterating the

70
At one point (Street 2006, 142–4), Street tries to argue against by-product hypotheses by rerunning her
Darwinian dilemma on the relation between the evolutionary forces that shaped the directly selected-for fac-
ulty and the attitude-independent normative truths posited by the realist. I lack the space to fully address
Street’s argument here, but I will offer two comments. First, the new dilemma she presses against by-product
hypotheses is actually quite different in both content and form from her original Darwinian dilemma. (In
particular, the relation at issue is not the pushing-toward relation featured in the original Darwinian di-
lemma. That is why her argument against the “deny a relation” horn of the new dilemma does not appeal to
the dire epistemic consequences of embracing that horn, as it did in the original dilemma, and why her argu-
ment against the “assert a relation” horn relies on extra steps not present in the original dilemma.) Second,
Street’s new dilemma nonetheless overlooks many of the same possibilities she neglected when offering her
original Darwinian dilemma. (In particular, she continues to assume that the only sort of tracking account
available to the realist is a narrow tracking account.)
248 Selim Berker

same strategy each level up works for the Humean constructivist, then reiterating the
same strategy one level up should work for the realist as well.
And, anyway, we should have been wary of Street’s claim that the Darwinian di-
lemma applies “one level up” with the same force that it applies at the original level.
After all, we saw that the adaptive-link account is particularly shaky when it is applied
to our tendency to make judgments about in-virtue-of-what a given normative claim
is true. This problem only becomes worse as we keep going up successive levels: With
each stage the force of the first horn of Street’s dilemma diminishes, since it becomes
less and less clear that we know even the vague outlines of a version of the adaptive-link
account that can then be compared in terms of empirical adequacy to a given tracking
or third-factor account of the phenomena at that level. Moreover, the force of the sec-
ond horn also diminishes as we go up levels: It’s one thing to be forced to say that we
do not know any first order normative truths, but quite another to say that we lack
knowledge of the increasingly complex normative grounding claims invoked in these
successive explanations. Indeed, given the current state of play in the field of normative
ethics, it seems quite plausible to hold that we lack knowledge of the precise grounding
structure both “all the way down” and “all the way out” (if it keeps going out) with re-
spect to even the most obvious of first order normative truths.71
Thus I believe that my “divide and conquer” strategy allows the realist to fend
off both Street’s original Darwinian dilemma and her “one level up” objection to
third-factor accounts. However, that strategy, on its own, does not constitute a reply to
Street’s “trivially question-begging” worry, and hence does not address her amped-up
Darwinian dilemma. After all, a vital part of my “divide and conquer” strategy makes
use of third-factor explanations, which invoke normative grounding claims, and we
might worry that in making these claims, we are relying on normative judgments and
intuitions that might themselves be “tainted” by evolutionary forces. But now the thing
to do is to note that the skeptical worry here is perfectly general: It is just an instance of
the general epistemological problem of how we can show that our most fundamental
cognitive faculties (perception, introspection, induction, deduction, intuition—what
have you) are reliable without relying on those very faculties when attempting to show
this. The Cartesian circle, Chisholm’s problem of the criterion, Hume’s problem of in-
duction, attempts to justify modus ponens by appealing to modus ponens, the recent
literature on bootstrapping and easy knowledge—these are all, I believe, manifesta-
tions of the same fundamental epistemological unease. There seems to be something
viciously circular about appealing to a given cognitive faculty when attempting to vin-
dicate the epistemic standing of that very faculty. But, with our most basic cognitive
faculties, what recourse do we have except to appeal to those faculties during their
vindication?

71
Ignorance of what grounds a truth is compatible with knowledge of that truth. Aristotle knew many
truths about water, even though he didn’t know that some of those truths hold in virtue of certain truths
about hydrogen and oxygen atoms.
 NORMATIVITY MIND-DEPENDENT? 249

This is a formidable problem—so formidable, in fact, that I think we should coun-

tenance the possibility that it has no satisfactory solution.72 However, I don’t believe
that this is a special problem for our normative cognitive faculties. Moreover, it is not
a problem that we need to appeal to evolutionary considerations to generate. If we dis-
cover tomorrow that all of the evidence for evolutionary theory is an elaborate hoax,
we are left with a version of this problem. If we discover (somehow) that we were all
created five minutes ago, the problem persists. To generate the problem, we need only
start thinking about what makes it the case that our most basic normative cognitive
faculties track the truth. Since the truths in question are normative truths, there is no
way to approach this problem except through appeal, in part, to our normative cogni-
tive faculties. To think otherwise is to think that it is possible to derive an ought from
an is (or, at least, that it is possible to derive a substantive ought from an is plus a con-
ceptual ought).
But what about Street’s claim, via Accounts A and B, that the problem here is more
pressing for our judgments about normative matters than it is for our judgments about
the presence of midsized objects in our immediate environment? Recall the details of
Accounts A and B:
Account A: There are six chairs, a laptop, and a table in my immediate environment. But evolu-
tionary forces gave rise to the capacity I used to make this very judgment. This gives me reason to
think my capacity about midsized objects in my immediate environment is reliable.
Account B: Midsized objects in our immediate environment are the kinds of things one can run
into, be injured by, eat, and be eaten by. Other things being equal, then, creatures with an ability
accurately to detect midsized objects in their immediate environment tended to survive and
reproduce in greater numbers than creatures who lacked this ability. I am a product of this evo-
lutionary process. This gives me reason to think my capacity to make judgments about midsized
objects in my immediate environment is reliable. (Street 2008b, 216–17)

Street claims that Account A is trivially question-begging and gives us no reason to think
we’re reliable on these matters, whereas Account B is ultimately question-begging but
nonetheless gives us good reason to think we’re reliable. She also claims that third-factor
accounts are of the same form as Account A.
However, neither of these claims is convincing. First, third-factor accounts are actu-
ally more like Account B than they are like Account A.73 Account B features a variety of
specific causal claims which are put together to give us a more complicated causal claim
that underwrites the reliability of the very perceptual faculties used to support those
original causal claims. Third-factor accounts often feature a variety of specific claims
about individual reasons which are put together to give us a more complicated norma-
tive claim that underwrites the reliability of the very normative faculties used to support
those original claims about reasons.

72
For my own attempt at a solution, see Berker MSa and MSb.
73
Erik Wielenberg (2010, 459 n. 61) and Ronald Dworkin (2011, 447 n. 9) make similar points.
250 Selim Berker

Second, Account B is, to my mind, just as epistemically problematic as Account A is.

Suppose we discover a book of unknown origin that makes various claims about a
hitherto undocumented era of the historical past. We begin to wonder whether this
book’s claims track the truth. Then we find, halfway through the book, an elaborate
story about how books of this sort were carefully screened for their accuracy, the un-
reliable ones being destroyed. (The book contains a story of, as it were, unnatural se-
lection that applies to itself.) Does this story give us any reason to think that our book
tracks the truth? I say: No, it does not.
So we are left with a depressingly difficult epistemic problem, one that may well have
no satisfying solution. But this is a problem that all metaethical theorists who are not
normative skeptics face, regardless of their stance on the mind-dependence of norma-
tivity. And it is not a problem unique to the normative realm. The evolutionary origins
of our normative faculties do not raise a special problem which only antirealists are in a
position to solve. Rather, there is a problem here that afflicts all of our faculties, regard-
less of their origins.

Acknowledgments
Versions of this chapter were presented at the 2012 Moral Psychology and Human
Agency Workshop at the University of Michigan, as talks at the University of Toronto
and the University of Montreal, and in my spring 2013 graduate seminar at Harvard
University. I thank the audiences on all of these occasions for their questions and
feedback. In particular, conversations with James Bondarchuk, Sarah Buss, Tom
Donaldson, Matt Evans, Jeremy David Fix, Thomas Hurka, Jim Joyce, Paul Julian, Guy
Kahane, Leonard Katz, Douglas Kremm, Kate Manne, Paul Marcucilli, Jennifer Nagel,
Mark T. Nelson, Derek Parfit, Peter Railton, Said Saillant, Andrew Sepielli, Walter
Sinnott-Armstrong, Zeynep Soysal, Sarah Stroud, Christine Tappolet, and Sergio
Tenenbaum led to changes in the chapter. I also received immensely useful written
comments from Fix, Katz, Kremm, and Parfit. Finally, I owe a special debt of grati-
tude to Justin D’Arms, Daniel Jacobson, and an external referee (since revealed to be
Matthew Bedke) for their thoughtful and probing comments on an earlier draft.

References
Bedke, M. 2009. Intuitive non-naturalism meets cosmic coincidence. Pacific Philosophical
Quarterly, 90, 188–209.
Bedke, M. Forthcoming. No coincidence? To appear in Oxford Studies in Metaethics.
Berker, S. MSa. Graphic coherence. Unpublished manuscript.
Berker, S. MSb. A graph-theoretic account of epistemic structure. Unpublished manuscript.
Berker, S. MSc. The unity of grounding. Unpublished manuscript.
Blackburn, S. MS. Sharon Street on the independent normative truth as such. Unpublished man-
uscript. <http://www2.phil.cam.ac.uk/~swb24/PAPERS/Meanstreet.htm>.
 NORMATIVITY MIND-DEPENDENT? 251

Brosnan, K. 2011. Do the evolutionary origins of our moral beliefs undermine moral knowledge?
Biology and Philosophy, 26, 51–64.
Chrisman, M. 2010. Constructivism, expressivism, and ethical knowledge. International Journal
of Philosophical Studies, 18, 331–53.
Clarke-Doane, J. 2012. Morality and mathematics: The evolutionary challenge. Ethics, 122,
313–40.
Clarke-Doane, J. 2014. Moral epistemology: The mathematics analogy. Noûs, 48, 238–55.
Copp, D. 2008. Darwinian skepticism about moral realism. Philosophical Issues, 18, 186–206.
Deem, M. J. 2012. Dehorning the Darwinian dilemma for realist theories of value. Paper pre-
sented at the 2012 Harvard–MIT Graduate Philosophy Conference.
De Lazari-Radek, K., and Singer, P. 2012. The objectivity of ethics and the unity of practical
reason. Ethics, 123, 9–31.
Dreier, J. 2012. Quasi-realism and the problem of unexplained coincidence. Analytic Philosophy,
53, 269–87.
Dworkin, R. 2011. Justice for Hedgehogs. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Enoch, D. 2010. The epistemological challenge to metanormative realism: How best to under-
stand it, and how to cope with it. Philosophical Studies, 148, 413–38.
Evans, M., and Shah, N. 2012. Mental agency and metaethics. Oxford Studies in Metaethics, 7,
80–109.
Gibbard, A. 1990. Wise Choices, Apt Feelings. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Joyce, R. 2001. The Myth of Morality. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Joyce, R. 2006. The Evolution of Morality. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
Joyce, R. Forthcoming. Evolution, truth-tracking, and moral skepticism. To appear in B.
Reichardt (ed.), Problems of Goodness: New Essays on Metaethics. Bonn: Bernstein Verlag.
Kornblith, H. 1993. Epistemic normativity. Synthese, 94, 357–76.
Manne, K. 2014. Internalism about reasons: Sad but true? Philosophical Studies, 167, 89–117.
Nozick, R. 1981. Philosophical Explanations. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Parfit, D. 2011. On What Matters. 2 vols. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Petersen, S. 2013. Utilitarian epistemology. Synthese, 190, 1173–84.
Pust, J. 2012. Intuition. In E. N. Zalta (ed.), Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2012
edn.). <http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/intuition/>.
Rosen, G. 2010. Metaphysical dependence: Grounding and reduction. In B. Hale and A.
Hoffmann (eds.), Modality: Metaphysics, Logic, and Epistemology, pp. 109–35. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Scanlon, T. M. 1998. What We Owe to Each Other. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Shafer-Landau, R. 2012. Evolutionary debunking, moral realism, and moral knowledge. Journal
of Ethics and Social Philosophy, 7(1), 1–37.
Skarsaune, K. O. 2011. Darwin and moral realism: Survival of the iffiest. Philosophical Studies,
152, 229–43.
Street, S. 2006. A Darwinian dilemma for realist theories of value. Philosophical Studies, 127,
109–66.
Street, S. 2008a. Constructivism about reasons. Oxford Studies in Metaethics, 3, 207–45.
Street, S. 2008b. Reply to Copp: Naturalism, normativity, and the varieties of realism worth wor-
rying about. Philosophical Issues, 18, 207–28.
252 Selim Berker

Street, S. 2009a. Evolution and the normativity of epistemic reasons. Canadian Journal of
Philosophy, Supplement 35, 213–48.
Street, S. 2009b. In defense of future Tuesday indifference: Ideally coherent eccentrics and the
contingency of what matters. Philosophical Issues, 19, 273–98.
Street, S. 2010. What is constructivism in ethics and metaethics? Philosophy Compass, 5(5),
363–84.
Street, S. 2011. Mind-independence without the mystery: Why quasi-realists can’t have it both
ways. Oxford Studies in Metaethics, 6, 1–32.
Street, S. 2012. Coming to terms with contingency: Humean constructivism about practical
reason. In J. Lenman and Y. Shemmer (eds.), Constructivism in Practical Philosophy, pp. 40–
59. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Street, S. MSa. How to be a relativist about normativity. Unpublished manuscript. <https://files.
nyu.edu/ss194/public/sharonstreet/Writing_files/Paper%2013%20for%20website%20-%20
How%20to%20Be%20a%20Relativist%20About%20Normativity.pdf>.
Street, S. MSb. Objectivity and truth: You’d better rethink it. Unpublished manuscript. <https://
files.nyu.edu/ss194/public/sharonstreet/Writing_files/Paper%2012%20for%20website%20
-%20Objectivity%20and%20Truth%20-%20You%27d%20Better%20Rethink%20It.pdf>.
Wielenberg, E. 2010. On the evolutionary debunking of morality. Ethics, 120, 441–64.
 11
Sentimentalism and Scientism
Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

Perhaps the central thesis of the bourgeoning empirical ethics movement is what we
will term pessimism about the role of reasons and reasoning in moral psychology. This
is the claim that the reasons people offer in support of their evaluative judgments are
merely post hoc rationalizations of conclusions driven by unthinking, “alarm-like”
emotional responses.1 Some scientifically motivated pessimists conclude that most
ordinary moral judgments must be discarded in favor of claims that are not tainted
by the influence of emotion. Others embrace the vagaries of human sentiment by
adopting forms of relativism that reduce moral judgments to empirical facts about
the psychology of individuals or the sociology of groups. Despite this stark difference,
however, the champions of empirical ethics are united in holding that the emotional
basis of morality systematically undermines its pretentions to rational justification.
We will argue that this pessimism is significantly overstated. There can be no doubt
that people often adopt views for reasons other than the evidence, and hold them
without ample justification. Yet any pessimism strong enough to call into question
the possibility of moral justification, or to motivate the rejection of any contingently
human influence on ethics, will inevitably neglect an important class of anthropocen-
tric but nonetheless legitimate reasons. Moreover, no such strong pessimism is man-
dated by science. Although we grant summarily that any account of ethics that renders
it incompatible with science must yield skepticism, we deny that empirical methods
suffice to settle fundamental normative questions. Pessimists would either reduce
moral claims to empirical facts or reject them as systematically unjustified, but this ap-
proach is not a deliverance of science but a dogma of scientism: the view that empirical
methods are adequate to all areas of knowledge, including knowledge of values and
practical reasons.

1
We will focus here on Greene (2008a, 2008b), Haidt (2001), Haidt and Bjorklund (2008), Prinz (2007),
Rozin, Millman, and Nemeroff (1986), and Singer (2005); but we take the pessimist thesis, and scientism
more generally, to be widely accepted in the increasingly influential empirical ethics movement.
254 Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

We contend to the contrary that an overtly anthropocentric theory in the sentimen-

talist tradition can vindicate many ordinary moral claims, and reveal reasons that de-
rive from deeply seated human concerns, in an intellectually respectable manner. The
specific view we favor, rational sentimentalism, accepts most of the empirical claims
motivating pessimism.2 As we understand sentimentalism in general, the theory gives
the emotions a constitutive role in evaluative judgment, not just an important epis-
temological and motivational role in moral psychology.3 Unlike some other forms of
sentimentalism, though, our theory holds that the emotions are amenable to correc-
tion and regulation by reason. Rational sentimentalism thus conflicts with the relativ-
istic forms of sentimentalism that some champions of empirical ethics advocate, which
uncritically accept emotional responses, and judgments made on their basis, without
the possibility of rational correction. But it also opposes the other approach character-
istic of empirical ethics, which would purify ethics of everything contingently human,
especially the emotions.
The scientism implicit in much empirical ethics is evident in the following dilemma,
put forward by Peter Singer as a consequence of the pessimistic account of moral psy-
chology, which sees moral reasoning as the rationalization of emotional responses.
Singer (2005, 351) writes:
In the light of the best scientific understanding of ethics, we face a choice. We can take the view
that our moral intuitions and judgments are and always will be emotionally based intuitive
responses, and reason can do no more than build the best possible case for a decision already made
on nonrational grounds. That approach leads to a form of moral skepticism . . . Alternatively, we
might attempt the ambitious task of separating those moral judgments that we owe to our evolu-
tionary and cultural history, from those that have a rational basis.

Those who choose the skeptical horn of Singer’s dilemma by advocating relativism
reject the possibility that emotions can be assessed for their rational justification but
think that morality does not require it, whereas those who attempt to give ethics a
purely rational basis deny that emotionally based judgments are ever rationally jus-
tified.4 Although the champions of empirical ethics differ as to which horn of the di-
lemma they find more congenial, they share this underlying pessimism about most
ordinary moral intuitions.
The advocates of empirical ethics thus agree that pessimism yields Singer’s di-
lemma but differ in their response to it. Most of the movement’s psychologists accept

2
But cf. Kahane (this volume) and Jacobson (2012) for some doubts about specific results. For the most
part, though, we will be calling into question the normative implications of findings we accept or grant ex
hypothesi.
3
This definition is somewhat stipulative, as a diverse range of views have been called sentimentalist. In
our taxonomy, theories that merely give the emotions an important role in evaluative judgment are not yet
sentimentalist.
4
There are other forms of justification possible, in terms of the advantageousness of emotions or their
conformity with cultural standards, but these are fundamentally different notions than rational justification.
 Sentimentalism and Scientism 255

emotionally driven intuitions as self-justifying, which leads them to some form of

relativism. Jonathan Haidt and Fredrik Bjorklund (2008) put forward a view they call
social intuitionism, according to which all ethical statements refer implicitly to the
code embraced by the speaker’s culture.5 Although Jesse Prinz (2007) also adopts a
form of relativism, most of the movement’s philosophers either overtly endorse skep-
ticism or else follow Singer in aspiring to give a rational basis for morality that is
expressly denatured of anything specifically human. Joshua Greene (2008a; 2008b)
develops this hyper-rationalist approach most forcefully. According to Singer and the
hyper-rationalists, any attempt to defend commonplace moral intuitions and judg-
ments leads inevitably to skepticism. The trouble with ordinary intuitions is that
they are products of contingent human evolutionary and social history, tainted by
the influence of emotion. By contrast, Haidt and the social intuitionists embrace the
influence of emotion by holding that moral intuitions can be given a non-rational
justification sufficient to vindicate ethical knowledge. However, these social intui-
tionists thereby adopt forms of relativism that the hyper-rationalists consider tanta-
mount to skepticism.6
Rational sentimentalism will serve as our example of the sort of theory that can nav-
igate Singer’s dilemma while avoiding both its horns. The theory preserves a role for
reasons and reasoning in moral judgment, vindicating ethics as essentially human but
no less legitimate for this anthropocentrism. Although we cannot hope to mount an
adequate argument for rational sentimentalism here, our more modest goals are sig-
nificant enough. We will show that “the best scientific understanding of ethics” does
not support any pessimism strong enough to support Singer’s dilemma. We then use
rational sentimentalism to illustrate both the falsity of that dilemma and the extreme
cost of its relativist and hyper-rationalist alternatives. The relativist theories foreclose
the possibility of rational criticism of sufficiently entrenched sentiments and intuitions,
just as Greene and Singer charge. But their hyper-rationalist alternative mistakenly
denies that the emotions illuminate genuine reasons for human agents. It thus neglects
the anthropocentric reasons arising from the symbolic and expressive aspects of ac-
tion, which its advocates characterize as magical thinking and irrational taboo. This
contention is not science but scientism—a theoretical prejudice that leads to significant
moral errors.

1. Singer’s Dilemma and the Case for Pessimism

The strongest evidence for pessimism comes from the well-documented human ten-
dency to confabulate: to invent and believe reasonable-sounding but false explanations

5
Although Haidt denies that his view is relativist, he does so only by adopting an idiosyncratic concep-
tion of relativism. Prinz grants that his view is a form of relativism. Both views make moral justification into
an essentially psychological or sociological matter.
6
Nothing important hangs on how broadly we characterize skepticism, since the dilemma can be restated
as between relativism and hyper-rationalism.
256 Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

of one’s own behavior and choice.7 One commonly cited phenomenon arises from
studies where incidental disgust, introduced in experimental subjects through var-
ious artificial means—such as foul odors and bitter tastes, filthy environments, and
hypnosis—leads subjects to make harsh moral judgments about mostly innocuous,
and sometimes wholly innocent, behavior they read about while disgusted.8 It should
come as no surprise that people are led to exaggerate moral offenses when disgusted
or angry; the more noteworthy empirical result is that subjects primed with incidental
disgust sometimes produce rationales for their judgments based on features of the
vignettes that neither cause nor support their judgment. Advocates of the empirical
ethics movement have been impressed by these studies of incidental emotion and
confabulation, and both Haidt and Greene cite them in support of pessimism. It is
clear why a pessimist might take this phenomenon as corroborating evidence. In these
cases, people are unaware of a factor that influences their moral judgments but has no
justificatory force; moreover, the irrelevant feature distorting moral judgment is an
emotional response.
It is much less clear why the data on incidental emotions should be taken to show
anything general about ordinary moral and evaluative judgments. In the first place,
such incidental disgust must be contrasted with any integral disgust caused by the
objects of the judgment: things that are disgusting, at least by the lights of the person
affected. While incidental disgust taints the moral judgments it affects, integral dis-
gust can be sensitive to features of the object evaluated: its disgustingness. Indeed, it
is difficult to see how we can be sensitive to such sentimental values as the disgusting,
the funny, and the shameful except through the emotions.9 Although incidental emo-
tions do occur in the wild, as it were, not just in laboratory settings, the normal way
in which disgust, anger, and the like influence judgment is as integral responses to
the object judged: People are disgusted by something they deem disgusting, or angry
over some putative outrage. These cases lack the problematic features associated with
incidental emotions. The fact that one is disgusted by the prospect of cleaning a public
toilet surely does not count against one’s judgment that the task is indeed disgusting.
By contrast, incidental emotions can only taint judgment, whether they are primed
in a psychological study or induced by some natural cause. If hypnotically induced
disgust leads subjects gratuitously to suspect that a character in a scenario is “up to no
good” (Wheatley and Haidt 2005), for instance, we can confidently expect that their
judgments would change, were they given the same prompt while not under hypnotic
suggestion, so as to correct this distorting influence.

7
In a classic paper, Nisbett and Wilson (1977) summarize an already lengthy literature on such confabu-
lation. Haidt (2008, 189) expressly recalls their work on causal explanation in advancing his own theory of
moral judgment.
8
See esp. Wheatley and Haidt (2005).
9
The contributions of integral guilt and anger to moral judgment involve more complex matters, some
of which we will speak to shortly. In any case, advocates of empirical ethics typically want to indict the influ-
ence of emotion not just on judgments of right and wrong but evaluative judgment in general.
 Sentimentalism and Scientism 257

What is more, some of the empirical work on incidental emotions is not merely
compatible with rational sentimentalism but actually lends support to it by highlight-
ing ways in which reasoning mediates emotional influence. Even in experimental cir-
cumstances, which reveal immediate responses rather than longer-term conclusions,
people do not trust judgments made under the influence of incidental emotions. For
instance, it turns out that when subjects know beforehand that they will have to jus-
tify their judgments about how much punishment is deserved, the effects of incidental
anger are significantly reduced (Lerner, Goldberg, and Tetlock 1998).10 This suggests
that people are capable of regulating the influence of emotional responses on their
evaluative judgments. Although the confabulation data are striking and worrisome,
the fact that people confabulate in circumstances where their judgments are being un-
wittingly driven by incidental emotions does not show that emotional influence is al-
ways suspect. Here and elsewhere, the evidence for pessimism seizes on something
true and important but exaggerates its implications and ubiquity. Even if it is granted
that incidental disgust obscures moral judgment, this is less significant than it seems,
in light of the evidence about regulation; and it does nothing to show that disgust
cannot reveal reasons to avoid disgusting things in particular.
Much of the most frequently cited evidence for pessimism displays a similar ten-
dency to overstatement. Haidt and his collaborators (Haidt, Bjorklund, and Murphy
2000) report finding that some experimental subjects stuck doggedly to their eval-
uative judgments about putatively “offensive yet harmless” actions despite being un-
able to articulate reasons for those judgments. Eventually they fall back on the claim
that some type of action is just wrong, or wrong for inexplicable reasons. Haidt refers
to such cases as moral dumbfounding, because people maintain condemnatory judg-
ments—which he hypothesizes are driven by strong emotional responses, such as dis-
gust at scenarios involving incest and cannibalism—without any supporting reasons.
Dumbfounding thus seems like the quintessential case for pessimism. Haidt and oth-
ers impressed with dumbfounding suggest that the phenomenon illustrates something
about ordinary cases where people are not dumbfounded: that evaluative judgment
simply recapitulates emotional response. Thus Haidt (2005) compares the role of rea-
soning in moral judgment to the spin of a presidential press secretary whose job is to
tell credible lies that make the president look as good as possible. The difference be-
tween the ordinary case, where people support their moral judgments with reasons,
and the dumbfounding cases amounts merely to the difference between a competent
and an incompetent press secretary. Both lie by nature and job description—it’s just

10
Similarly, Schwarz and Clore (1983) found that mood effects due to fair and foul weather influenced
people’s judgments of life satisfaction; but when respondents’ attention was drawn to the weather, no mood
effects on judgment were observed. Schnall et al. (2008, 1106) take this finding to show that “rather than
being obligatory, affective influences on judgment can often be eliminated by making salient an irrele-
vant but plausible cause for the feelings.” It seems that when people recognize the presence of a factor that
obscures judgment, such as a mood effect caused by the weather, they correct for it.
258 Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

that when you are dumbfounded, reason has failed at its task of constructing bogus
rationalizations of your judgments.
But the evidence of dumbfounding does not offer much support for this general pes-
simism. In the first place, the experimental evidence is quite weak. The paper giving
the experimental findings has never been published; its results are barely statistically
significant, and it uses a small and unrepresentative sample. The more interesting point
concerns how dubious are the premises of the experiment. The experimenters assume
a narrow conception of what can count as a good reason to condemn actions, limited
almost entirely to harm. Even so, although Haidt (2000, 7) claims that the moral intu-
ition scenarios were “carefully written to be harmless” and, hence, that it is “extremely
difficult to find strong arguments” to justify censorious judgments, this is not the case.
There are good and obvious harm-based reasons that support these judgments about
which subjects were supposedly dumbfounded. Even so, one might think that the ex-
istence of good reasons does not change the fact that the subjects were unable to come
up with them. But this claim is undermined by the experimental protocol, in which
a “devil’s advocate” gave dubious counterarguments to those who offered reasons in
support of their judgments. Moreover, since there were good reasons available in these
scenarios, notwithstanding Haidt’s claims to the contrary, the experiment cannot dis-
criminate between dumbfounding and inarticulateness. The subjects may have been
responsive to reasons they could not articulate.11
None of this is to deny that people sometimes confabulate, especially in cases where
they are forced to choose between identical items—where there are no grounds for
choice—and in other unusual circumstances (such as hypnosis and split-brain
patients). But although confabulation happens in various contexts, many of which
have nothing to do with value judgment, in a host of mundane cases it seems we do act
for reasons and know the reasons on which we act. Sometimes a person eats because
he is hungry; that fact both explains why he ate and justifies it (by his own lights). Even
when people confabulate a false causal story, sometimes they are nonetheless sensitive
to evidence that they cannot articulate.12
In the evaluative domain, however, Haidt (2001) and other leading figures in em-
pirical ethics go so far as to doubt whether we ever reason our way to moral judgment.
Influential work by Haidt (2008, 187) and his collaborators advances the view that
the “great majority” of our evaluative judgments are not sensitive to reasons but are
mere rationalizations: bogus justifications for decisions already made on non-rational
grounds, specifically on the basis of emotional responses. Greene (2008) argues that
justifications offered for the moral judgments characteristic of commonsense morality

11
These criticisms are developed in more detail in Jacobson (2012).
12
For instance, in Maier’s (1931) famous hanging cord task experiment, subjects were unwittingly clued in
to the solution to the task by the experimenter “accidentally” knocking into one of the cords, setting it in mo-
tion. Although they could not identify how they solved the problem but offered confabulated stories picking
up on adventitious details, nevertheless they were demonstrably responsive to evidence—the hint—given to
them by the experimenters.
 Sentimentalism and Scientism 259

are similarly confabulated, though he thinks that certain other judgments are im-
mune to this charge. And Singer too rejects the vast majority of moral judgments while
holding out hope that ethics may yet be given an adequately rational basis.
The strongest argument from pessimism to Singer’s dilemma comes from Greene.
In his view, only direct appeals to the consequences of action, and more specifically
to harm and benefit, offer legitimate grounds for ethical judgment. He calls such con-
siderations “consequentialist” despite acknowledging that this is an idiosyncratic use
of the term, since many of the theories philosophers deem consequentialist are not
nearly so restrictive.13 We will follow his usage here by referring to this narrow range
of considerations as consequentialist reasons, but nothing in our argument will tell
against the best forms of consequentialism, which can acknowledge reasons that count
as non-consequentialist in Greene’s sense. This exclusive focus is central to his view, as
Greene (2008, 40) explicitly requires that the concepts appealed to by such reasons are
“inherently neutral representations:” empirical concepts. While others are less explicit
about this, we will see that (early) Haidt and Paul Rozin also tacitly presuppose that
the only good reasons for moral judgments—and indeed for evaluative judgments and
rational choice more generally—must be grounded in facts about the number of lives
saved, or about harm and benefit construed narrowly so as to be empirical concepts.
Greene’s argument for pessimism about moral reasoning that appeals to any-
thing but these consequentialist reasons has two stages. First, he claims that all
non-consequentialist reasons put forward in support of moral judgment are mere
rationalizations. By this he means that the rationales offered for these verdicts, which
appeal to considerations such as justice or cruelty, do not really explain the agent’s
judgments. The true explanation is that they recapitulate the agent’s strong and deci-
sive (“alarm-like”) emotional responses. Next, Greene (2008, 72) offers what we will
call the argument from coincidence against all such judgments. In short: It would be an
unlikely coincidence for those emotions, shaped as they are by evolutionary and cul-
tural forces, to correspond to an “independent, rationally discoverable moral truth”—
that is, a moral truth independent of anything contingently human.
The rationalization charge seems, on its face, to be tantamount to the psycholog-
ical claim that the rationale an agent offers in support of his judgment does not re-
ally explain why he so judges. In order for a consideration to be an agent’s reason for
acting, it must seem to him to count in favor of the action, and thereby contribute to
causing him to act. When people confabulate, their expressed rationale does not cause
them to act and so cannot be their reason for acting. Hence confabulated rationales
are merely rationalizations of whatever actually caused the judgment. But the charge

13
Greene adopts a narrow welfarist theory of value, which excludes the sort of considerations that moved
philosophers away from utilitarian axiology. Moreover, his conception ignores indirect and otherwise so-
phisticated forms of the theory. It is widely recognized that consequentialist theories are not limited to
adducing such “consequentialist” reasons, and they are well advised not to so limit themselves.
260 Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

of rationalization, as it figures in Greene’s argument against non-consequentialist rea-

sons, turns out to be more complex than it initially appears.
Greene illustrates rationalization by imagining a character, Alice, who sincerely but
misguidedly explains her preferences among the men she dates by citing their var-
ious good and bad features such as intelligence, humor, and self-absorption. In fact
her preferences are simpler; she is attracted only to tall men. As Greene (2008, 67) tells
the story: “Alice, of course, believes that her romantic judgments are based on a va-
riety of complicated factors. But, if the numbers are to be believed, she basically has
a height fetish, and all her talk about wit and charm and kindness is mere rational-
ization.” Alice’s putative reasons are confabulated, because they do not actually ex-
plain her date choices. Greene holds that people who make moral judgments based on
non-consequentialist reasons similarly fail to grasp the true explanation of their judg-
ments, namely their emotional responses. But there are two distinct features of Alice,
which Greene does not differentiate. First, the rationales she offers for her choices—
such as wit and charm and kindness—are not really her reasons. Second, it seems tac-
itly implied that were Alice made aware that height perfectly predicts her preferences
among dates, she would disavow it as a reason. She would not endorse her actual crite-
rion. Thus the Alice example involves both confabulation (of her putative reasons) and
alienation (from her genuine reasons).
Consider by contrast Greene’s most developed and realistic example of supposed
rationalization in moral judgment: his argument against retributivism. According to
Greene’s (2008, 50) official characterization of the view, to engage in retributive pun-
ishment is “to give wrongdoers what they deserve based on what they have done, re-
gardless of whether such retribution will prevent future wrongdoing.” This fairly
characterizes two core retributivist doctrines, both of which concern desert. The
worse the transgression and the fewer mitigating circumstances, the more punish-
ment is deserved; and the fact that someone deserves punishment counts as a reason—
though not always as sufficient reason—to punish him. These two claims constitute
what we will call core retributivism, which is the most defensible form of the view.
Greene’s argument commits him to rejecting this modest version, because it too offers
non-consequentialist reasons based in desert.
Note that core retributivism does not entail the Kantian claim that it is intrin-
sically good for the wicked to suffer, much less that we should always give peo-
ple what they deserve regardless of the cost—let the heavens fall, as it were. Surely
even deserved punishment should be foregone when it would be catastrophically
costly to punish. Desert is one consideration in favor of punishment but it can be
overridden by other considerations, including sufficiently weighty consequentialist
reasons. We will consider only core retributivism here, not either Kantian addi-
tion. This core of retributivism is especially important for our purposes, because
it manifests the fundamental concern and action tendency of anger: It is sensitive
to slights and wrongs, and it motivates retaliation or retribution. In defending core
retributivism—which we will refer to simply as retributivism in what follows—we
 Sentimentalism and Scientism 261

are in a sense (to be elaborated) defending the rational significance of the human
propensity to anger.
Greene’s discussion of retributivism purports to show that those who put forward
abstract theories of desert or rights, in order to justify punishing wrongdoers, are
guilty of rationalization. The retributivist supposedly offers a confabulated story about
judgments that are really made because he is angry, and anger motivates him to retal-
iate. But this argument seems to misconstrue the role of anger in moral judgment, in
two related respects. It posits too simple and direct a connection between sentiment
and value, and it runs together two distinct points about confabulation: It is uncon-
scious and unendorsed.
First, the account is too simple. The relationship between anger and moral judgment
is not as direct as Greene implies. Surely one need not have a bout of anger on every oc-
casion when one judges that punishment is justified.14 Most obviously, one can believe
that wrongdoing deserves punishment without focusing upon any particular case,
much less getting angry about it. People also seem capable of making such judgments
dispassionately even about particular cases, especially (but not exclusively) when the
wrong does not affect their interests and lacks sympathetic victims. Thus individual
retributivist judgments are not inevitably rationalizations of alarm-like emotional
responses. It is more plausible that anger contributes indirectly to retributivist intui-
tions, in that people develop standards of wrongness and come to the conclusion that
wrongdoing deserves punishment partly through their sentiments: specifically the
disposition to anger. While this suggestion does not support Greene’s charge of ration-
alization, it is worth elaborating briefly as an example of how rational sentimentalism
offers an alternative conception of the contribution of emotion to evaluative judgment,
which does not entail pessimism.
It may well be that some of the plausibility of retributivism to humans arises from
our predilection to embrace the internal logic of anger, which involves taking the
transgressions that anger us to provide reasons to retaliate. But it is crucial to recog-
nize how the critical assessment of our emotions, as well as consistency pressure on
norms for when emotions are fitting, make a complementary contribution to a de-
fensible retributivism. Because people are capable of such critical assessment, they do
not simply conclude that whatever angers them deserves punishment. For instance,
when you realize reflectively that the harm I caused you was unintentional and unfore-
seeable, you can recognize that it does not merit your anger. Then even if you have a
lingering impulse to retaliate, given by your anger, you should conclude that it is unjus-
tified and ought to be resisted. An equally important point is that while one’s bouts of
anger contribute to the plausibility of the idea that transgressions deserve punishment,
one’s ability to reason abstractly can lead to the realization that one’s similar transgres-
sions against others are similarly blameworthy. This conclusion is not generated by

14
This is of course an empirical claim, but it seems to us obviously true, and Greene offers no evidence
against it.
262 Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

anger at oneself. It is rather an application of consistency pressure that helps refine

anger and its characteristic motivation in ways that are more sensitive to reasons. This
is not to say that our emotional responses are always so sensitive, or that a more mod-
est form of pessimism focusing on specific human biases should be discounted. But
it would be hasty to deny that transgressors deserve punishment simply because that
intuition echoes the internal logic of anger.
The second problem with Greene’s claim that retributivism is a rationalization of
anger is even more significant for present purposes. It stems from its conflation of
confabulation with alienation, both of which, one imagines, are present in the case of
Alice. The role of anger in retributive thinking does not undermine retributivism un-
less one denies that anger—which is to say, integral rather than incidental anger—can
be sensitive to good reasons to punish. (Recall again that they need not be sufficient
reasons.) This is exactly what is at issue. When you are outraged at some heinous crime,
in which the wrongdoer gratuitously harmed an innocent person, your anger purports
to be responsive to considerations about what has been done that justify the claim that
the criminal deserves punishment. Then although you recognize that your anger at
wrongdoing motivates you to “give wrongdoers the punishment they deserve based on
what they have done,” you will likely endorse this tendency.
Compare this to Alice’s case, supposing that she were to come to realize that her
overwhelming attraction to tall men fully determined her dating choices. But now im-
agine that she endorsed these choices on reflection rather than being alienated from
them: She decides that attractiveness is all that matters to her, that her sole criterion is
height, and that she is fine with it. Although science can be said to have undermined
her previous, confabulated rationales about wit and kindness, it cannot show her pref-
erences (which violate no canon of rationality) to be incorrect. Science has nothing
to say on that score, although aesthetics allows us to criticize her taste as failing to be
sensitive to all of the attractive and unattractive qualities in her dates, to say the least.
Other normative disciplines provide grounds to criticize anyone who chooses dates
exclusively on the basis of their attractiveness—even with impeccable taste.
Greene aspires to undermine claims about desert, rights, and justice by making a
psychological claim that retributivists engage in rationalization, which purports to
obviate the need to give a substantive argument over the merits of the case for pun-
ishment. But this argument fails, because anger does not always cause judgments of
wrongness and, even when it does, people often endorse their anger at heinous wrong-
doing as being sensitive to genuine reasons to punish. That is, they think that what
the culprit did both explains their anger at him and justifies it, as well as motivating
and justifying his punishment. Although they may be mistaken, they are not like
Alice and, hence, not susceptible to any purely psychological argument that they are
guilty of rationalization. The Alice case gives illicit support to the rationalization argu-
ment by conflating confabulation and alienation, thereby making it seem like because
Alice confabulates, she must be alienated from the true cause of her choices. In the
case of anger at wrongdoing, however, there may be no confabulation even if anger is
 Sentimentalism and Scientism 263

implicated in the causal story. Moreover, the judgment will likely be endorsed, not-
withstanding the anger; if the agent is alienated from his anger, thinking it unjustified,
then he will not judge on its basis. (This was the lesson of the first disanalogy between
Alice and the retributivist.)
Since Greene’s argument cannot make good on its grandiose ambition to demon-
strate that retributivists are inevitably self-confuting, as Alice is tacitly assumed to be,
his own theory of punishment must be compared with retributivism on the merits. The
so-called utilitarian theory of punishment that Greene adopts offers an alternative to
retributivism.15 It is not a conclusion of any empirical argument, however, and hence—
in the absence of any reason to think that retributivists must be confused by their own
lights—it is no more or less compatible with science. Instead the argument has to be
made on overtly normative grounds. Since we reject pessimism and accept the possi-
bility of rationally justifying normative claims, we think this possible. Indeed, we think
normative arguments—or at any rate, compelling normative claims that few will want
to deny—suffice to convict Alice of having bad taste in men, in addition to being highly
imprudent in her criteria for choosing romantic partners.
According to the theory of punishment Greene (2008, 70) endorses, considerations
of desert do not provide any reason to punish: “consequences are ultimately the only
things that should matter to decision makers,” he claims, when it comes to punishment
or anything else. But this is a very difficult position to defend. Its worst implication is
that we should punish the innocent whenever that would have the best consequences.
In the philosophers’ standard toy case, lynching an innocent will save two lives that
would otherwise be lost in a riot. In Greene’s view, the only legitimate consideration
about this case is that the loss of two lives is worse than the loss of one. Greene must
reject the claim that it would be unjust to violate the rights of the innocent person by
lynching her—indeed, even that this injustice provides a reason not to do so—as these
are just the sort of non-consequentialist considerations he considers mere rational-
ization. This is not just the familiar point that consequentialists cannot rule out any
type of action, including lynching, a priori. Perhaps catastrophic cases suffice to justify
that conclusion. The point is that even in ordinary and realistic cases, Greene’s theory
commits him to holding that someone’s innocence does not provide any reason not to
punish her.16
Retributivism avoids these consequences by recognizing desert as a source of
practical reasons, which renders it considerably more plausible than the purely
forward-looking alternative. We have already granted that some of this intuitive

15
“So-called” because the classical utilitarians did not, and modern consequentialists should not, adopt it.
16
The reader may be excused for suspecting that we must be reading Greene uncharitably here. In fact he
embraces this result, albeit in the highly unrealistic (and hence less horrific) trolley cases, where the bullet he
has to bite can seem more palatable. “As long as starving children get helped and people get shoved in front
of speeding trolleys, that’s all I care about,” Greene (2008, 117) writes, his rhetoric leavening with jocularity
a position he is committed to in all seriousness. Similarly, all his theory cares about is that one more life was
saved by preventing the riot than was lost by lynching the innocent.
264 Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

support comes from the human propensity to anger. While critics of retributivism are
on their most favorable ground with anger, an emotion that many view with suspicion,
it should be noted that when anger is directed against acknowledged wrongdoing it
tends to go by such honorifics as righteous indignation. In any case, anger is hardly
the only sentiment that is concerned with desert and thus conflicts with Greene’s in-
sistence that only consequentialist reasons can justify action. More attractive attitudes
such as sympathy and compassion also focus on the victims of unjust punishment
and other undeserved suffering. Gratitude, which motivates us to respond positively
towards those who have been kind to us, rather than bestowing our largesse wherever
it would do a little more good, also manifests a concern for desert. Thus the senti-
ments are shot through with concerns that people be treated in ways that reflect their
moral record. Furthermore, the very idea of merit, that achievement and effort de-
serve reward, makes essential appeal to desert. Thus the human concern for desert,
which is central to anger’s internal logic, extends across a wide array of our attitudes
and practices.
These sentiments and other evaluative attitudes cohere with the idea that desert mat-
ters, as core retributivism claims and hyper-rationalism denies. Moreover, work in ev-
olutionary psychology and behavioral economics also strongly suggests that concern
for desert pervades human nature, for instance by making us keenly aware of cheating
and committed to norms of fairness.17 Whereas sentimentalist theories embrace the
idea that some such deeply seated psychological tendencies give rise to genuine rea-
sons for humans, even if not for dispassionate aliens, Greene holds that emotions are
“garbage” that should be ignored. This is the principal difference between an anthro-
pocentric account of ethics and a scientistic view that is alienated from human nature
and sentiment.
To his credit, Greene confronts the fact that his view is unlivable for humans. He
(2008, 76) writes:
How far can the empirical debunking of human moral nature go? If science tells me that I love
my children more than other children only because they share my genes, should I feel uneasy
about that? . . . It seems that one who is unwilling to act on human tendencies that have amoral
evolutionary causes is ultimately unwilling to be human.

We have no choice but to be human, of course, and hence for our deepest feelings to be
in tension with full impartiality, sensitive to considerations of desert, and so forth. So
this is not a genuine choice, and the hyper-rationalist does not offer a tenable alterna-
tive for how to live. Although Greene admits that his hyper-rationalism is inhuman, he
thinks that the only other option is to embrace some form of relativism that cannot call
our ethical intuitions into question. But that follows only if Singer’s dilemma exhausts
the theoretical options, which is precisely what we deny.

17
See e.g. Cosmides (1989), Roth (1995).
 Sentimentalism and Scientism 265

This debate over retributivism illustrates the general pattern of Greene’s argument
from coincidence, which motivates pessimism about all moral judgments not based
on narrowly consequentialist reasons—which is to say, any reason concerning rights,
justice, desert, intention, and the distinction between action and omission (among
much else). Greene argues that powerful emotional responses favor these conclusions,
and he contends that it would be a remarkable coincidence if our intuitions, which cor-
respond to these evolved emotional responses, just so happen to track moral reasons
independent of human moral psychology. As he (2008, 72) puts it, “it is unlikely that
inclinations that evolved as evolutionary byproducts correspond to some independ-
ent, rationally discoverable moral truth;” rather, it is much more plausible that when
we feel the pull of non-consequentialist intuitions, “we are merely gravitating toward
our evolved emotional inclinations.”
In section 2 we will show that rational sentimentalism offers a theoretical option
that answers Greene’s argument from coincidence. The route through the dilemma
that Singer and Greene neglect is that our emotional responses can be sensitive to an-
thropocentric but nonetheless genuine reasons to act. There need be no cosmic coinci-
dence when our emotions get it right because, although our evaluative judgments then
track the moral truth, it is not an independent moral truth but one that is partly shaped
by the contours of the sentiments, corrected and augmented by reasoning. Hence
Singer’s dilemma, according to which science presents a forced choice between skepti-
cism and hyper-rationalism, is a false dilemma—at least, if rational sentimentalism is
coherent and defensible.
Yet the idea that anthropocentrism leads to skepticism, which both Singer and
Greene endorse, holds true of the forms of sentimentalism offered by their compa-
triots in the empirical ethics movement. As Greene notes, some of his fellow pessi-
mists—most notably Haidt and Prinz—grant authority to emotions despite thinking
that they cannot be given any rational justification. These views advocate an anthropo-
centric approach to morality, which, as Greene (2008, 74) puts it, settles for “a morality
that is contingently human” rather than “deriving moral truths from first principles.”
This description of anthropocentrism is accurate enough and describes our own view
fairly. But Greene (2008, 74) also characterizes anthropocentrism in a more tenden-
tious manner: “Rather than standing by our moral intuitions on the assumption that
they can be justified by a rational theory,” he writes, “we might stand by them just be-
cause they are ours.” He then rejects anthropocentrism on the grounds that it cannot
criticize entrenched intuitions but must accept them as justified. Although this char-
acterization aptly describes the relativist positions of Haidt and Prinz, which disavow
the possibility of rational criticism of accepted practices and entrenched feelings, it
misconstrues those anthropocentric approaches that are not relativist or otherwise
skeptical.
Our contention that the hyper-rationalists set up a false dilemma thus rests on
the claim that anthropocentrism—and, more specifically, sentimentalism—need
not be relativist. In section 2 we illustrate and defend the (commonplace) practice of
266 Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

appraising emotional responses for their rational justification by describing a senti-

mentalist theory on which evaluative judgments are not emotional reactions but
assessments of the grounds for such reactions. Such grounds can be better and worse,
and they are not simply about the instrumental advantages of responses or their con-
gruence with societal tendencies. Hence commonplace evaluative judgments are
not justified merely by consensus, or by coherence with one’s own patterns of emo-
tional response, contrary to the claims of both forms of scientism championed by
the empirical ethics movement. The strong pessimism adopted by both relativists
and hyper-rationalists depends on their denial that ordinary evaluative judgments,
grounded in the sentiments and other contingent features of human nature, are ame-
nable to rational criticism and justification.

2. Sentimentalism without Relativism

The fundamental thesis of sentimentalism, as we understand it, is that evaluative con-
cepts or properties depend essentially upon the emotions. This definition is expansive
enough to include a variety of different theories, but not so broad as to include every
ethical theory that gives a central role to the emotions either in moral motivation or
the phenomenology of value. Sentimentalists claim that the emotions do not just de-
tect values but partly serve to constitute them—as the funny is not just detected by our
amusement but shaped by the human sense of humor.18 Consider by contrast a view
that holds that values are primary qualities, independent of human nature, and then
explains the correlation between emotional response and evaluative judgment by sup-
posing that emotions track those independent values. Although this position flatters
the emotions where hyper-rationalism disparages them, it does not count as sentimen-
talist. Such a view is particularly vulnerable to Greene’s argument from coincidence,
because it offers no explanation of why our emotional responses “just so happen” to
track human-independent moral facts.
Sentimentalism can circumvent the argument from coincidence, however, since
it does not claim that the values revealed in emotional responses are independent of
human sentiments. This dependence is the essence of sentimentalism, though dif-
ferent versions of the theory differ crucially over how to understand it. Two of the sim-
pler versions of sentimentalism, emotivism and social intuitionism, are pessimistic
about the possibility of rational justification in ethics. Emotivism focuses on evaluative
judgment, which it understands as the expression of emotional states (along with an
imperative to feel similarly). In this view, to judge something good or right is to express
one’s approval of it and to attempt to persuade others to take up a similar attitude. In

18
This means that the incongruity theory of humor, for instance, which identifies the funny with the in-
congruous—understood as an empirical concept rather than as response-dependent—is not sentimentalist,
even if it regards amusement as the source of human concern for humor and our main epistemological route
to the funny.
 Sentimentalism and Scientism 267

effect it is to say: “I approve of this; do so as well” (Stevenson 1937). Social intuitionism

focuses directly on values rather than value judgments, holding that the property of
being valuable is relative to a culture, and to be valuable (in some culture) is just to be
approved of by the relevant group. These simple forms of sentimentalism agree that ap-
proval and disapproval are not amenable to rational justification.
We are not developing rational sentimentalism in any detail here, only broaching
two of its central commitments that are relevant to rebutting pessimism. First and most
important for present purposes, our view of the relation between sentiment and value
is that value corresponds not with whatever people actually feel but with what feelings
are fitting, and value judgments are not simply emotional responses but verdicts about
what merits those responses. Thus value judgments are not justified by facts about
what people are disposed to feel; rather, their defensibility hangs on the adequacy of
the reasons supporting them. Precursors of this suggestion can be found in the early
sentimentalists, such as Hume and Adam Smith, and it is now widely embraced by sen-
timentalists with very different views about the metaphysics of value (about which we
remain neutral here). For instance, David Wiggins (1998, 187) claims that: “x is good/
right/beautiful if and only if x is such as to make a certain sentiment of approbation ap-
propriate.” Contemporary expressivists, the intellectual heirs of emotivism, similarly
suggest that evaluative judgment should be identified not with emotions themselves
but with higher-order endorsements of such responses as appropriate (or fitting, mer-
ited, rational). As Allan Gibbard (1990, 51) puts it: “An action is morally admirable, we
can say, if on the part both of the agent and of others it makes sense to feel moral appro-
bation toward the agent for having done it.”
Second, rational sentimentalism adopts a version of anthropocentrism according to
which certain contingent human concerns provide reasons for action that we (humans)
would not have in the absence of those concerns. But the concerns in question must
be both deeply ingrained in human nature and widely supported by a network of mo-
tivational, affective, and cognitive sources in human psychology. We utilized this idea
in the argument for the significance of desert above, and it will be further developed in
section 3.
Were pessimism correct, the distinction between fitting and unfitting sentiments
could not be sustained, because emotions would only be amenable to empirical forms
of assessment, for instance as in conformity with the norms of an agent’s culture or as
coherent with his overall sensibility. Stevenson (1944, 138) anticipated this pessimistic
thesis about the impossibility of rational justification of evaluative judgment: “if any
ethical dispute is not rooted in disagreement in belief,” he claimed, “then no reasoned
solution of any sort is possible.” Like emotivism, social intuitionism turns moral rea-
soning into nothing more than persuasion.19 As we shall see, Haidt embraces exactly
this view of justification, and he does so in the context of a tellingly abhorrent argu-
ment that illustrates the impoverishment of this view.

19
This point was initially brought out by Brandt (1950).
268 Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

For social intuitionists and other relativists, the only sensible notion of moral justifi-
cation is that of conformity, whether to the culture or the individual’s sensibility. Haidt
(Haidt and Bjorklund 2008, 216) endorses a cultural relativism according to which: “A
well-formed moral system is one that is endorsed by the great majority of its members,
even those who appear, from the outside, to be its victims.” Although Prinz’s view is
more complex, he ultimately holds a version of individual relativism. As Prinz (2007,
177) describes it: “On the form of relativism that I have been endorsing, a speaker
[who] says ‘you ought to Φ’ expresses the fact that the speaker endorses values that
require Φ-ing,” where the values in question are fixed by the speaker’s sentiments.20
These relativist versions of sentimentalism coopt such normative notions as ought by
replacing them with something empirically tractable: conformity to one’s culture or
one’s own actual sentiments. But this undermines the normative force of these notions,
since (for instance) the fact that one’s culture endorses some moral norm does not jus-
tify accepting it.
The pessimism embraced by relativism and emotivism concedes the resources
needed to defend classically liberal ideals of rights and justice. And relativism in par-
ticular lends itself to the defense of oppressive social practices that run counter to the
progress of civilization towards institutions that better promote human flourishing.
This is most evident of social intuitionism, which implies a moral equivalence between
(viable) cultures. That tendency reflects a loss of confidence in what we hold to be
genuinely worthy and rationally defensible ideals of Western culture: respect for in-
dividual rights and responsibilities, the goal of progress in human well-being, and the
struggle against unjust and oppressive social practices. A similar point applies to the
hyper-rationalism of Singer and Greene. Though that view is concerned with welfare,
or at least with pain and pleasure, it rejects considerations of justice and rights as mere
rationalization. It thus neglects the historical lesson that progress in human well-being
is fostered by representative government, rule of law, and the other institutions of a
free society—all of which demand more sophisticated forms of decision making than
crude consequentialism. The rest of this section illustrates the theoretical and moral
deficiencies of relativism, while the final section displays a wide range of genuine rea-
sons that elude the scientistic approach characteristic of hyper-rationalism.
The following example is intended both as a theoretical argument for the possibility
of moral reasoning and justification, against pessimism, and as a normative argument
in defense of the liberal ideals disparaged by social intuitionism, which if successful
justifies certain patterns of approval and disapproval against others. Both points can
be illustrated with a case both Haidt and Prinz discuss at some length, namely clitori-
dectomy—which gets called female circumcision by its apologists and female genital
mutilation by its critics. Although as critics we consider the censorious term more apt,

20
Although this sounds like expressivism, it is not. Prinz (2007, 177) explains that this claim is “true if and
only if the speaker has moral values that prescribe Φ-ing.” There are some adventitious complications to the
view, but for a similar statement put in terms of truth conditions, cf. Prinz (2007, 179).
 Sentimentalism and Scientism 269

we will avoid prejudicing our case by choosing the most neutral term available to pros-
ecute this argument. Were Haidt’s cultural relativism correct, then the fact that a great
majority of the members of a culture (whatever that amounts to) support the prac-
tice, including women, would suffice to make it part of a well-formed moral system.21
Indeed, since Haidt (2008, 216) identifies being virtuous with being “fully encultur-
ated,” it is not merely that participation in this practice is virtuous; worse yet, opposi-
tion to it must count as vicious insofar as it precludes enculturation.
The paradigm of moral argument offered by Haidt (2008, 191) comes from a de-
bate over clitoridectomy, in which he follows the misguided tendency of many social
scientists to conflate clitoridectomy with circumcision, which allows him to say, mis-
leadingly, that the practice is “common in many cultures.” He then quotes a passionate
condemnation of ritualistic female genital mutilation that he calls an argument—or
rather seven arguments, one for each emotionally loaded term—so as to treat the pas-
sage as paradigmatic not just of the case against clitoridectomy but of moral argument
in general. Haidt (2008, 192) asks the reader to “note that each argument is really an
attempt to frame the issue so as to push an emotional button, triggering seven different
flashes of intuition in the listener.” But one cherry-picked example makes no general
case for pessimism. Haidt’s description accurately describes his own attempt to frame
the practice as just another variety of genital alteration, however, in order to suggest
that any distress you may have over it can only be prejudice. Despite the fact that there
are compelling (and obvious) reasons to draw a moral distinction between circumci-
sion and clitoridectomy, Haidt cheats by choosing a polemical statement as his para-
digm of moral argumentation. In order to illustrate the implications of these points, we
first need to make clear the terms of the disagreement and the burden of his argument.
If pessimism about moral reasoning were correct, our disagreement over the per-
missibility of clitoridectomy could only be an effort to exert non-rational influence or
an anthropological dispute about how much agreement over the practice exists. But we
can grant Haidt the anthropology, for the sake of argument, without withdrawing our
moral judgment. Let us suppose then that Prinz (2007, 209) is correct when he claims,
in his own apologia for clitoridectomy, that in “most cultures where female circumci-
sion is performed, women evidently support and promote the practice.” We will stip-
ulate that this is true about the case at hand, so as to make the argument as difficult as
possible for us critics and anti-relativists. Since we dispute that widespread agreement
suffices to make a practice permissible, we posit such agreement. But we demand the
same consideration in return. Since in their view it makes no difference how harmful
is the practice so long as it has the requisite support, they cannot shrink from the most
heinous cases, where—among many other oppressive features of the practice as it ac-
tually exists—it grievously harms young girls without their consent (notwithstanding

21
It is unclear why Haidt gets to make even this caveat (about victims), except for the contingency that
women are not a minority group. When a minority is small enough that a “great majority” of the culture need
not include it, then their lack of consent must in Haidt’s view be considered morally irrelevant.
270 Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

the views of other women). Hence we will focus on these cases, where the practice is
most harmful and yet sufficiently accepted to count as right according to relativism.
Our dispute with Haidt over this case is not a matter of anthropological fact, and
our dispute with Prinz is not a matter of psychological fact. We are not denying that
clitoridectomy has widespread support in this culture, nor are we merely expressing
our own disapproval of it. We are rather claiming that there are conclusive reasons to
disapprove of the practice, which exist even if it is approved of by the majority in that
culture. But our disapproval does not make it wrong, even for us; it would be wrong
even if we did not disapprove, in virtue of the good reasons to disapprove of it. The
clearest reasons are that the practice harms young women, without their consent, in a
manner that inhibits their flourishing. This has to be granted to be a powerful prima
facie argument against the practice, which could only be overcome by a very compel-
ling counterargument. Yet the counterarguments proffered by Haidt and Prinz—and
the apologists they cite approvingly—are lame, because they offer bad reasons in sup-
port of the permissibility of the practice. Their analogies to male circumcision and
body piercing are very weak, since those practices are not seriously harmful (and the
latter case is consensual). Whatever one thinks of those practices, the strongest reasons
to disapprove of clitoridectomy simply do not apply to them.
Both Prinz and Haidt allow themselves to argue against the most favorable cases: not
only where the practice is supported by most women but also where it does not seri-
ously harm women by (for one thing) permanently precluding their ability to enjoy
sex—even though this is the overt goal of most extant forms of the practice. Moreover,
the good reasons to disapprove of clitoridectomy are deliberately obscured by its apol-
ogists. Consider their assimilation of the practice with less objectionable practices that
can also be framed as the alteration of an infant’s genitals. Castration too counts as gen-
ital alteration, but that doesn’t place it on a par with circumcision; we are confident that
few men are indifferent between them. Hence there are strong reasons to condemn
clitoridectomy and only poor reasons to tolerate it under circumstances where relativ-
ists must not merely tolerate but endorse the practice. While this argument adduces
reasons, it also vindicates moral reasoning as being more reputable than post hoc ra-
tionalization. Anyone convinced by our argument against assimilating clitoridectomy
with circumcision as simply alternative forms of genital alteration, for instance, has
come to grasp better reasons through reasoning about the crucial disanalogies be-
tween these cases.
This argument has several implications for our discussion. First, the most
fine-grained conclusion is that clitoridectomy is wrong even where it is socially
approved. That point suffices to belie relativism. Second, there are good reasons to
disapprove of the practice, and the countermanding reasons offered in its favor are
weak—they depend on faulty analogies and rhetorical sleight of hand. This point
shows that pessimism, which denies or minimizes the role of reasons and reasoning in
moral judgment, is vastly overstated. Both these arguments are compatible with var-
ious ethical theories, since they invoke harm and flourishing; they are not distinctively
 Sentimentalism and Scientism 271

sentimentalist. The facts about human nature to which they appeal might, for all we’ve
said, be reducible to empirical concepts compatible with hyper-rationalism. The point
at hand is that because rational sentimentalism focuses on reasons to approve or dis-
approve of actions and practices—not on empirical facts about approval—it too can
justify moral condemnation based on the good reasons to disapprove. Sentimentalism
is thus compatible with rational justification, even though the simplest forms of the
theory eschew it in favor of pessimism.
This discussion of relativism reveals that Greene was correct to this extent: The form
of sentimentalism that his compatriots in the empirical ethics movement embrace is
tantamount to skepticism. But the problem lies with their relativism rather than with
anthropocentrism. We do not face a forced choice between an inhuman morality
and an uncritical acceptance of moral feelings and intuitions. Instead, one can rec-
ognize reasons that are neither revealed by science nor in conflict with it. Since the
reasons adduced by the previous example concern harm and flourishing, however, a
hyper-rationalist theory can claim to capture them as well. In section 3, we argue that
the scientism manifested in the aspiration of purifying ethics of everything human
misses a whole range of important reasons revealed by the sentiments.

3. The Reasons that Elude Scientism

We have thus far argued that the scientistic approaches characteristic of the empirical
ethics movement are inadequate because they embrace too strong versions of pessi-
mism and, as a result, are left with untenable normative commitments. Since rational
sentimentalism can question entrenched moral intuitions, unlike relativist forms of
sentimentalism, it need not endorse oppressive cultural practices that enjoy wide-
spread acceptance. And since it is not committed to the narrow conception of reasons
that hyper-rationalism can accommodate, rational sentimentalism avoids having to
accept whatever turns out to be optimal according to the sole criterion of crude conse-
quentialism. We now turn to illustrating some scientistic errors that mar the work of
eminent moral psychologists who disparage a whole class of good but anthropocen-
tric reasons, which they claim to be tainted by magical thinking and irrational taboo.
These reasons arise primarily from the symbolic and expressive aspects of action; they
are a particularly significant source of reasons to which the sentiments respond. Our
aim is less to vindicate any particular instance of these reasons than to show that, as a
class, they are not incompatible but discontinuous with science.
The psychologist Paul Rozin and his collaborators (1986) claim that magical thinking
pervades modern Western culture, and Haidt (2001) argues similarly that cosmopoli-
tans too labor pervasively under irrational taboos. We do not suppose that Westerners
are devoid of superstition and belief in magic—that would be absurd. But the exam-
ples that Rozin and Haidt use to demonstrate the ubiquity of magical thinking and
taboo, and most importantly its influence on ordinary moral judgment, show nothing
272 Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

of the kind. The actions and beliefs that they ignore or disparage as irrational, and
gratuitously attribute to supernatural beliefs, can in fact be supported by good rea-
sons. Although Rozin grants that there are other possible explanations of the data, he
rejects them. Since belief in the efficacy of magic “clearly occurs in traditional socie-
ties” where those alternative explanations fail, he writes, “it seems uneconomical to
invoke different accounts for the subset of these behaviors that we have documented
in American culture” (1986, 711). We suggest to the contrary that interpretive charity
is a bargain as compared to the cost of equating the metaphysical assumptions of tra-
ditional (i.e. pre-scientific) societies with those of modern, cosmopolitan ones. It is
ironic that scientism would draw this equivalence, but this reflects an ideological pre-
supposition rather than following from the data.
What leads Rozin and Haidt to conclude that Western cultures remain in the grip
of irrational taboo? Haidt (2001, 817) offers a catalogue of what he deems harmless
taboo-violation tasks and scenarios, where he thinks people make condemnatory
moral judgments and refuse to perform supposedly innocuous actions without reason.
These actions include, among other things, eating one’s dead pet dog and cleaning the
toilet with the national flag. In one of his taboo-violation tasks, called Soul, an exper-
imenter offers the subject two dollars for signing an explicitly non-binding “contract”
that grants possession of the subject’s soul after death to the experimenter. It should
come as no surprise that some people turn down the money. In another experiment,
Roach, many people decline to drink a cup of juice into which a sterilized roach has
been dipped, despite having witnessed its sterilization. Since the “roached” juice—as
Rozin charmingly calls it—has no more germs than the regular variety, Rozin and
Haidt conclude that there is no reason not to drink it, merely a widespread but irra-
tional aversion.
Rozin thinks that aversions like these manifest magical thinking. What he calls the
first law of sympathetic magic is the law of contagion: “things that once have been in
contact with each other may influence each other through transfer of some of their
properties via an ‘essence’ ” (Rozin, Millman, and Nemeroff 1986, 703). Since this es-
sence remains “in some form of nonphysical contact with its source,” this allows for
the possibility that action taken on a clipping of someone’s hair, for instance, can af-
fect that person—which, as Rozin (1986, 703) notes, “is the basis for a major form of
sorcery.” The second magical law is the law of similarity, according to which “things
that resemble one another share fundamental properties” that allow actions taken on
the simulacrum to affect the object it resembles (1986, 703). Thus a voodoo doll con-
structed to look roughly like its intended victim, and which incorporates some sort of
physical residue of him, utilizes both these magical laws. People who perform voodoo
rituals can reasonably be ascribed belief in these principles of magic—beliefs they
would avow in uninhibited discourse. But the Americans surveyed and tested do not
practice voodoo and, presumably, disavow any such belief. The magic principles are
ascribed to them nonetheless, because they behave in ways that Rozin and Haidt find
so irrational that their best explanation adverts to such magical thinking.
 Sentimentalism and Scientism 273

Consider some of the cases that drive them to this view. Rozin contends that it is ir-
rational to prefer putting a (new) rubber sink stopper in one’s mouth to doing the same
with a rubber mold fabricated to look like vomit. Similarly, he thinks there is no reason
to be averse to eating fudge shaped to resemble feces, or to be repelled by the prospect
of wearing a lab coat used by Joseph Mengele, the infamous Nazi doctor.22 As long as
the coat has been thoroughly cleaned, what reason could you have to resist—unless
you secretly think that Mengele’s essence has somehow been non-physically imparted
to the garment? That really would be magical thinking. But although there is a science
of disgust, and Rozin is perhaps its most eminent figure, there is no science of the dis-
gusting—the evaluative property of meriting disgust—and Rozin’s views about that
are not authoritative or even plausible. We can agree on all the (empirical) facts about
these artefacts and yet disagree about whether there is reason to be disgusted by them.
Note that good reasons to be disgusted are good reasons to be in a state that, by its
nature, inclines one to avoid intercourse with the objects of one’s disgust. While the
weight of those reasons is open to debate, even slightly compelling reasons are strong
enough to justify refusing to perform acts that you have no reason to do other than the
request of some experimenter; we will take up this point in more detail presently. But
first we need to support the claim that there are reasons to be disgusted by such things.
We have argued elsewhere (D’Arms and Jacobson 2005) that sentimental values
such as the disgusting (and the funny, the shameful, etc.) provide reasons to normal
humans in part because they embody psychologically deep and wide human concerns.
Deep concerns are those that are so firmly entrenched in human psychology that they
would be either impossible or very costly to extirpate; wide concerns are those that
play various roles in the moral psychology of their possessor. When the object of a con-
cern resonates throughout a person’s evaluative responses—including emotions and
other feelings, desires, intentions, plans, and evaluative judgments—this is indicative
of its width. Greene’s example of his bias in favor of his own children is one case of a
deep and wide human concern; so too are the conviction that desert matters and the
aversion to disgusting things. According to rational sentimentalism, concerns that are
both deep and wide in human psychology ground anthropocentric reasons that people
would not have were they differently embodied. Our discussion here begins with rea-
sons to be disgusted, and then turns to some other deep and wide human concerns that
manifest themselves in various feelings and motives common to humanity.
In our view and according to common sense, the disgusting is partly a perceptual
property—which is to say that things can merit disgust in virtue of the way they look,
taste, or smell. Thus what Rozin explains by appeal to a magic law of similarity, ac-
cording to which things that resemble one another share fundamental properties with
causal powers, can instead be explained by the truism that things that look like excre-
ment or vomit look disgusting. In these simple perceptual cases, the genuine visual
similarity to something disgusting suffices to render things visually disgusting, which

22
Rozin uses Hitler’s sweater as his example, but this emendation makes the same point more vividly.
274 Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

thereby justifies our aversion to the fudge and the rubber mold. One need not be-
lieve in essences or magical causal powers to hold that things that look like that are
disgusting: They do not just cause but merit disgust. This explanation is simple but
sufficient for these perceptual cases, and it gets the right result on properly mundane
grounds. We humans care not only about what things are made of but about what they
look (taste and smell) like—which is the source of a wide range of aesthetic concerns.
Rational agents need not care about aesthetics, but that hardly undermines the con-
cern for beauty and other aesthetic qualities, let alone shows them to be magical or
otherwise irrational.
The Roach case is somewhat more complicated, because it is not perceptual: Roached
juice does not look or taste any different than ordinary juice. Rozin posits that his
subjects are in the grip of a magical law of contagion, according to which the roach
passes on its essence to the juice. We infer that he would not ascribe magical thinking
to someone reluctant to drink if the roach had not been sterilized; in that case, Rozin
and Haidt imply that disgust would be justified. But why should sterilization remove
the disgustingness of having a roach dipped in your beverage? The obvious answer is
that disgust is about contamination. Its function is to serve as a fast and frugal germ de-
tector, which gets a false positive in this case. Rozin and Haidt implicitly assume what
might be called the germ theory of contamination, which holds that if something is not
germy (or otherwise toxic) then it is not disgusting. But it is extremely hard to accept
the implications of this theory, on which nothing hygienic is disgusting to look at, eat,
“kiss,” and so forth. A surfeit of obvious cases—including such things as vomit-shaped
rubber molds, sterilized excretions, and well-embalmed corpses—stand as a reductio
to this theory.
Rational sentimentalism allows for the criticism of actual responses as unfitting, as
we’ve insisted, so it is open to these psychologists to argue that the predictable disgust
response to vermin and other common elicitors is mistaken whenever they are not
germ-ridden. Yet such widespread patterns of emotional response to objects like these
can only be overcome by countermanding reasons. And the reason on offer—the fact
that the objects are not germy—is true but unconvincing in light of the aesthetic points
raised previously. Instead one should reject the scientistic assumption that the evolu-
tionary function of a mechanism like disgust determines when we have reason to be
disgusted. The germ theory of contamination cannot handle perceptual cases, and it
entails absurd conclusions about hygienic corpses and sterilized excrement. Moreover,
it cannot make sense of another broad class of concerns, of which Mengele’s lab coat is
an instance.
While we suppose it is possible that someone might not want to wear the coat be-
cause she was worried about Mengele’s essence being transferred to her through some
sort of non-physical contact—as Rozin would have it—surely it is more likely that her
aversion stems from a broader human concern for the histories of people and things,
which is reflected in a plethora of ordinary phenomena. People collect autographs.
The pen Lincoln used to sign the Emancipation Proclamation has more value than
 Sentimentalism and Scientism 275

an authentic pen of that era with no historical import. It is awesome to stand in the
Roman Forum or the Old City of Jerusalem and reflect on who must have walked on
the same flagstones. One of the crucial differences between an Old Master painting
and a forgery, however well executed, is that only the former was actually painted by
Vermeer. For someone with this very normal pattern of attitudes, who is appalled by
Mengele’s atrocities, the fact that this garment was his lab coat will seem a very good
reason not to wear it. Nothing about this pattern of concern requires the attribution of
magical thinking to those who care about such things.
Again, any evaluative attitude can be criticized, no matter how widespread, and it is
open to Rozin simply to insist that it makes no difference who wore this coat. Our argu-
ment appeals not simply to a particular human concern, however, but to what we take
to be a deep and wide pattern. The examples above exhibit the degree to which an in-
terest in the histories of people and things is a wide human concern: It runs throughout
human moral psychology, and is reaffirmed in various attitudes toward agents and the
objects with which they interact. These concerns are surely deep as well: It would be
very difficult, to say the least, to extirpate our interest in the past and its relation to
present day things. It is the psychological depth and width of these commitments—
and some others we will be raising in what follows—that allow them to figure in an-
thropocentric justifications that do not rely on an appeal to mere conformity.
We grant of course that this suite of concerns is fundamentally human, and that a
different sort of rational creature need not care about them in the least. Indeed, not
everyone sees the point of autographs and memorabilia—though we doubt that many
otherwise normal people are completely immune to feelings about the genealogy of
places and things. But the point of these examples is to illustrate the existence of an-
thropocentric reasons which, though not binding on all rational agents, are nonethe-
less genuine and in no way incompatible with science. The temptation to deny their
reality, and to attribute magical beliefs to people who are sensitive to such reasons, is a
symptom of scientism. It is also grossly uncharitable. Against this scientistic prejudice,
sentimentalists should insist that in order to be convicted of magical thinking, you
have to believe in magic—that is, you must have some false causal beliefs. Voodoo is
genuinely incompatible with science. The fact that you treasure a painting because it
was made by your child, or that you do not want anything to do with the lab coat of an
infamous Nazi doctor, is not. Neither is the claim that these genealogical facts give us
reasons to be attracted or averse to such objects.
Haidt’s (2000, 6) notion that there is no reason not to engage in the taboo-violation
tasks, or to condemn the harmless but offensive actions, is similarly blind to another
source of genuine but anthropocentric reasons. Both these psychologists miss the
expressive and symbolic features of action, which provide another class of perfectly
good reasons that elude scientism. Consider Haidt’s (2000, 7) claim that there are no
good reasons not to sign the faux contract in Soul, because doing so is harmless. In
some narrow sense of harm, this is true. But there are perfectly good reasons to decline
the offer nevertheless. In the first place, most people are justifiably suspicious about
276 Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

signing documents at the behest of strangers with unknown motives. In an environ-

ment full of dubious solicitations and outright scams, this attitude is well founded.
Even if the danger in this case seems minimal, the reward is vacuous: “Someone asked
me to do it, for reasons he didn’t explain” is a negligible reason, and that is enough to
justify inaction. But there is another type of reason at play in these examples, the ne-
glect of which has deeper ramifications.
Merely to pretend to sell your soul to a manipulative experimenter is a symbolic act
of subjection, and the fact that the contract isn’t binding does not erase this symbolism.
Haidt’s failure to acknowledge the symbolic and expressive aspect of action, and its
role in generating reasons to act, is strangely myopic. Again the best diagnosis of this
blindness is scientism. To be sure, science has disabused us of certain forms of magical
thinking involving symbolism. But the actions that Haidt and Rozin consider mere
taboo-violation can be much more charitably—and insightfully—understood.
Imagine wiping your dirty shoes on a doormat illustrated with the picture of a be-
loved. (This resembles one of Rozin’s cases, where he has people throw darts at var-
ious portraits.) That action expresses contempt, regardless of one’s actual attitude
or whether anyone else sees it. This example could easily be made more graphic and
obvious, but we will leave the elaboration to any unconvinced reader’s imagination.
Claims about the attitude an action expresses do not require the belief that you are
hurting the beloved, or even just hurting her feelings. The point is simply that there are
reasons not to do things that would express attitudes repugnant to you. Notice that we
are not claiming that these reasons are terribly important, let alone that they override
any countervailing reasons. If you offered us a roached glass of Chateau d’Yquem or
made a decent offer on the faux contract for our souls, we would surely accept—but
juice is not appetizing enough to outweigh the disgustingness of drinking traces of
sterile bug, and a $2 offer is insulting. Rozin and Haidt presuppose the scientistic pos-
ition that there is no reason whatsoever to have these aversions and attractions, or to
care about symbolism of actions such as wiping one’s feet or cleaning the toilet with
something. This is not a scientific claim but a normative one, which follows from an
impoverished theory of reasons accepted without argument by some scientists and
philosophers, not from any discovery in empirical moral psychology.
Human beings are symbol-making creatures who imbue these symbols with
meaning. Of course, humans are also prone to engage in magical thinking and even to
believe in magic, but those tendencies involve holding false causal claims. No such fac-
tual error need be implicated in our reluctance to debase a picture of a beloved or the
symbol of a dearly held cause. To consider all such tendencies to be mere prejudice and
superstition—that is, taboo—is to alienate oneself from a significant aspect of human
life. Moral psychologists should be wary of coming to this conclusion too quickly or
without vivid awareness of what they thereby disparage or ignore. Haidt’s scenarios
of eating the family pet and cleaning the toilet with the flag suffer from this same bi-
zarre myopia about what can be counted as a good reason. If you love something, this
ramifies throughout your plans and attitudes, and you will not want to perform actions
 Sentimentalism and Scientism 277

that express indifference or contempt toward it. Admittedly this is symbolic, but there
is nothing inherently irrational about being attracted to good symbolism and averse
to bad symbolism. On the contrary, this deeply seated aspect of human nature seems,
more plausibly, not to stand in need of further justification.
We cannot aspire here to mount an adequate defense of the importance of the sen-
timental values or to conclusively establish the rational significance of desert and the
expressive aspects of action. But we take our argument to have demonstrated that
these claims are considerably more plausible than the scientistic alternatives offered
by our opponents. Moreover, we have shown that the influential work in the empirical
ethics movement we have canvassed offers no scientific basis for rejecting our norma-
tive claims. Neither relativism nor the strictly forward-looking theory of reasons that
these authors favor is mandated by their experiments or hypotheses about the origins
of emotional intuitions. Hence these rival views must be contested on their normative
merits. In doing so, our strategy has been to remind readers how much of what matters
to them would be disallowed by the exaggerated pessimism about rational justification
that these views have in common. Just as sentimental values like the disgusting are
supported by deep and wide patterns of human concern, so too are concerns with ge-
nealogy, and with the expressive and symbolic meanings of actions and objects. In the
absence of compelling philosophical argument for such a drastic revision of ordinary
concerns and sympathies, there are good grounds to pursue an alternative approach.
We have argued in this chapter that science does not present us with a forced choice
between an uncritical relativism and an inhuman rationalism. An anthropocentric
theory in the sentimentalist tradition—which takes seriously the idea that widespread
human concerns can underwrite genuine values while allowing for critical purchase
on actual emotional responses—can navigate between the horns of Singer’s dilemma.
The view we favor, rational sentimentalism, avoids the dismal moral consequences of
relativism (such as its apologia for oppressive social practices) and hyper-rationalism
(including its dismissal of rights and desert). It captures a wide range of anthropocen-
tric reasons that issue from the expressive aspects of action and are registered by the
emotions, but which are neglected or denied by the various forms of scientism.

References
Brandt, R. 1950. The emotive theory of ethics. Philosophical Review, 59, 305–18.
Cosmides, L. 1989. The logic of social exchange: Has natural selection shaped how humans
reason? Studies with the Wason selection task. Cognition, 31, 187–276.
D’Arms, J., and Jacobson, D. 2005. Anthropocentric constraints on human value. In R.
Shafer-Landau (ed.), Oxford Studies in Metaethics 1, pp. 99–126. Oxford: Oxford University
Press.
Gibbard, A. 1990. Wise Choices, Apt Feelings. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Greene, J. 2008a. The secret joke of Kant’s soul. In W. Sinnott-Armstrong (ed.), Moral Psychology,
vol. 3, pp. 35–91. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
278 Justin D’Arms and Daniel Jacobson

Greene, J. 2008b. Reply to Mikhail and Timmons. In W. Sinnott-Armstrong (ed.), Moral

Psychology, vol. 3, pp. 105–17. Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press.
Haidt, J. 2001. The emotional dog and its rational tail. Psychological Review, 108, 814–34.
Haidt, J. 2005. Interview in The Believer, August 2005. <http://www.believermag.com/
issues/200508/?read=interview_haidt>
Haidt, J., and Bjorklund, F. 2008. Social intuitionists answer six questions about moral psy-
chology. In W. Sinnott-Armstrong (ed.), Moral Psychology, vol. 2, pp. 181–217. Cambridge,
MA: MIT Press.
Haidt, J., Bjorklund, F., and Murphy, S. 2000. Moral dumbfounding: Where intuition finds no
reason. Unpublished manuscript.
Jacobson, D. 2012. Moral dumbfounding and moral stupefaction. In M. Timmons (ed.), Oxford
Studies in Normative Ethics 2, pp. 289–315. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Lerner, J., Goldberg, J., and Tetlock. P. 1998. Sober second thought: The effects of accountability,
anger and authoritarianism on attributions of responsibility. Personality and Social Psychology
Bulletin, 24, 563–74.
Maier, N. R. F. 1931. Reasoning in humans: II. The solution of a problem and its appearance in
consciousness. Journal of Comparative Psychology, 12, 181–94.
Nisbett, R., and DeCamp Wilson, T. 1977. Telling more than we can know: Verbal reports on
mental processes. Psychological Review, 84, 231–59.
Prinz, J. 2007. The Emotional Construction of Morals. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Roth, A. 1995. Bargaining experiments. In J. Kagel and A. Roth (ed.), Handbook of Experimental
Economics, pp. 253–348. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Rozin, P., Millman, L., and Nemeroff, C. 1986. Operation of the laws of sympathetic magic in dis-
gust and other domains. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 50(4), 703–12.
Schnall, S., Haidt, J., Clore, G., and Jordan, A. 2008. Disgust as embodied moral judgment.
Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin, 34, 1096–109.
Schwarz, N., and Clore, G. L. 1983. Mood, misattribution, and judgments of
well-being: Informative and directive functions of affective states. Journal of Personality and
Social Psychology, 45, 513–23.
Singer, P. 2005. Ethics and intuitions. Journal of Ethics, 9, 331–52.
Stevenson, C. 1937. The emotive meaning of ethical terms. Mind, 46, 14–31.
Stevenson, C. 1944. Ethics and Language. New Haven: Yale University Press.
Wheatley, T., and Haidt, J. 2005. Hypnotically induced disgust makes moral judgments more se-
vere. Psychological Science, 16, 780–4.
Wiggins, D. 1998. Needs, Values, Truth. 3rd edn. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Index

accountability 3, 41, 43–6, 50–2, 54–6, 89–91, behaviorism 168–9, 189

96–7, 106–7, 125–6 belief and desire pairs 6, 160–4
accountability-seeking attitudes 69–71 blame 43–5, 53, 55–6, 63, 69–71, 110, 117–8
memory 91–2 perceptions of blameworthiness 48–9
morality as accountability 3, 41, 46, 50–2, Butler, Joseph 91
54–6, 59–60, 63–8 bystander effect 111–8
sense of agential identity 96–7, 106–7
action ownership 90–3, 116 care:
action production 197–8 care and commitments 99–104
action readiness states 169–71, 173 care for others 127–8, 133–5
action tendencies 168–82 care-commitment clusters 102–4
extinction 174, 179 love and care 205–7
focused versus unfocused 171 Carruthers, Peter 127
inaction tendencies 171–2, 178–9 central motive states 172
precedence 170–1 character 98–100, 105, 115–6, 135
preparation 170–1, 173 character traits 102–4
prioritization 170 communication:
advance directives 105–6 of blameworthiness 51–2
affect 14–15, 51, 127–31 of moral demands 89, 92–7
affective deficit 26 compatibility control 172–5
affective disorders 128–35 compulsions 85, 205–6
brain damage 130–31 condemnation 44–6, 52–3, 69–70, 257–8, 271
depression 131–2, 134 accountability theory 46, 50–2
affective forecasting 51, 133–5 deterrence theory 48
agency 4–5, 84–7, 109, 119, 123–8, 133–5 egoistic theory 47–8
agential identity 96–8, 105–7 retributive theory 48–9
altruism 53, 56 confabulation 255–62
Alzheimer's disease 88, 90, 96, 100, 105–6, 139 conscience 3, 45–6, 54–68
anger 53–4, 129, 168–9, 261–4 accountability theory 54–6, 59–60, 63–8
anhedonia 131–4 approval theory 54–60
animalist account of identity 144–5 conscious access 5, 110–1, 116–20, 126–8
anthropocentrism 7–8, 254, 267, 273–7 consciousness of past action 90–2
Appiah, Kwame Anthony 62–5 contempt 43, 69–70, 276–7
apologies 51–2, 66–7 control precedence 169–70, 175–6, 178–80
appetites 188, 196 core relational theme 161, 166, 168, 177–82
appraisal theory 146–7 counterintuitive judgments 3, 14–18,
approval motive 54–9, 66–7, 150 28, 30, 34
aretaic emotional responses 98, 106
Asch, Solomon 61, 113 Damasio, Antonio 128–31, 164–5
associative expectation system 195 Darwall, Stephen 41, 43
attention 59–60, 170–1, 200 Darwinian dilemma 222–4, 230–1, 233–7,
attributability 92, 97–100, 104–6 239–40, 244, 246–8
aversions 188–9, 196, 210, 272–4 deep self views 114–5
to violation of moral norms 28–9 deliberation 3, 10–15, 17, 19–25, 28, 34–5, 95–6,
autism 127, 135 133, 193–4
automatic processes 9–12, 109, 127, 165 deliberative processing, see deliberation
autonomy 106 dementia 4, 26, 86–90, 95–105
awareness 109–10, 116–7 deontological judgments 3, 10–12, 14–16, 20–1,
25–9
Batson, C. Daniel 52–4, 56–9 depression 131–2, 171–2
280 Index

descriptions of actions 109–12, 116–20 grounding account 233–7

desert 260–4, 277 theoretical-reasoning account 233, 235–7
desires 6–7, 63, 100, 124, 132, 160–4, 186–9, third-factor account 227–33, 236–9, 245, 247–9
196–211 tracking account 223–7, 231–2
as a natural kind 6, 187–8, 202–4 executive capacities 96, 100–1, 103, 172–3
motivational theory 186–7 expressive aspects of action, see symbolic aspects
reward theory 187–9, 197, 204–10 of action
standing desires 6, 132
direction of fit 160–1, 177 fear 6, 158–9, 161–3, 166–7, 173, 176–8, 180, 200
disgust 70–1, 169, 182, 256–7, 272–4 feelings 159, 180–1, 191, 199–200, 207–8
displeasure 199–200 fission 148
dispositions 4, 6, 100–1, 103–4, 186, 190 footbridge dilemma, see trolley problem
Doris, John 115 forgiveness 50–1
dual process model 3, 10, 13–17, 26, 34–5 forward-looking intentions 174–5, 179
dumbfounding 257–8 Frijda, Nico 156–8, 169–71, 176–7

egoism 31–2, 218–220 Gallistel, Charles 172

embodied appraisals 166–7, 177 gratitude 98, 264
emotions 43–4, 125, 127–31, 135, 146–51, 156–83 Greene, Joshua 3, 8, 9–26, 33–4, 255, 258–65
backward-looking 45 grief 129–30, 171–2
basis of morality 253–7; see also evaluative grounding 217–22, 228–30, 245, 247–8
judgments as rationalizations, rational guilt 4, 28–9, 43–5, 66–71, 146–8, 150–2, 175–6,
sentimentalism, sentimentalism 181–2
bodily changes 159, 162–9, 173, 181, 200
cognitive and motivational components 43–4 Haidt, Jonathan 55, 68–71, 255, 257–8, 268–72,
cognitivism 160–4, 177 275–6
differentiation 178–82 Hume, David 5, 123, 125, 127, 129–30, 160
distancing 152 Humean constructivism 216, 218, 232–6, 240–8
flexibility 158–9, 163, 165, 167, 172–3 hyper-rationalism 255, 264, 268
incidental versus integral 256–7, 262–9
informational-cum-motivational impulsivity 6–7, 157–8, 162–3, 165, 167, 173, 176,
function 178–9, 181–2 179, 206, 208
intentionality 177–8 in-virtue-of relation 218, 228, 240
motivational theory 5–6, 156, 168–71, 176–83 indignation 53, 61, 94
perceptualism 164–8, 177 inferential reasoning 23, 118–20
reflexive perceptualism 164–5 information processing biases 158, 167
valenced perceptualism 165–7 inner state goals 166
pre-potent 21–2 intentionality of emotions 177–8
reactive emotions 89, 92–4 intentions-in-action 162, 173
responses to counterintuitive judgements 28 intuition (faculty) 9–11, 19–21, 23, 34–5
salience 53 moral intuitions 20–1, 24–30, 215, 239–40,
self-conscious emotions 146–7, 150–1 245–6, 248, 254–5, 264–5, 271
see also aretaic emotional responses, moral
emotions James, William 138, 164–5
emotivism 266–7 Jaworska, Angieszka 105–6
empathy 27–8, 31, 53, 56, 125, 127 joy 171, 207
episodic foresight 138, 144
episodic memory 138–46, 148–51 Kant, Immanuel 14–5, 46, 137, 148
episodic sense of identity 141, 144–9, 151
etiological sense of function 178 Lazarus, Richard 146–7, 161
evaluative judgments: learning, see reward learning
as rationalizations 7, 253–4, 258–62; see also Locke, John 90–2
confabulation love 6–7, 205–8
evolutionary argument 2, 7, 215–6, 222–4, 233
evolutionary origins of morality 7, 222–3, 226–7, magical thinking 271–4
231–2, 234–5, 244–50 memory 2, 4, 5, 87, 90–2, 95–7, 138–46, 193
adaptive-link account 223–6, 231, 237, 248 episodic 138–46, 148–51
 Index 281

false episodic memories 145–6 pleasure 134, 199–200, 202, 206–7, 210
field versus observer perspective 141–2 pre-potent response 21, 24
memory and action-ownership 90–2 preference utilitarianism 218–20
memory impairments 4, 87, 88, 95–7, 139–41 pride 146, 150
semantic 138, 143 Prinz, Jesse 125, 166–8, 177–8, 255, 268–70
mental actions 169–70, 175, 181, 199 pro tanto reasons 23, 241
meta-cognition 5, 124, 126 post-traumatic stress disorder 141–3
metaphysical dependency, see grounding psychoticism 28–9
Milgram, Stanley 62–5 psychopathy:
mind-reading 124, 127 lack of affect 127–8, 130, 132
moral agency 4–5, 119–20, 123–5, 127–8, 133 utilitarian judgments 27, 29, 31
moral condemnation, see condemnation public goods game 47, 51, 61, 63
moral deliberation, see deliberation punishment 44–5, 47–52, 61, 92, 260–3
moral emotions 43, 68, 146–7, 149–50 punishment system 188–9, 191–7, 200–1
moral hypocrisy effect 57–60
moral licensing effect 57–60 quality of will 84–6, 89, 105
moral obligations 42–4, 54–7, 63–5, 67–8
moral realism 215–20 rational egoism 31–2
moral responsibility, see responsibility rational sentimentalism 7–8, 149, 254–5, 267,
moral systems 68–70, 268 271, 273–4
morality: reactive attitudes 4, 41, 43, 84, 89, 92–7
distinctiveness 68–71 reasons for action 6, 166, 209, 216, 243, 259, 267
motivated irrationality 200–1 reflex actions 157, 176–82
motivation 1–2, 128, 132–4, 205–10 relational goal of emotion 169, 171–8, 181–2
belief and desire pairs 160–3 relativism 254–5, 268–71
emotional motivation 43–5, 165–7, 178–9 resentment 84, 92–7
Humean theory 160 responsibility 4–5, 70, 84–9, 94, 106, 108–10,
moral motivation 46, 54–62, 68 113–6, 118–20, 151
motivational internalism 225–6 attributativity-responsibility 98–9, 100, 105
motivations versus motives 166 marginal cases 85–7
motivational theory of desire, see desires: responsibility responses 97
motivational theory taking responsibility 44, 51–2, 65–6
motivational theory of emotions, see emotions: retributivism 48–52, 260–5
motivational theory reward learning 189–97, 201
reward system 6, 187–8, 191, 194–201, 204, 207
Nagel, Thomas 148 Ross, W. D. 23
natural kinds 6, 187–8, 202–4 Rozin, Paul 271–4, 276
neglect 110–1, 117–8
net reward calculation 194–6 sadness 171
Nietzsche, Friedrich 69 scientism 253–5, 271–7
non-inferential judgment, see intuition self (psychological concept) 137–43, 151
normative antirealism 216–22, 232–4, 236–7, self-appraisal 5, 126
239–40, 245 self-approval 59
neurocognitive disorder 88 self-conscious emotions 146–7, 150–1
neuroimaging studies 11–12, 28–9 social function 150
self-reflection 4, 90, 118–20, 146–7
obligations, see moral obligations self-regulation 5, 123–5, 127–9, 133–5
omission 110 self-regulation failure 128
open question argument 42 sentimentalism 123–7, 264, 266–7; see also
operant conditioning 189 rational sentimentalism
shame 66–70, 100, 103–4, 146–7, 150–1, 181–2
Parkinson’s disease 198, 200–1 Sher, George 110, 116
past lives 145–6 shortsightedness 158
personal identity 90–2, 95–8, 137, 144–9 situational influences 109–12, 114–5; see also
perspective-taking 117–20, 135 bystander effect, stereotyping
pessimism, see evaluative judgments as social approval 60, 63, 66
rationalizations social intuitionism 255, 267–8
282 Index

social norms 60–5 trolley problem 3, 11, 13–22, 31, 34

skepticism 224, 231, 254–5
Singer, Peter 7, 32, 254–5, 259 utilitarian judgments 3, 10–22, 24–5
stereotyping 108–9, 111–2 utilitarian reasoning 18–19, 21–34
Strawson, P. F. 41, 43, 84–6, 93–4, utilitarianism 42–3
104, 126 preference utilitarianism 218–20
Street, Sharon 7, 215–27, 231–49
Stroop paradigm 20–1 valence markers 166–7, 177
symbolic aspects of action 275–7 volitional control 103–4
sympathetic engagement 127–8, 133–5
Watson, Gary 85–6, 93, 97–8
taboo 70, 271–2, 275–6 weighing reasons 22–4, 28–9
trait self-knowledge 139–41 Williams, Bernard 24–5, 218, 221