The Ethics of Courage: Volume 2: From Early Modernity to the Global Age 303132742X, 9783031327421

Table of contents :
Contents
1: Truth, Power, and Life
Early Modernity and the Twin Rules of Physis and Polis
Modern Optimism and the Pessimism of Strength
The Ethics of Courage and the Courage of Ethics
2: The Body and the Body Politic
Animal Spirits and Climate: René Descartes and Montesquieu
Organised Cowardice: Étienne de La Boétie
Artificial Courage and the Politics of Self-love: Bernard Mandeville
References
3: Self-interest and the Sovereign
The Lion and the Fox: Niccolo Machiavelli
Courage at War and the Conditions of Peace: Thomas Hobbes
References
4: Justice, the Laws of Nature, and God
Self-preservation and Just War: Hugo Grotius and Samuel von Pufendorf
A Reasoned Disposition Towards God and Country
References
5: Moral Sympathy and Higher Passions
Freedom and Well-rewarded Passions: Claude-Adrien Helvétius
Sympathy and Sentiments of the Heart and Mind: David Hume
Self-love and Social Love: Adam Ferguson
References
6: The Natural and Rational Duty to God and Country
Martial Courage and Christian Virtue: Francis Hutcheson and Henry Home
Conservatism and the Sublime Passion of Duty: Edmund Burke
God, Valour, and Victories of the Mind: George Turnbull and David Fordyce
Fortitudo, Pleasure, and the Universe: Baruch Spinoza
References
7: Michel de Montaigne and the Vanity of Reason
The Merits of Stoicism
Irrationality, Chance Events, and Human Emotions
The Courage of Conscience and Self-awareness
References
8: Language, Self-consciousness, and Learning Experiences
Words, Education, and the Quiet Possession of Self: John Locke
Natural Living, Moral Strictness, and Republican Courage: Jean-Jacques Rousseau
References
9: Reasons Examined in Good Conscience
The Strength of Mind and the Love of Order: Nicolas Malebranche
Self-command, Sympathy, and the Impartial Spectator: Adam Smith
Practical Reason and Imperatives of the Mind: Immanuel Kant
Women’s Voices and Strength of Mind
References
10: The Evolution of Mind, Species, and Society
Running with the Hare and Hunting with the Hounds
The Owl at Dusk: Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel
The Law of Inheritance, Natural Selection, and Social Sympathy: Charles Darwin
References
11: Variations in Evolutionary Ethics
Levels of Social Complexity and Vitality: Herbert Spencer and Leslie Stephen
Evolving Theories of Evolution
References
12: Utilitarianism and Relativism with a Bias
The Calculations of Consequent Advantage: Jeremy Bentham and Henry Sidgwick
Sociological Relativism, in Support of Civilisation
Sociological Relativism, Against the Existing Order
References
13: Emerson’s Heroes of Truth
Energetic Courage and the Rule of Might
Self-commanding Individualism and the Solitary Scholar
Infinite Power and the Ultimate Sacrifice
Moral Duty and the Struggle for Freedom
References
14: The Courage of Despair
The Aesthetic, the Ethical, and the Religious: Søren Kierkegaard
The Tyranny of Reason and Morality: Max Stirner and Lev Shestov
References
15: Nietzsche’s Animal Foes and Friends
The Fox, the Ant, and the Ape
The Horse and the Lion
The Eagle and the Serpent
The Lamb and the Ass
References
16: The Will to Power
German Character, Tragic Art, and the Unhistorical
Pessimism of Strength and Dionysian Nihilism
Moral Scepticism and the Ascetic Will for Nothingness
Christianity and the Body
References
17: Thus Spoke Nietzsche
Democracy, Race, and the Herd Instinct
Aristocratic Radicalism and Argonauts of the Ideal
Lonesomeness, the Abyss, and the Eternal Return
Transvaluation of Nietzschean Courage
References
18: Courage in the Body and the  Sociable Self
Energy of the Will and Social Sentiments: Shadworth Hodgson and Wilhelm Dilthey
The Feeling Body and the Socius: William James
A Suffering Humanity: Hermann Cohen
References
19: The Courage of Disobedience
The Faceless Wars: Albert Camus and Emmanuel Levinas
Escape from Authoritarianism: Erich Fromm and Paulo Freire
Resistance and Nonviolence: Mahatma Gandhi
References
20: Paul Tillich and the Courage to Be
Death, Condemnation, and Meaninglessness
Individuation, Participation, and Periods of History
Transcendence and the Acceptance of Acceptance
A World Above the World of Cynicism
References
21: Throwing Courage to the Dogs
Cynicism and Truth: Michel Foucault
Osho’s Farting Dog
Reasons to Lose Heart
References
22: Risk and Resilience
Imagining and Risking: Bertrand Russell and Paul Ricoeur
From Despair to Resilience
Recovery, for Want of Courage
References
23: Courage in the Global Age
Courage Thus Far
Beyond the Happy Mean
Reference

Citation preview

The Ethics of Courage Volume 2: From Early Modernity to the Global Age jacqu e s m . c h e va l i e r

The Ethics of Courage

Jacques M. Chevalier

The Ethics of Courage Volume 2: From Early Modernity to the Global Age

Jacques M. Chevalier Sociology and Anthropology Carleton University Ottawa, ON, Canada

ISBN 978-3-031-32742-1    ISBN 978-3-031-32743-8 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland Paper in this product is recyclable.

À Clara, Juliette, Lily-Rose, Noémie, Alexanne, Olivier, Arthur et Davi qui, par leur courage et amour, forgeront leur avenir et donneront sens à la vie.

Contents

1 Truth,  Power, and Life  1 Early Modernity and the Twin Rules of Physis and Polis   1 Modern Optimism and the Pessimism of Strength    9 The Ethics of Courage and the Courage of Ethics   13 2 The  Body and the Body Politic 17 Animal Spirits and Climate: René Descartes and Montesquieu  18 Organised Cowardice: Étienne de La Boétie   24 Artificial Courage and the Politics of Self-love: Bernard Mandeville  29 References  37 3 Self-interest  and the Sovereign 39 The Lion and the Fox: Niccolo Machiavelli   40 Courage at War and the Conditions of Peace: Thomas Hobbes  51 References  59

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4 Justice,  the Laws of Nature, and God 61 Self-preservation and Just War: Hugo Grotius and Samuel von Pufendorf  62 A Reasoned Disposition Towards God and Country   67 References  78 5 Moral  Sympathy and Higher Passions 81 Freedom and Well-rewarded Passions: Claude-Adrien Helvétius  82 Sympathy and Sentiments of the Heart and Mind: David Hume  87 Self-love and Social Love: Adam Ferguson   96 References 102 6 The  Natural and Rational Duty to God and Country103 Martial Courage and Christian Virtue: Francis Hutcheson and Henry Home  104 Conservatism and the Sublime Passion of Duty: Edmund Burke 111 God, Valour, and Victories of the Mind: George Turnbull and David Fordyce  116 Fortitudo, Pleasure, and the Universe: Baruch Spinoza  122 References 127 7 Michel  de Montaigne and the Vanity of Reason129 The Merits of Stoicism  130 Irrationality, Chance Events, and Human Emotions  138 The Courage of Conscience and Self-awareness  146 References 152 8 Language,  Self-consciousness, and Learning Experiences153 Words, Education, and the Quiet Possession of Self: John Locke 154 Natural Living, Moral Strictness, and Republican Courage: Jean-Jacques Rousseau  163 References 173

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9 Reasons  Examined in Good Conscience175 The Strength of Mind and the Love of Order: Nicolas Malebranche 176 Self-command, Sympathy, and the Impartial Spectator: Adam Smith  181 Practical Reason and Imperatives of the Mind: Immanuel Kant 186 Women’s Voices and Strength of Mind  192 References 199 10 The  Evolution of Mind, Species, and Society201 Running with the Hare and Hunting with the Hounds  201 The Owl at Dusk: Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel  204 The Law of Inheritance, Natural Selection, and Social Sympathy: Charles Darwin  215 References 220 11 Variations  in Evolutionary Ethics221 Levels of Social Complexity and Vitality: Herbert Spencer and Leslie Stephen  222 Evolving Theories of Evolution  230 References 239 12 Utilitarianism  and Relativism with a Bias241 The Calculations of Consequent Advantage: Jeremy Bentham and Henry Sidgwick  243 Sociological Relativism, in Support of Civilisation  249 Sociological Relativism, Against the Existing Order  262 References 268 13 E  merson’s Heroes of Truth271 Energetic Courage and the Rule of Might  271 Self-commanding Individualism and the Solitary Scholar  277 Infinite Power and the Ultimate Sacrifice  283 Moral Duty and the Struggle for Freedom  286 References 289

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14 The  Courage of Despair291 The Aesthetic, the Ethical, and the Religious: Søren Kierkegaard 292 The Tyranny of Reason and Morality: Max Stirner and Lev Shestov 308 References 313 15 Nietzsche’s  Animal Foes and Friends315 The Fox, the Ant, and the Ape  315 The Horse and the Lion  321 The Eagle and the Serpent  325 The Lamb and the Ass  329 References 332 16 Th  e Will to Power335 German Character, Tragic Art, and the Unhistorical  335 Pessimism of Strength and Dionysian Nihilism  339 Moral Scepticism and the Ascetic Will for Nothingness  343 Christianity and the Body  346 References 352 17 Th  us Spoke Nietzsche355 Democracy, Race, and the Herd Instinct  355 Aristocratic Radicalism and Argonauts of the Ideal  360 Lonesomeness, the Abyss, and the Eternal Return  365 Transvaluation of Nietzschean Courage  370 References 377 18 Courage  in the Body and the Sociable Self379 Energy of the Will and Social Sentiments: Shadworth Hodgson and Wilhelm Dilthey  380 The Feeling Body and the Socius: William James  384 A Suffering Humanity: Hermann Cohen  396 References 400

 Contents 

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19 The  Courage of Disobedience401 The Faceless Wars: Albert Camus and Emmanuel Levinas  404 Escape from Authoritarianism: Erich Fromm and Paulo Freire 410 Resistance and Nonviolence: Mahatma Gandhi  415 References 422 20 Paul  Tillich and the Courage to Be425 Death, Condemnation, and Meaninglessness  426 Individuation, Participation, and Periods of History  429 Transcendence and the Acceptance of Acceptance  439 A World Above the World of Cynicism  442 References 445 21 Throwing  Courage to the Dogs447 Cynicism and Truth: Michel Foucault  447 Osho’s Farting Dog  457 Reasons to Lose Heart  461 References 466 22 R  isk and Resilience467 Imagining and Risking: Bertrand Russell and Paul Ricoeur  467 From Despair to Resilience  471 Recovery, for Want of Courage  482 References 487 23 Courage  in the Global Age489 Courage Thus Far  489 Beyond the Happy Mean  491 Reference 498

1 Truth, Power, and Life

 arly Modernity and the Twin Rules of Physis E and Polis The root system of courage is a tangled web of words and signs with a long history. The supporting parts work in symbiosis, compete for attention, and keep adapting to changing circumstances and regimes of power and truth. The first volume of this study delves into the Greek origins and ramifications of courage and traces major shifts to the end of the Middle Ages. It investigates how three implications of the primitive cor imagery, those of life (physis), truth (epistêmē), and power (polis), combine and develop unevenly over time. Debates on the subject focus on existential issues of happiness and suffering coupled with epistemic questions of truth and sound knowledge based on either reason or faith. For most theorists, reflections on courage are also deeply political. They raise issues of power where the hope of freedom is measured against the dictates of fate, the principles of might against the lessons of humility, and the spirit of trust against the rule of fear. In ancient Greece, the existential dimension of courage featured prominently in the medical writings of Hippocrates and the maxims of Epicurus, whose focus was on the simple pleasures of natural living. The © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_1

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political dimension is stressed in Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War. Other historians follow the lead of Herodotus instead and attempt to reconcile the ancient art and facts of war with the Homeric tradition of epic poetry and tragedy. These contributions to medicine and history are critical turning points in the early development of theories of courage. Epistemic thinking, however, drives the deeper pursuit of moral learning and courage in classical antiquity. Pythagoras, Plato, Aristotle, Plotinus, Philo of Alexandria, and the Stoics examine how the intellect and the use of practical, theoretical, and metaphysical reason can lead to goodness in life. The mind guides all brave battles against threats of tyranny, whether they come from outside enemies or the inner passions and inclinations of the body. Early Christianity and the hegemony of church doctrine in mediaeval Europe alter the course of history. The ethos of fear, fate, and feebleness before God permeates all questions relating to the ethics of courage. In between the Nicene Council and the Protestant Reform, faith-based theories of courage nonetheless undergo a long journey of reconciliation with Greek philosophy. Theologians find ways to accommodate rival ethics that address one or several concerns: namely, the abstractions of moral philosophy, the immediate blessings of divine love, the gift of free will and intentionality, the growth of church authority and power, and the intrinsic worth of being-in-the-world. Faith finds some support in the exercise of reason, and fate makes room for a modicum of freedom. Fear is assuaged by feelings of trust and love, and the spirit of humble submission allows for demonstrations of soldierly strength. Calls for human suffering and sacrifice, central to the early church, give way to a less sombre vision of the prospects for wellness in this life. As we all know, the Reformation puts an end to this long process of mediation. The writings of Luther and Calvin take the journey full circle, back to where it all began, with a message centred on the certainties of faith and the politics of devotional fear, meekness before the Lord, dependence on his will, and inevitable suffering in this life. The contrast with the tenets of Greek philosophy could not be starker. This volume examines how the existential, epistemic, and political grounds of courage have evolved since then. The analysis starts with early

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modernity, a pivotal period that extends from the end of the Middle Ages to the beginning of industrialisation (c. 1500–c. 1800 AD). In this period, courage takes on new forms reminiscent of the earthbound hedonism of Epicurus, the existential psychology of the Stoics, and the political realism of Hippocrates and Thucydides. Instead of focusing on how courage must lead human souls to their final destination and ultimate end, moral thinking ask how courage can grow from its root ends—from the basic instincts, self-interests, and desires implanted in human nature. Life in the body and society, governed by the laws of physis and polis, is freed from abstract ideas and assumptions about the dictates of reason and God. Epistemic and otherworldly principles no longer provide the foundations of moral theory and the ethics of courage. Classical antiquity and Christianity elevate epistemic questions of ­reason and faith above all other considerations. By contrast, the post-­ mediaeval period approaches courage through the lenses of science, real-­ world politics, and life in the body. Early modern contributions set the stage and feature three distinct perspectives. One, briefly discussed in Chap. 2, is René Descartes’ mix of biological and rational notions of courage, to which can be added Montesquieu’s climate-based stance on the subject. Both philosophers bring the realm of physis to the fore and reduce it to its simplest expression, based on mechanical chains of causation. This approach to courage and its emphasis on fundamental existential challenges will only gain widespread support later, spurred on by Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution. A broader perspective, explored in later chapters, gives priority to outward-­looking questions of polity and life in society, as in classical Greece. Discussions deal primarily with issues of freedom and well-being informed by the laws of Nature, the exercise of power and reason, and the higher passions of the soul. Theories that follow this approach fall into three camps: ethical egoism, natural rights theory, and moral sentimentalism. Nicolas Machiavelli and Thomas Hobbes represent the first camp (see Chap. 4). The two founders of political philosophy abandon the God-centred views of church politics and scholastic doctrine. Their interest lies elsewhere, in understanding the mutual and competing interests of sovereign rulers and the ruled, as well as the exercise of state power guided by practical reason for the good of all. Bernard Mandeville and

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Étienne de La Boétie also stress the pursuit of reasoned self-interest grounded in the passions of the body and the body politic (see Chap. 3). Their writings leave little room for the rule of self-denial in man’s pursuit of self-interest and use of power. However, unlike Machiavelli and Hobbes, these two philosophers have practically no confidence in the rational foundations of existing state laws and regimes. The selfishness of those in power clashes with the well-placed egoism of the ruled. The second camp counters the narrow rule of interest-based courage and draws inspiration from the non-egoistic morals of either Scholasticism or classical philosophy, or a combination of the two. The passions of men and countries at war must be tempered by the virtues of justice and natural rights, as Hugo Grotius and Samuel von Pufendorf conceive them. Others also rely on the ethics of Christian fortitude to balance different goals and show what virtue-based ethics can do to contain the passions of warring men and countries. Pietro Pomponazzi, Francis Bacon, Richard Cumberland, Thomas Gordon, John Trenchard, and Jean-Jacques Burlamaqui follow this general line of thinking (see Chap. 4). The third camp is also outward-looking but advances a new perspective on courage: virtue and practical reason lose much of their relevance to moral sentimentalism rooted in physis (see Chaps. 5 and 6). The grounds of courage encompass both the senses and human sentiments, which become the prime movers of human goodness. Moral feelings contribute directly to life in society and people’s well-rewarded struggles for self-preservation and freedom. However, moral sentiment theories vary and differ on three important points: how natural passions affect people’s lives; how “social love” compares to fearless valour; and what roles God and faith play in human affairs. On the subject of passion, Claude Helvétius praises men of genius and exceptional valour who fight for their country and live their lives to the fullest, beyond the surface motivations of religious norms and social conduct. David Hume and Adam Ferguson speak more to the balance between feelings of sympathy and deeds of military bravery. For Hume, individuals and society derive many pleasures and benefits from demonstrations of patriotic courage, self-confidence, and “love of dominion.” But brave actions shine brighter when they are paired with “softer affections” of social sympathy and humanity.

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The principles of pleasure, utility, and sociability also guide Adam Ferguson’s thinking on the subject. The philosopher nonetheless holds on to the older precepts of virtue, which remain essential in keeping human anger and other passions in check. This is also true of many eighteenth-­ century philosophers. Thomas Reid, Francis Hutcheson, and Henry Home celebrate the passion of courage that overcomes hardship and cravings for wealth, pleasure, and power with proper guidance from the rational and virtuous soul. But the scales are now tipped in favour of men’s passionate love of country and God, as distinct from the “tender affections” of life in society. Brave men distinguish themselves by fulfilling their duty and serving God and their country in times of war. Edmund Burke goes a step further and elevates martial fortitude, justice, and wisdom above the ethos of human gentleness and compassion, all in the name of God. While George Turnbull also adopts a Christian perspective, he prescribes a sound balance between masculine and feminine dispositions. Likewise, Baruch Spinoza and David Fordyce welcome a sound blending of animositas and generositas, to which a good dose of humility before the Almighty should be added. As the Bible teaches, God is the ultimate source of fortitude implanted in men’s souls. Zeno and the early Stoics challenged the age-old ethics of outward masculine virtue and soldierly valour. Chapters 7, 8, and 9 explore early modern theories that propose a similar shift, from moral politics to moral psychology, i.e., from patriotic expressions of courage to internal struggles of the self and the soul. Lessons of fortitude are applied to situations of danger and suffering in everyday life, outside the fields of war. Importantly, these internal battles are now given a post-mediaeval colouring, no longer tainted by the spirit of Stoic indifference to men’s passion for life and human fellowship. “Social affects”—sympathy, trust, gentleness, generosity, compassion, high-mindedness, and humanity—find their rightful place. Attempts are made to reconcile human emotions with the wisdom of virtue and man’s rational duties to himself, others, society, and God. However, discussions are more about how courage relates to existential concerns, sentiments of caring for oneself and others, and the inner workings and limitations of the mind. Advances in moral psychology are many and diverse. They cast doubt on theories of courage that prioritise reason over one of three things:

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human emotions, learning from experience, and the mysteries of God’s will. For all its insights into the benefits of self-discipline, Stoic rationalism is critiqued for overestimating the mind’s capacity to rise above different systems of ethics, purify human affects and motivations, remove itself from life in society, take command over one’s life, comprehend the laws of the universe, and fully understand the ways of the Lord. Reason does not triumph over all things. Each in their own way, philosophers such as Michel de Montaigne, John Locke, and Jean-Jacques Rousseau emphasise the complex workings of existential drives and emotions as distinct from the political manifestations of courage. Attention is given to differences in human destinies, individual constitutions, and personal failings. The imperfection of knowledge and the diversity of value systems and conventions of language are increasingly acknowledged. There is also more room for the voice of conscience and subjective explorations of right and wrong. Childhood education and early learning experiences are critical in this regard. They play a pivotal role in the development of positive emotions such as compassion and trust. The writings of Rousseau stand out for bridging the emerging gap between moral psychology, political philosophy, and the canons of Christian faith. In an effort to reconcile the concerns of physis and those of polis, the Genevan philosopher transforms the spirit of republican valour and patriotic duty into the highest demonstration of man’s inner strength. His understanding of courage touches on a wide range of topics, from questions of human compassion to broader debates concerning social inequalities, notably between women and men and between rural folk and city dwellers. He extols the stoicism of hard-working people who live close to Nature and the land, away from the ravages of money, private property, and city life. His thinking suggests that the rift between inward courage and outward valour, such as bravery on the battlefield, is not as deep as it seems. In the history of ethics, those who stress inner forms of strength often look for ways to incorporate military exemplarity into lessons of courage. They ensure that the twin principles of moral endurance and patriotic heroism go hand in hand. Some also draw inspiration from the foundations of Christian doctrine. Rousseau is a case in

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point: for him, God and his teachings remain the ultimate arbiters of good and evil. Nicolas Malebranche, Adam Smith, and Immanuel Kant also take an inward approach, but one that departs from moral psychology and related debates on human affects, sentiments, or passions. Instead, they devote themselves to rethinking and strengthening the powers of the mind. Epistemic order is restored, and the rule of practical reason regains its leading position. It is also adapted to a new age centred on the voice of moral conscience and judgements that reflect one’s own thinking and insights into good and evil. In this approach, courage is the driving force behind every man’s effort to subdue his passions and, more importantly, his battle for the truth. Moral strength lies in man’s conscious fulfilment of his duty in all aspects of life, including the obligations of human fellowship, regardless of gender and other social differences. The sense of duty aligns with laws implanted in the mind. The brave no longer simply obey the commandments of philosophical or religious doctrine. Nor do they rely on their passions or the shared benefits of society to pursue ethical standards in their own lives. Instead, they follow their conscience. Post-mediaeval theories of courage reflect major shifts in thinking about truth, polity, and wellness in life. On the question of truth, Western history witnesses the growth of formal knowledge based on observation and practical reasoning, a scientific perspective that takes the focus away from two thousand years of church theology and abstract philosophy. While remaining in their infancy, investigations into human physiology, psychology, and political history, reminiscent of the writings of Hippocrates and Thucydides, put an end to the undisputed reign of ­reason and God in the field of ethics. Only one assumption about knowledge remains and continues to pass unnoticed: all theories of courage are based on certainties that are not up for negotiation, let alone open to dialogue across social, political, or cultural divides. Despite the distance it takes from religion and philosophy, truth-telling continues to present a definitive character; doubting and tentative thinking are not powers of the mind. Paradoxically, this does not stop the emerging science of ethics from introducing a riddle of its own, which remains unsolved to this day. If courage comes naturally to men in pursuit of happiness and the good of all, why should we take the trouble of investigating it and prescribing

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it as an “ought” that guides ethical conduct? Why not let Nature run its course and tell its own story? On the question of polity, early modern philosophers generally rally around the cause of freedom against threats of tyranny, always from a position of power and strength. Displays of courage no longer express the humble and suffering ethos of Christianity. Nor is there any major dispute concerning the intervention of divine grace and providence in human affairs, which is either limited or non-existent. Rather, where thinkers differ is in their teachings of fear and love. When it comes to maintaining social life and effective state authority, the relative weight of human hostility and fellowship, or daring and caring, is an area of profound disagreement. Burke’s thinking on this subject is completely at odds with Pufendorf ’s principle of human fellowship and Ferguson’s idea of gentleness and generosity, for instance. When it comes to courage, the various settlements of dispute are nonetheless like the Tower of Pisa: they tend to lean the same way, towards a strong patriotic mindset and a masculine and military outlook characteristic of the period and reminiscent of classical antiquity. The fight against tyranny and fear is generally praised and rewarded, ruling out any clamour for the love of neighbour above everything else. Despite the rise of humanism, no systematic attention is given to the ideals of a shared humanity, let alone the arduous battle for equality and liberty in all spheres of life. Uncomplicated calculations of self-interest are used to settle conflicts between the well-being of each person and the good of society. Early modern discussions of courage differ from previous contributions in another important respect: the attention given to the benefits of courage in achieving wellness in life. Calls for courage no longer pit the moral intellect and church doctrine against natural passions grounded in the senses, the workings of the body, human desires and emotions, and the pursuit of self-interest. Instead, utility, pleasure, and sympathy are at the root of all moral sentiments, including valour in war. Hot-blooded passions and sentiments can be self-serving at the same time as they meet the highest norms of ethical conduct. All forms of heartfelt courage bring intense pleasure and precious rewards, notably the praise and admiration of others. The desire for esteem thus acts as a prime mover of conduct that serves the common good, as dictated by the laws of Nature and life

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in society. Everything is as if the Epicurean tradition had been revived, but without the original commitment to simple living and men’s withdrawal from politics and public life. These promises of enlightened interests and brighter futures nonetheless come at the cost of moral realism, a point amply discussed by later philosophers. Overall, broad statements about the benefits of well-placed courage and passion in life gloss over the sadness that comes from personal tragedy, our place in Nature, and the complex entanglements of life on Earth.

 odern Optimism and the Pessimism M of Strength The premodern era tames deep-seated fears and anxieties about the unknown, injustice, and life itself through the cultivation of order and courage in the moral domain. To that end, philosophers advocate one of three sets of principles or a mixture of them: the natural foundations of human existence; the requirements and benefits of social life and state polity; and the soundness of knowledge based on faith or practical reason. The modern era continues to debate the existential, political, and epistemic ramifications of courage, except that the topic becomes more divisive than ever. Courage is the subject of an increasingly polarised debate that revolves around the throes of life and the active energy expended in human activity, as initially conceived by Friedrich Hegel. As Chap. 10 explains, the German philosopher lays the groundwork for an ethos of life-affirming energy and strength that transcends all previous expressions of well-being constrained by the unchanging laws of Nature. His idealism lies at the crossroads of different traditions: the Spirit of Reason going back to classical antiquity; the post-mediaeval ideals of state life and polity; and the modern fascination with evolution and progress in science, industry, the art of war, and the whole of human civilisation. Nineteenth-­ century discussions of courage build on Hegel’s idea of active and bold energy. But they also create a deep divide between two moral attitudes: the nearly boundless optimism of the natural and social sciences, on the

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one hand, and the sombre reflections of self-consciousness and existential philosophy, on the other. On the scientific side of the divide, studies of courage move away from abstract idealism and Hegel’s state-centric views of world history. Charles Darwin sees courage through the lens of biology-driven physis, with a focus on the laws of sexual selection and hereditary transmission. His seminal work explains why communities that are better endowed in social, intellectual, and moral qualities defeat those that are selfish and ungovernable. His observations about courage and its evolution over time echo ideas first advanced by Hippocrates and Galen and later revisited by Descartes and Montesquieu. While a landmark development in the life sciences, these ideas are not exempt from the oversimplifications of ethical biologism. Social scientists and theorists of the nineteenth century avoid this narrow view of human nature and physis. Instead, they acknowledge the greater complexity involved in addressing issues of selfpreservation and social history. Questions of epistêmê and polis, which deal with the mind and social life, are given the attention they deserve. Influential works covered in Chaps. 11 and 12 reflect a wide range of views, from the social Darwinism of Herbert Spencer and Leslie Spencer to the moral egoism of Paul Rée, the utilitarian ethics of Jeremy Bentham and Henry Sidgwick, the Christian idealism of John Fiske and Samuel Alexander, and the racist ideology of Arthur de Gobineau. Inspired by studies of diversity in the natural world, social scientists are increasingly open to integrating the insights of ethical pluralism and anthropological relativism. All statements about courage are nonetheless framed to justify either a positive or a negative assessment of the march of modernity. The ideas presented by John Stuart Mill, Ludwig von Feuerbach, Karl Marx, and Friedrich Engels are clearly critical of contemporary mindsets and regimes in power. Most other views—namely those of James McCosh, Harriet Martineau, Alexis de Tocqueville, Gaetano Mosca, Émile Durkheim, Lucien Lévy-Bruhl, and Henry Muirhead—maintain a strong bias in favour of mainstream Christian ethics and the established distribution of wealth and power in the civilised world. Regardless of their stance on the matter, the general tendency is nonetheless to downplay the question of courage in comparison to other issues in social life and history.

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On the philosophical side of the divide, scholars generally stand up against the immodest claims of doctrinal faith, positive science, and the rational mind—an epistemic order that never despairs. They oppose the submission of the individual to the constraints and conventions of society—a political order that stifles the self-commanding mind or soul. They also challenge the notion that human suffering and failings block the path to human greatness and happiness—an existential order that refuses to affirm life in the midst of loss and death. Ralph Waldo Emerson sets the tone in this regard. He takes a dim view of the certainties of church doctrine, moral rationalism, and virtue-based wisdom. His approach, described in Chap. 13, consists in squarely facing the fears of existential despair, well beyond its Fichtean meaning, where courage is a mere steppingstone in humankind’s dialectical march towards “one, free, moral community.” Emerson pledges to uphold a spirit of self-­ commanding individualism as well as an unwavering quest for knowledge and absolute truth. Courage is an abundance of creative power. It is dedicated, always at great personal sacrifice, to the struggle for truth and freedom and the best use of one’s fate for the whole of humanity. Søren Kierkegaard also praises courage in questioning the powers of reason. However, his focus is on exploring the boldness of putting one’s trust in God’s inexplicable love for man. For him, courage is needed to move from the aesthetics of love and irony to the ethics of resignation and, from there, to Abraham’s quantum leap of faith in the goodness of God’s inscrutable will. Only the “knight of infinite resignation” and the “knight of faith” can overcome the absurdity of hoping against hope (see Chap. 14). Max Stirner and Lev Shestov explore the anxieties of human existence in their own way, with a radically different perspective on the issue of faith. They mock all attempts to rescue moral laws and heavenly spirituality from the depths of despair. The sublime terror of unreason and nothingness in life has no outer saviour. For them, courage is to be found in man’s resolve to embrace his own willpower, life in the body and in this world, and everything that is “human, all too human.” They are strong defenders of individualism and freedom of the mind against the tyranny of reason, the church, and the state.

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Nietzsche’s thinking is even more rebellious and provocative. Three chapters are devoted to his vitriolic attacks against the precepts of Christian suffering and submissiveness. Chapter 15 examines the philosopher’s extensive use of animal metaphors to describe the highest expressions of courage. It shows how Zarathustra’s best animal friends, a high-flying eagle and a serpent coiling around its neck, are the only beasts brave enough to dethrone the slain lamb and the sanctified ass of biblical times. Chapter 16 explores Nietzsche’s “pessimism of strength,” which calls for an overjoyful courage in the face of suffering, towards the affirmation of man’s life instincts, his fulsome existence, his infinite becoming, and his freedom from all a priori truths and final aims. Nietzschean scepticism is essentially fueled by the passion for truth, i.e., an honest investigation into everything deeply human and a valiant struggle for ideals firmly rooted in the realm of physis. The political implications of Nietzschean existentialism are addressed in Chap. 17. The discussion revolves around the “overman” and his will to power, his predatory instinct, and his “right of dominion.” Endowed with a superior intellect, the “higher man” stands out by virtue of his lofty ideals, his heroic self-discipline, his lonesome journey, and his feelings of aristocratic and racial pride. Given these principles, Nietzsche derides all vindications of equal rights, human fellowship, and republican democracy. Egalitarianism is whining driven by the gregarious spirit and herd instinct inherited from Christianity. In the parable of a shepherd pulling a serpent out of a dwarf ’s mouth, the philosopher announces the demise of all lowly creatures that carry the historic burden of sin and the original fall. They are condemned to never grasp the “eternal return of the same.” The overman cultivates the affirmation of life and willpower not despite but rather because of his solitude, his tragic fate, and his sense of despair. Wilhelm Dilthey and William James add several important caveats here. Instead of letting their grasp of human existence breed pessimism, they opt to rethink the joyful energy and willpower of courage from a pragmatic perspective, with optimism and confidence in man’s pursuit of noble goals, his “ideal social self,” and the potential for human fellowship and achievements of the common good. Due consideration is given to the positive aims of polis and physis. James’ approach to epistemic

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issues, those of reasoning and believing, also shows greater flexibility compared to Nietzsche. While he stresses the physical training and energy that humans need to control their coarser impulses, he is critical of narrow scientific views of physis and acknowledges the positive role spiritual experience can play in people’s pursuit of healthy and happy lives. The way he approaches the relationship between existential courage and the spiritual life is humanistic and non-denominational. As Chap. 18 explains, his views on the question of mind and body differ markedly from Mary Baker Eddy’s Christian Science and from Hermann Cohen’s neo-Kantian interpretation of Judaic monotheism.

 he Ethics of Courage and the Courage T of Ethics Discussions of courage in the twentieth century continue to highlight the deep divide between the politics of energetic progress and the battles of human existence and self-affirmation in a world of despair. However, efforts are made to bring the two poles closer to each other. Each in their own way, Albert Camus, Emmanuel Levinas, Erich Fromm, Paulo Freire, and Mahatma Gandhi take issue with the ideological complacency of social evolutionism, on the one hand, and the individualism and pessimism of existentialist philosophy, on the other (see Chap. 19). Their stances on the role of God and rational thinking in human affairs may differ, yet they all view courage as an important lever for resisting systems of oppression and violence that undermine people’s freedom, their capacity for self-affirmation, their hopes for lasting peace, and their sense of humanity and ethical responsibility. All emphatically reject Hitler’s call for the “courage of aggression” and condemn the rise of authoritarianism, colonialism, and imperialism in the modern world. Other philosophers address issues of personal anxiety and despair, but they seek to play down the pessimism of the existentialist movement, mostly by strengthening the epistemic foundations of courage. Paul Tillich thus takes a faith-based approach to what he calls “the courage to be,” which consists in the self embracing the whole of life, knowing that

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we are fated to die, experience the consciousness of wrongdoing, and have doubts about the meaning of human existence. He also explores the constant danger of a disconnect between the self and the world and the pathologies of radical collectivism and individualism that follow. From his point of view, noble courage is a leap of faith in “God above the God of theism,” which allows the self to affirm and surpass itself despite the threat of non-being at the heart of life (see Chap. 20). Michel Foucault takes a different path, away from questions of despair, towards the merits of the “courage of truth,” mostly of Socratic and Cynic inspiration. His thinking revolves around the radical ethics of telling and living the truth, ascetically and without compromise. Chapter 21 reviews his account of the gradual waning of “parrhesiastic courage” due to the mistrust of public opinion in antiquity, the rise of church-controlled asceticism in the Middle Ages, and the professionalisation of philosophy in the modern era. Another factor is the deradicalisation of Cynicism in the New Age pursuit of self-centred truth, well illustrated in the conception of courage advanced by Osho, founder of the Rajneesh movement. When discussing courage, most twentieth-century thinkers call for more progressive thinking. This does not stop them from being critical of power structures that make heavy use of the rhetoric of modernisation and progress. Critically minded advocates of courageous thinking and living are nonetheless few and far between. Paul Ricoeur and Bertrand Russell make a plea for the creative energy and risk-taking spirit of the modern world. But they fail to rescue the ideals of courage from current feelings of despair and, what may be worse, the hegemonic aspirations of objective and value-free science. The end result is explored in Chaps. 22 and 23: with the growth of science, modern thinking on the ethics of courage loses currency and undermines the courage of ethical thinking in the same breath. Taking its cue from materials science, resilience talk now fills the vacuum as a cornerstone of moral psychology, or a substitute for it. While trendy, the approach is open to accusations of scientific reductionism and sociopolitical naiveté. Its focus on the burdens of the past prevents it from articulating a common ground and vision for our shared future. It also fails to address the questions of free will, collective struggles, and moral responsibility as guiding principles in their own right.

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The ethics of courage in classical antiquity are founded on discussions of epistêmê and competing views of rational wisdom and truth. In mediaeval times, fortitude hinges on the certainties of faith. By contrast, post-­ mediaeval thinking focuses on the twin rules of polis and physis and related debates on how love connects with fear, freedom with fate, well-being with suffering, and the exercise of power with obedience to the ruling order. With the rise of modernity, the emphasis shifts once more, this time towards the growth of physis and the energetic spirit of self-­ affirmation, even through the depths of despair. Each successive era addresses all three aspects of courage and weaves them into one ethical system or another, based on a particular rank order of key principles and ways to achieve what matters most. Complicating matters further, history is replete with attempts to draw fresh lines between right and wrong, reconcile conflicting principles, and tear down barriers of the mind. As a result, the array of options for making sense of the properties and implications of courage is daunting. The idea of courage keeps changing in ways that are no less fraught with consequences than the whole history of Western ethics. This legacy is rich, to say the least, and the past has many lessons to teach us in striving for a better world. All the same, the past is limiting and in danger of repeating itself. There is still more to say and think through. Fundamental issues need to be better understood and resolved boldly and decisively. Unfortunately, the full potential of the root meanings of cor and kerd- now lies dormant and largely neglected by philosophy. In a final chapter, I argue that the unrealised power of past and future forms of courage has yet to be unleashed, with a view to reconciling the competing claims of reason and leaps of faith in our being-in-the world. To meet humanity’s destiny, we must make sure that courage grows wild again, beyond mediocre and half-hearted commitments to democracy, justice, and the togetherness of life on Earth.

2 The Body and the Body Politic

Early modernity, spanning from c. 1500 to c. 1800, marks a radical shift in perspectives on the ethics of courage. The workings of state polis take centre stage, with varying degrees of support for the establishment of strong leadership and ruling authorities protecting the public interest in addition to their own. Rational thinking in support of the Christian politics of fear and love also gives way to the laws of human physis and Nature. This is where the chapter starts, with the writings of René Descartes, tainted by a mind-body dualism that is later echoed in Montesquieu’s climate-based stance on the issue of courage. The chapter also examines the influential contributions of Étienne de La Boétie and Bernard Mandeville, both of whom ground their understanding of courage in the passions of the body and the spirit of self-love, leaving no room for the rule of self-denial in the exercise of power. Both take a jaundiced view of moral systems used to justify the centralisation of power in the hands of sovereign rulers. La Boétie deplores the folly of voluntary servitude imposed by the weight of habit, popular distractions, and an army of accomplices in the service of a whimsical ruler. His writings set the tone for many formulations of libertarianism to come, including critiques of oppression and self-destructive complacency in the modern age. Mandeville takes a more nuanced approach. He combines Cartesian © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_2

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physiology and moral egoism to explain men’s courage in overcoming fear, protecting their pride, seducing women, avoiding punishments, and currying favour with those that govern them and offer rewards for their loyalty and subordination in times of war and peace.

 nimal Spirits and Climate: René Descartes A and Montesquieu In his Treatise on Passions (1649), dedicated to Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia, Descartes (1596–1650) examines courage and other passions through the lens of physiology, using and adapting humoral ideas dating back to Greek antiquity (c. 275 BC). He investigates the anatomy of courage on its own without reducing it to considerations of moral philosophy or Christian doctrine. According to Descartes, hot-blooded courage is an expression of the body getting excited in the face of difficulty or danger. This is how the body responds to danger perceived by the senses, the resulting sensation of fear, and the associated image imprinted on the soul seated in the pineal gland, between the two hemispheres of the brain. Given its physical properties, fear moves quickly through the “animal spirits” lodged in the brain and body, independent of our will. These minuscule portions of human blood travel through “little nerves,” contracting or enlarging the heart’s orifices. Perceptions and the “animal spirits” of fear interact with other “animal spirits” in the body and cause the muscles and skeleton to experience different movements and feelings. All bodies are not affected in the same way. Brains differ, and the same cause may excite fear in some people and courage and confidence in others. A body with a strong temperament may react to the sensation of fear with courage, defending itself against the harmful object rather than taking to its heels and running away (Descartes 1911, Art. 36). While the sensation of fear incites the body to flee from danger, courage disposes the soul and the pineal gland to prepare the body to fight (Descartes 1911, Art. 40). The impression made on the gland causes

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the spirits to enter into the pores of the brain which conduct them partly into the nerves which serve to move the hands for purposes of self defence, and partly into those which agitate and drive the blood towards the heart in the manner requisite to produce the spirits proper for the continuance of this defence, and to retain the desire of it. (Descartes 1911, Art. 39)

Courage is a heat or agitation that drives the soul to act on whatever it desires, including imagined objects that the senses cannot perceive. Risks, for example, can provide pleasure while also inciting the brain and body to retain their condition of agitation and heat. Likewise, older people reflecting on past suffering may feel happy for having survived difficult times (Descartes 1911, Art. 95). Descartes adds that bravery is a particular kind of courage, one that prepares the soul and body to face great danger with vigour, knowing there is hope and confidence in achieving success (Descartes 1911, Art. 171). The brave may pursue goals other than eliminating the object of danger, such as obtaining glory after death (Descartes 1911, Art. 173). Cowardice and giving in to terror are the opposites of courage and bravery, respectively (Descartes 1911, Art. 59). Cowardice is “a languor or coldness of the soul,” preventing it from taking action to fulfil a desire. Being terrified is a mix of coldness and “a perturbation and astonishment of the soul,” undermining its power to resist what is seen as evil (Descartes 1911, Art. 174). Emulation is another kind of courage, defined by its cause rather than its object. The heat is used to undertake a courageous action in the hopes of achieving the same success as others. The desire and hope to excel through imitation “have more power in causing a quantity of blood to pass to the heart than has fear or despair to prevent it” (Descartes 1911, Art. 157). When seen from an ethical perspective, courage is an entirely different matter. Descartes defines it as a moral virtue, provided it proceeds from an accurate knowledge of the truth. In their pure form, all virtues arise from the knowledge of good and represent so many expressions of wisdom. Also, as in much of Greek philosophy, virtuous habits reach perfection through their mutual enhancement. In his letter to Elisabeth of Palatinate, Descartes states that

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whoever owns the firm and constant resolution of always using his reason as well as lies in his power, and in all his actions of doing what he judges to be best, is truly wise, as far as his nature permits; and by this alone he is just, courageous, temperate, and possesses all the other virtues, but so well balanced as that none of them appears more prominent than another. (Descartes 1901)

While it may attract more attention and praise, a virtue that is displayed on its own, separately from others, is faulty. Temerity is a case in point. Since it is based on ignorance, error, or despair, it is a virtue in appearance only. Even when highly esteemed, it represents a vice and should not be confused with true fortitude. Descartes goes on to say that there are different degrees of virtue and that some people achieve a higher degree of wisdom than others. Those who possess a superior intellect prepare themselves and make plans for all eventualities, knowing that the principal cause of fear is surprise. They also do everything they can to understand what their duties are and maintain a firm and constant resolve to carry them out. How does the philosopher and physician reconcile two views of courage that seem diametrically opposed? If the will cannot excite or remove the passions felt in the body, how can man direct his “heat of courage” to serve moral ends? Descartes’ answer lies in the exercise of reason and the ideas we form about the things we desire: Thus, in order to excite courage in oneself and remove fear, it is not sufficient to have the will to do so, but we must also apply ourselves to consider the reasons, the objects or examples which persuade us that the peril is not great: that there is always more security in defence than in flight; that we should have the glory and joy of having vanquished, while we could expect nothing but regret and shame for having fled, and so on. (Descartes 1911, Art. 45)

Ideas formed in the pineal gland have the power to convince us that the danger is not as great as it may seem or that fighting offers more security and less shame than fleeing. The gland helps to regulate our passions. It also has visible effects on the body. For instance, children who become

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pale and angry instead of weeping may be demonstrating extraordinary judgement and courage. They recognise the greatness of the evil they face and prepare themselves for “a stout resistance,” like old people do. The opposite outcome is also possible and more frequently observed. Signs of paleness and anger may reflect a reproachable inclination to fear and hate those who can hurt us, as opposed to weeping for them out of love or pity (Descartes 1911, Art. 134). Hatred causes people to desire and seek vengeance. It is a violent passion, more persistent than other desires, causing the spleen and small veins to pump bilious blood into the heart. Courage and bravery also agitate the blood, in the same way that the sensations of love and joy heat it up. But the heat of wishing to get even is stronger and more intense (Descartes 1911, Art. 199). All passions serve a natural purpose. Given his concern with ethical issues, Descartes nonetheless confesses that he has difficulty finding something positive about cowardice. It may be useful in avoiding an unnecessary pain. It may also help restrain the movements of the “animal spirits,” preventing the body from dissipating its forces through fighting. Nonetheless, cowardice diverts the will from useful actions owing to a lack of hope or desire (Descartes 1911, Art. 175). The same comment applies to terror, which is an excess of cowardice, astonishment, and fear. Terror is always a vice, “just as bravery is an excess of courage which is always good, provided that the end proposed is good” (Descartes 1911, Art. 176). These comments bring us back to a familiar idea: the intellect is responsible for guiding and moderating human passions to serve moral ends. However, what these higher ends are remains a mystery. Unlike advocates of classical philosophy and Christian ethics, the French mathematician shows little interest in discussing the aims of virtue and related promises of divine love, life after death, wellness in life, or freedom from tyranny. Another issue is his mind-body dualism. At times, Descartes views courage as a passion of the body working mechanically, i.e., naturally and independently from the will and the intellect. At other times, courage is a composite disposition that combines two things: the wisdom of virtue and physical displays of constancy and resolve in avoiding danger and meeting the desires of the soul. The two-sided approach creates a conundrum: Are there situations where the first expression of courage is squarely

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at odds with the second? Can the body act courageously while the soul shows evidence of cowardice (or vice versa)? Without answers to these questions, the contribution of natural science to moral philosophy is left hanging in the air. Descartes’ grounding of courage in the body and its mechanics finds its way into the writings of many contemporary and later philosophers. The well-known political philosopher and French judge Charles-Louis de Secondat, better known as Montesquieu (1689–1755), is one of them. He builds on Descartes’ biological approach to courage and combines it with a climate-based theory of human behaviour rooted in the Hippocratic tradition. In his view, people in cold climates are more vigorous and daring because the action of the heart and the reaction of the extremities of the fibres are better performed, the temperature of the humours is greater, the blood moves freer towards the heart, and, reciprocally, the heart has more power. This superiority of strength must produce various effects; for instance, a greater boldness, that is, more courage; a greater sense of superiority, that is, less desire of revenge; a greater opinion of security, that is, more frankness, less suspicion, policy, and cunning. (Montesquieu 1899, 14:2)

The northerners have larger bodies and stronger fibres, which are nourished by coarser lymph and juices extracted from the hearty food they consume. Thus, the small nations that are free and live near the poles value their liberties more than their own lives (Montesquieu 1899, 17:2). Barren and inaccessible land also fosters greater courage. Men living in such conditions are hardworking, sober, courageous, strong, and fit for war (Montesquieu 1899, 18:4; 1965, 5, 12). By contrast, the inhabitants of fertile and warm lands are prone to fear and cowardice, like old men. They cling more to life and the benefits of self-love than to their own freedom. The heat weakens them and makes them effeminate and easy to enslave: From hence it comes, that, in Asia, the strong nations are opposed to the weak; the warlike, brave, and active people touch immediately on those who are indolent, effeminate, and timorous; the one must, therefore,

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c­ onquer, and the other be conquered. In Europe, on the contrary, strong nations are opposed to the strong, and those who join to each other have nearly the same courage. This is the grand reason of the weakness of Asia and of the strength of Europe; of the liberty of Europe and of the slavery of Asia. (Montesquieu 1899, 17:2)

A forerunner of anthropological thinking, Montesquieu adds nuance to his analysis by acknowledging diversity in the meaning that people assign to virtue. Courage does not mean the same thing among pagans compared to Christians, for instance. Also, it may have a different significance for each scholar or scientist depending on what the author wishes to convey (Montesquieu 1899, p. xxxv). Despite this, Montesquieu’s emphasis on physis inclines him to praise the merits of Roman “fortitude” and the ideals of military glory, manly honour, and heroic valour prevalent in antiquity (Montesquieu 1899, 3:7; 5:10; 23:23; 28:17; 1965, 2, 10, 15). Effeminacy in a man or a nation is synonymous with cowardice (Montesquieu 1891, CVI; 1899, 10:12). The philosopher adds that people are naturally inclined to value strength and courage above prudence and counsel. This means that an army will have more respect for its officers and leaders than for a legislative “body of men whom they look upon as cowards, and therefore unworthy to command them” (Montesquieu 1899, 11:6). The Scholastics imagine the Holy Spirit as a ghost, an incorporeal and invisible spirit described through an animal metaphor, the dove. With Descartes and Montesquieu, the functions and features of life in its natural state are no longer mere figures of speech. The animal instincts, fibres, and fluids of humans facing real threats produce observable expressions of courage. Instead of transcending Nature, spirits are immanent in human bodies and coextensive with their physical properties. This is a fundamental shift in perspective, from the primacy of theory and faith centred on the moral soul to the passions of the heart battling for goodness in life and freedom from fear. The approach contradicts the long-­ held belief that courage is primarily a moral issue, based on philosophy, theology, or a faith-based combination of the two. The departure from church views on courage could not be any more radical. New developments in science and philosophy offer fresh

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challenges along with a riddle that remains unsolved to this day: How can scientific knowledge of “what is” serve as the foundation for an abstract “ought,” an ideal that cannot be simply observed and varies in meaning and cultural salience? How can science reconcile its understanding of human nature with the responsibility that we have for all the individual and collective choices we make? Can the study of natural causation sidestep our obligation to reflect on the “ought” of ethics? Also, how can we capture the essence of courage in different contexts and periods of history without prioritising one definition over another, using standards that have been debated since the dawn of philosophy? Instead of addressing these issues, Montesquieu simply endorses the patriotic view of valour. As for Descartes, he attempts to solve the riddle by accepting both views of courage, the biological and the moral or rational, and worries little about the lack of coherence in his approach. Others will explore alternative ways of addressing these issues of direct relevance to the study of ethics, only to encounter the same problem or difficulties of their own.

Organised Cowardice: Étienne de La Boétie For Descartes, displays of courage revolve around bodily passions and moral interventions of the mind. This raises an intriguing question: What accounts for the lack of rational behaviour so often observed in humans, especially in politics? If it is in the interest of rulers to govern wisely, why do they abuse their power and let their countries lapse into destructive violence? Also, why is it that people submit to the folly of tyranny, despite everything they stand to lose from their own cowardice? Could it be that unreason is a sine qua non for the rise and strengthening of state authority? These are the issues that Étienne de La Boétie (1530–1563) addresses in his famous work on voluntary servitude. Instead of explaining the origins of courage, his thinking focuses on the root system of cowardice. This is a habit transmitted through tradition and education, made worse by the moral corruption of the masses, and maintained by officers who profit from the rule of tyranny. La Boétie was a French judge and a close friend of Michel de Montaigne. He apparently wrote his famous Discourse on Voluntary Servitude at the

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age of eighteen, two decades after Machiavelli’s death. The text is a vitriolic essay that inspired later calls for anarchy, civic disobedience, and struggles against alienation in all its forms. His treatment of the subject of courage brings into question the rule of a supreme authority as the best way to insure the well-being and security of its faithful subjects. He approaches the issue by drawing attention to a basic riddle of political history: the tendency for humans to submit blindly to tyranny, whether it be imposed through popular elections, the use of arms, or royal descent. Why is it that so many men, cities, and nations suffer under a single tyrant and give him the power he needs to oppress them? Millions work for a single master in wretchedness, their necks under the yoke, not constrained by a greater multitude than they, but simply, it would seem, delighted and charmed by the name of one man alone whose power they need not fear, for he is evidently the one person whose qualities they cannot admire because of his inhumanity and brutality toward them. (La Boétie 1975, p. 42)

When defeated at war, nations may be compelled by force to obey a new despot. Some nations, however, willingly grant unlimited privileges and power to their leader. A multitude of people submit to the whims, cruelty, and plundering of a ruler without fighting back. Why is that? The question is even more intriguing as the tyrant in question is just a single man. Worse still, he is the most cowardly and effeminate in the nation, a stranger to the powder of battle and hesitant on the sands of the tournament; not only without energy to direct men by force, but with hardly enough virility to bed with a common woman! (La Boétie 1975, p. 44)

Most people are cowardly, and courage is truly rare, one might think. But there is a problem with this line of reasoning. If three or four may fear one man, it makes no sense that thousands and millions would put up with the whims of a weak man. The only possible explanation is that people do not long to be free and prefer to be enslaved. In ancient Greece, soldiers showed exceptional courage in battle because they preferred

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freedom over the rule of might and greed. In present times, men could recover their natural freedom in no time, through a single wish and a simple act of the will. Liberty is within their reach: “Resolve to serve no more, and you are at once free” (La Boétie 1975, p. 48). Instead, people accept the yoke and misery, living as beasts of burden. In doing so, the masses achieve unseen heights of stupidity and cowardice: To achieve the good that they desire, the bold do not fear danger; the intelligent do not refuse to undergo suffering. It is the stupid and cowardly who are neither able to endure hardship nor to vindicate their rights; they stop at merely longing for them, and lose through timidity the valor roused by the effort to claim their rights, although the desire to enjoy them still remains as part of their nature. (La Boétie 1975, p. 47)

Those who lack courage ignore their own interests and are traitors to themselves. They conspire with the thieves about to plunder them or the murderers about to kill them. They lose sight of their own humanity and their ability to see themselves in others as members of the same family with the whole world to share. Humans are meant to be comrades within an “organic whole,” all enjoying freedom as their natural state. Those who deny this think of themselves as beasts. They forget that even animals will do everything to free themselves from captivity, and they will moan and wail if they fail. All living creatures long for liberty. Those who are too fearful to recognise and claim what is rightfully theirs cause their own downfall and deserve what they get. They see their fields and houses plundered, lose all their possessions, and die on the battlefield in the service of one cruel man. But stupidity and cowardice do not tell the whole story. The problem goes deeper. Voluntary servitude is due to three things. To begin with, it is a habit, an incurable sickness that deprives people of two things that are otherwise natural and shared by all humans, regardless of where they live: namely, the native seed of reason, which helps resist all vices, and the gift of brotherly love. One long-term consequence of instilling bad habits and laws in children is that people never crave what they have never known. “Habituation to subjection” is learning to drink venom and not finding

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it bitter. People trained and accustomed to living as slaves are like fish swimming in water; they cannot imagine another way of life. People are not serfs because they lack and have always lacked courage. Rather, they lack courage because they are and have always been serfs. Because of custom, the natural desire to be free gives way to the learned instinct of servitude and the idea that this is the way things are. It has always been that way. Some educated men may remember their ancestors’ freedom and refuse to join the brutish mass of well-tamed subjects. If they do, tyrants will soon deprive them of their freedom of action, speech, and thought. Tyrants, however, have other ways of maintaining themselves in power. This brings us to the second reason why people do not rebel: dictators make sure to “feminise” their gullible subjects by giving them a wide range of opium-like distractions and pleasures through brothels, taverns, festivals, and public games. “Plays, farces, spectacles, gladiators, strange beasts, medals, pictures, and other such opiates, these were for ancient peoples the bait toward slavery, the price of their liberty, the instruments of tyranny” (La Boétie 1975, p.  65). People will shout “Long live the King” in exchange for a bushel of wheat, a gallon of wine, or a sesterce, all of which have already been stolen from them. Tyrants further deceive their naive subjects by surrounding themselves with an aura of mystery and divinity. They use religion to convince the common people that they should be worshipped because of the miracles and feats of magic they perform. The third reason for the prevalence of voluntary servitude is the aiding and abetting of an army of sycophants and parasites living off the fruits of tyranny. To maintain his rule, a despot needs the support of six “accomplices in his cruelties, companions in his pleasures, panders to his lusts, and sharers in his plunders” (La Boétie 1975, p. 71). These six, in turn, have six hundred obeying and profiting from their orders, not to mention the backing of six thousand administrators and officials governing the provinces and corrupted in the service of a greedy and ruthless tyrant. The social body is overtaken by a gangrene spreading through all ranks of society. Subjects striving to have a share in the booty forego their own freedom and will not hesitate to commit evil against their fellow citizens, especially those who refuse to submit. While they take advantage of the

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situation, they lead miserable lives and depend on a tyrant for everything they possess, including their lives. The dictator sees them wooing and begging his favor, and doing much more than he tells them to do. Such men must not only obey orders; they must anticipate his wishes; to satisfy him they must foresee his desires; they must wear themselves out, torment themselves, kill themselves with work in his interest, and accept his pleasure as their own, neglecting their preferences for his, distorting their character and corrupting their nature; they must pay heed to his words, to his intonation, to his gestures, and to his glance. (La Boétie 1975, p. 74)

Whenever they approach the tyrant, loyal supporters are dazzled by his splendour and blinded by their own ambition and greed, unaware that they are approaching a flame that will scorch them. They forget the many stories of high-ranking officials who lost everything that was dear to them, including their lives, at the hands of the cruel man they served. A dictator should be feared by everyone, more than anyone else. He is a foolish man who fears everyone around him and is incapable of friendship, benevolence, or love. If history teaches anything, it is that a tyrant “is never truly loved, nor does he love” (La Boétie 1975, p. 77). Because of the many crimes they perpetrate, God reserves a special place and punishment in hell for all tyrants and their accomplices. Voluntary servitude results from the weight of habit, opium-like distractions, and a standing army of accomplices in the service of a cruel and whimsical ruler. All of this comes at a great cost to the rule of reason and brotherly love. La Boétie’s grasp of politics serves as a reminder that the state has its reasons, about which reason knows nothing. His vision of human fellowship remains nonetheless idealistic, which may explain his high level of disillusionment with existing politics. In an ideal world, the exercise of reason supports the ethics of brotherly love, and all people are free of fear and oppression without the intervention of any superior force. What kind of polity is needed to sustain this, wisely and bravely, remains a mystery.

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 rtificial Courage and the Politics of Self-love: A Bernard Mandeville Unlike La Boétie, the Anglo-Dutch physician and social philosopher Bernard Mandeville (1670–1733) views the concentration of power in the hands of the state as logical and in the best interests of all. People act selfishly by submitting to the rule of law and showing courage when they need to. In The Fable of The Bees: or, Private Vices Public Benefits, Mandeville delivers the message through an allegorical reductio ad absurdum. He imagines a beehive that agrees to follow the rules of selflessness and public spirit and then collapses. Bees end up living virtuous lives in a hollow tree. He then elaborates on the fable’s implications by contrasting two types of courage in the face of danger: the artificial kind, motivated by the ethics of selflessness, and the natural kind, more in line with reality (Mandeville 1806, p. 125). An interesting analysis of the original meaning of courage can be found in the preface to An Enquiry into an Origin of Honour; and the Usefulness of Christianity in War. In this essay, Mandeville points out that the Greek word for virtue, arete comes from Ares, the god of war. The Latin word virtus, from vir, signifies fortitude. These roots underline the role of manly strength and courage and the struggles for superiority in the early history of nations and civil government. At first, “nothing was meant by virtus, but daring and intrepidity, right or wrong; or else it could never have been made to signify savageness, and brutish courage” (Mandeville 1732, iv). Virtue evolved to represent worth, strength, authority, and goodness of all kinds, as when discussing the “virtue” of opium or the loadstone. It is only much later that the Romans put the words “virtue” and “moral” in the same sentence. They converted fortitude into one of many virtues and subordinated all of them to the ruling ethos of self-­ conquest and self-denial. In its original form, fortitude is an expression of earthly passion, not of heavenly virtue or the wisdom of philosophy. More precisely, what we call “prowess or natural courage in creatures, is nothing but the effect of anger, and that all fierce animals must be either very ravenous or very lustful, if not both” (Mandeville 1806, p. 121). Anger makes men brave.

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The emotion is proportional to the sensation of hunger or lust; when competing for food and sex, rivals behave like raging bulls and roosters fighting to the death. The behaviour is particularly noticeable in animals born to fight because of their voracious appetites and sexual urges, be they males or females. Mandeville’s perspective on courage is a mix of Cartesian physiology and Hobbesian egoism. All humans are driven by the same sentiments implanted in their bodies, regardless of their wealth or station in life. They all fear death and whatever may cause it. However, some have a stronger constitution and are more courageous by nature. The way that fluids mix in their bodies gives them more strength, elasticity, and an assemblage of “finer spirits” that produce higher levels of steadfastness, resolution, and obstinacy. Because their spirits have a firm tonus, they are not easily frightened (Mandeville 1806, p. 126). Strong liquor can also enhance their courage. Brandy is particularly effective in this regard. Unlike wine, its fiery particles can make a man’s spirits boil and heighten his anger. Those who have a weaker constitution, due to sickness or some other reason, are less quarrelsome. But they can remedy their condition by changing their diet and, more importantly, by doing physical exercise, acquiring discipline, and practising the art of war. This way they can become familiar with all the weapons of death and destruction and lessen their sensitivity to scenes of horror. A man’s brave spirit is inseparable from his sense of honour, which stems from his “passion of self-liking.” Honour is the age-old art of civility based on men’s innate propensity to satisfy one another’s sense of self-­ liking (Mandeville 1732, p.  14). It is only over time that the idea of honour has come to signify courage, virtue, and fidelity governed by strict duties and morals. Even then, the spirit of self-love continues to be the driving force for everyone (Mandeville 1806, p. 481). Women are no exception to the rule. All mothers are naturally inclined to love their children, especially as they start growing up. But the passion they feel for their flesh and blood is a manifestation of their love for themselves; this propensity leads some to murder their bastard children in order to preserve their honour and reputation. Also, the strength and fortitude they show when caring for their children has nothing to do with virtue. Regardless of how they live, they perform their labour of love out of

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pleasure, with little concern for the risks they take or how their effort advances society. After all, the long-term benefits to society are so uncertain that spoiled children may grow up to become criminals destined to hang on the gallows (Mandeville 1806, p. 35). Men show courage differently. In ancient societies, people defended their loved ones against strong and savage beasts and hunted wild animals to provide for their sustenance (Mandeville 1806, p.  119). In modern times, man’s sense of honour and bravery is subject to a greater number of rules, but it is still driven by a concern for himself and his reputation (Mandeville 1806, p. 521). This is true of all men, irrespective of their social status; “In daring enterprizes, the resolution of a robber may be as much supported by his pride, as that of an honest soldier, who fights for his country” (Mandeville 1806, p. 170). The long-standing practice of dueling is relevant here. A man of honour who possesses natural courage is never treated like a fool; this is why he is allowed to ignore the law and be a judge in his own case. He is highly esteemed because he dares to fight whenever he or someone close to him sustains an injury or insult. “The instinct of sovereignty will always bid men revenge their own, and do justice to themselves” (Mandeville 1732, p.  68). Failing this, a man’s courage is no more than a sword without a point (Mandeville 1806, p. 117). Artificial courage points to an entirely different logic: mortification and self-denial, as taught by moral philosophers and clergymen (Mandeville 1806, p. 16). The Greeks and the Romans excelled at preaching this false courage and other virtues, all of which were contradicted by their many unprincipled gods (Mandeville 1806, p. 18). The Stoics were particularly zealous in promoting the goodness of a pure mind, armed with fortitude and unwavering resolve. For them, a perfect soul is capable of enduring pain, injury, and death without resentment, elevating itself beyond common mortals and remaining calm in the face of terrible suffering. Likewise, the church condemns all sinful passions, including anger, hatred, resentment, and malice filling the heart. It exhorts all souls to show “fortitude in afflictions, heroick patience in sufferings, and on all emergencies an entire resignation to the will of god” (Mandeville 1732, p. 169).

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Mandeville rejects these ideals of a pure soul divested of all passion. They are utterly impractical and represent the height of arrogance. They are rarely borne out in practice and do not lead to happiness. They also generate suspicions of pure hypocrisy (Mandeville 1806, pp. 85–86). By way of example, members of the clergy have no qualms about using passages from the Old Testament to promote the spirit of religious zealotry and war. Instead of preaching the ethics of self-denial and suffering, they evoke biblical scenes and events that will rouse the courage of soldiers, inciting them to take revenge on idolaters and use violent means to destroy them, in the name of God (Mandeville 1732, p. 169). Their vow of poverty is equally deceptive. Churchmen embrace the words without translating them into deeds. Most of them lead lives of pride and luxury, indulging in sex, fine food, and elegant dress. Men of great power are no less hypocritical. Their show of fortitude in the face of misfortune should be taken with a grain of salt, considering the sixteen-foot-high velvet beds they lie in at night (Mandeville 1806, p. 93). Courage that stems from anger and self-love is superior to moral fortitude and the ethics of self-conquest. However, Mandeville concurs with Hobbes that brutish courage has its drawbacks. For one thing, courage unrestrained by fear can bring harm to civil society and the civilised world. “For if man could conquer all his fears, you would hear of nothing but rapes, murthers and violences of all sorts, and valiant men would be like giants in romances” (Mandeville 1806, p. 129). Such horrors provoke sentiments of pity among all men, regardless of their personal morals (Mandeville 1806, p. 156). It follows that fear is needed to calm men’s nerves. While all creatures are susceptible to anger and natural courage, the passion of fear is essential to maintaining order and peace in society (Mandeville 1806, p. 122). Another problem with courage driven by anger is that it does not last long when it is needed, in times of war; the issue has less relevance in times of peace and good government. When war breaks out, politicians will do everything to alleviate people’s fear of the enemy and muster their anger and courage so that the bravest and most quarrelsome will go to combat. But the effect is short-lived. When the enemy proves to be more dangerous than expected, fear disarms the troops’ anger, causing them to lose discipline and flee.

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Physiologically speaking, the fluid spirits of anger never boil for a long time. The government must therefore find artificial ways to reward martial courage and incite men to continue the combat against difficult odds. The state can teach soldiers the value of honour and bravery and make them fear shame and infamy more than anything else, even death (Mandeville 1806, p. 348). “The courage then which is only useful to the body politick, and what is generally call’d true valour, is artificial, and consists in a superlative horror against shame, by flattery infused into men of exalted pride” (Mandeville 1806, p. 125). Soldiers must be led to believe they are fighting for a just cause, which includes protecting their altars, possessions, loved ones, and everything else that is dear to them. Men can be encouraged to fight and perish in battle by providing them with special burial grounds and praising their public spirit, patriotism, and fearlessness in the face of death and the enemy. This counterfeit courage may be bolstered by feelings of martial solidarity and the dread of being punished for cowardice. Many winnings may also be promised. Soldiers are then commended for their bravery, regardless of whether they win or lose the battle. The maimed are rewarded, and the dead are lamented and honoured; this is a sure method to heat up men’s courage and “make bubbles of the living.” The Greeks and the Romans excelled in courage and magnanimity, not because of the virtues they preached and their intrinsic benefits. Rather, they were brave because of all the measures they used to reward self-denial. Effective means of flattering men’s pride and “the passion of self-liking” ranged from war victory celebrations to monuments and arches, statues and inscriptions, trophies and military crowns, honours to the dead, and public praise of the living (Mandeville 1732, p. 49; 1806, p. 20). Encouraging soldiers to add an air of piety and strict morality to their bravery serves the same purpose (Mandeville 1732, p. 169). The Catholic Church can help with this task and promote artificial courage by distorting the teachings of Christ. The goal is to convince illiterate people and ruthless warriors to become models of virtue and courage. Priests incite them to fight like heroes, appease God’s wrath, and avoid eternal damnation (Mandeville 1732, p. 215). The powerful and society as a whole have much to gain if clergymen, politicians, and philosophers preach the ethics of courage in addition to other principles such as honesty and justice.

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The age of chivalry is a good illustration of the artificial approach to courage. The ideal warrior was a knight errant who tamed the dragon, killed the oppressor, and saved the damsel in distress. All soldiers were to follow in their footsteps and be brave and yet courteous, just, loyal, and the protectors of innocence against malice and oppression. They were to be the profess’d guardians of the fair; and chaste, as well as profound admirers of the sex: but above all, they were to be stanch to the Church, implicite believers, zealous champions of the Christian faith, and implacable enemies to all infidels and hereticks. (Mandeville 1732, p. 62)

Mandeville sarcastically remarks that the armour of virtue worn by former members of the Order of Chivalry proved to be rather massive and heavy. The standards were eventually watered down, and the armour was redesigned and made easier to wear. “They put in the same weight of courage, half the quantity of honesty, and a very little Justice, but not a scrap of any other virtue, which has made it very easy and portable to what it was” (Mandeville 1806, p.  130). Since bravery and obedience were their most important qualities, giving some moral latitude to soldiers was the logical thing to do. Soldiers could be brave and still lead immoral lives (Mandeville 1732, pp. 160, 234). Another reason for loosening up morals was practical: some virtues are of no use in real wars and may even undermine a man’s sense of honour and bravery. Who would serve with a man who fasts before going to battle or turns the other cheek when slapped by an enemy, as the clergy teaches? Priests who serve in the military understand the need to accommodate men’s impulses. They “are seldom rigid casuists; and few of them are saints themselves” (Mandeville 1732, p. 151). In their own way, they agree with the three rules of the Roman Catholic Church: “indulging some in their vices, humouring others in their folly, and flattering the pride of all” (Mandeville 1732, p. 46). Artificial bravery is useful in war. But soldiers have to be tricked and courage wheedled out of them if they are to show discipline, endure many battles, and avoid accusations of cowardice (Mandeville 1806, p. 481). Men will behave bravely, or appear to be courageous, if they are

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rewarded for protecting their pride. Also, they will follow the fashionable rules of honour so they can seduce women, “indulge all other appetites, and brag of incontinence without reproach” (Mandeville 1806, p. 349). Women’s sense of pride and honour stems from different motives. They are more concerned with preserving their chastity and their fear of shame. By making a vow of chastity, nuns elevate their virtue and courage to the highest level. Nevertheless, many choose to live virtuously out of need or for purely selfish reasons that have little to do with religion (Mandeville 1806, p. 55). Mandeville admits that the body politic and life in society have their own requirements, including discipline and the exercise of strong leadership. But this is in the interest of everyone. To survive and withstand attacks from enemies, primitive men relied on men endowed with superior strength, agility, and courage. Natural leaders had to compete for power within their own communities (Mandeville 1806, p.  452). In more advanced societies, people continue to pursue their own goals even when they work for others and serve the whole of society under the leadership of a ruling chief or government. This goes to show that if humans are to be selfish, they must be governable. They cannot live like a herd of cows or a flock of sheep, who stick together as equals out of love for their species or a need for company: An hundred of them that should be all equals, under no subjection, or fear of any superior upon earth, could never live together awake two hours without quarrelling, and the more knowledge, strength, wit, courage and resolution there was among them, the worse it would be. (Mandeville 1806, p. 221)

To be governable, however, men cannot simply submit. Those who are merely obedient bring little to others; they do what they dislike so as to avoid what they dislike even more (Mandeville 1806, p. 392). Rather, the loyal and the brave must understand that their servitude is to their own advantage. They must please others and those that govern them, knowing that it will serve their own interests. In short, all displays of courage and selfish pursuits are necessary ingredients in the body politic. They are like brandy in a bowl of punch. The

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water in the bowl stands for the ignorance, folly, and credulity of the insipid multitude. The brandy is the spiritual essence and sublime qualities of honour and fortitude added to the water. Avarice is the lemon used to make the punch sour, and prodigality is sugar to sweeten it. Men with good taste enjoy the excellent liquor produced by mixing these ingredients (Mandeville 1806, p. 55). Mandeville’s argument about the necessary rewards of courage comes up again in Origin of the Distinction of Ranks, by John Millar of Glasgow (1735–1801), published in 1771. The reasoning now reflects material considerations alone, leaving aside all issues of moral psychology and state polity. The Scottish philosopher argues that economics are the main factor in shaping all social processes, whether they be based on gender relations, military achievements, or the exercise of authority. In his view, climate has little to do with courage. He rejects the notion that cold acts on the fibres and nerves of the body, producing a physical constitution endowed with greater vigour and courage or little sensibility and vivacity (Millar 1806, p. 10). A much more important factor is wealth and the way and quantity in which it is acquired, which varies from one era to another. In barbarous ages, little wealth was produced, which was why few inequalities existed among individuals. Nor were there pronounced differences in age, experience, strength, courage, or other mental or physical traits that conferred power. The accomplishments of war played a more critical role: Among those who are almost continually employed in war, or in hunting, and who, by their manner of life, are exposed to numberless hardships and dangers, activity, strength, courage, and military skill, are the chief accomplishments that are held in high estimation. These accomplishments, which in all ages excite a degree of admiration, are, in a barbarous country, the principal sources of rank and dignity; as they are most immediately useful to the people in procuring food, and in providing for their personal safety, the two great objects which they have constantly in view. (Millar 1806, p. 33)

Barbarous women can also be daring, engage in battle, and impress others by their prowess (Millar 1806, p.  145). The female character,

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however, is not suited to military activities and cannot rival the male sex in strength and courage. Women are better employed in menial household chores, which require little dexterity, skill, or talent. As society progresses beyond its rude beginnings, male warfare strategies are improved, and more attention is paid to military art and skill. Mastering the science of war is the source of greater influence and authority compared with demonstrations of martial strength and courage (Millar 1806, p. 148). To conclude, early modernity heralds the rise of the natural and social sciences and a propensity for the laws of physis and interest-based politics to trump moral philosophy and the Christian standards of courage. The writings of Mandeville and La Boétie present provocative ideas in this regard. They stress the pursuit of reasoned self-interest and battles for freedom. But they also cast serious doubt on the rational foundations of existing state laws and regimes. Philosophical and practical wisdom have little relevance in the realm of politics. Those in power gain more by playing on people’s emotions and passions and tricking them into acting bravely, at their own expense if necessary. This new line of thinking raises a fundamental question that will receive many conflicting responses in the modern era: how to reconcile the requirements of social order and governance with the pursuit of self-­ interest grounded in the material world. In the next chapter, I discuss the provocative but less cynical answers provided by the two founders of modern political science and philosophy. Niccolo Machiavelli and Thomas Hobbes address, each in their own way, the main issues that lie at the heart of the politics of courage. They concern the manner in which the rational will puts up with strokes of chance, pleasure with the requirements of discipline, the spirit of trust with the rule of fear, and the exercise of power with calls for submission to the laws and rulers of the land.

References Descartes, René. 1901. Principles of Philosophy. Trans. J. Veitch. Munich: Beck. ———. 1911. Passions of the Soul. In The Philosophical Works Of Descartes, Vol. II, trans. E.S. Haldane, G.R.T. Ross. London: Cambridge University Press.

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La Boétie, Etienne de. 1975. The Politics of Obedience: The Discourse of Voluntary Servitude [1576]. Trans. H. Kurz. Auburn, Alabama: The Mises Institute. Mandeville, Bernard. 1732. An Enquiry into an Origin of Honour; and the Usefulness of Christianity in War. London: John Brotherton. ———. 1806. The Fable of the Bees: or Private Vices Public Benefits. London: Ostel. Millar, John. 1806. The Origin Of The Distinction Of Ranks; Or, An Inquiry Into The Circumstances Which Give Rise To Influence And Authority In The Different Members Of Society. Edinburgh: W. Blackwood. London: Longman. Montesquieu, Baron de (Charles Louis de Secondat). 1891. Persian Letters. Trans. J. Davidson. London: Routledge. ———. 1899. The Spirit of Laws. Trans. T. Nugent. New York: The Colonial Press. ———. 1965. Considerations on the Causes of the Greatness of the Romans and their Decline. Trans. D. Lowenthal. New York: Free Press.

3 Self-interest and the Sovereign

The preceding chapter leaves a basic question unanswered: How to reconcile our understanding of the laws of human passions and the body with the moral responsibility that we have for all the choices we make? Can the simple chain of natural causation proposed by Descartes and Montesquieu annul the obligation to reflect on the “ought” of ethics? To what extent can we extol courage when it lacks a moral purpose on the pretext that the rule of self-interest dominates everything, whether it be human behaviour, as Mandeville argues, or the battle against servitude, as La Boétie explains? This chapter explores the literature that fills the gap created by these early modern formulations of physis and polis, with a focus on the foundational contributions of Niccolo Machiavelli and Thomas Hobbes. Their understanding of moral egoism emphasises the mutual and competing interests of rulers and the ruled, as well as the exercise of state power guided by practical reason for the good of all. In their own way, both replace the fear and love of God with the fear of the sovereign and the courage to protect the rights and laws of the state.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_3

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The Lion and the Fox: Niccolo Machiavelli Niccolo Machiavelli (1469–1527) is often considered the father of modern political philosophy and science. He introduced observations of real-­ world courage well before Descartes and Montesquieu, along lines that are more reminiscent of Thucydides than Hippocrates. His approach differs radically from church teachings of the time, including those that are critical of the Church of Rome. For Calvin, Christians must cultivate the spirit of peace and mutual friendship for God’s sake. To this end, they must shield themselves from the lure of violence and deceit. As he puts it, the children of God and the shepherds guiding them should be neither lions nor foxes (Ps. 12:1). Machiavelli thought the exact opposite. In The Prince, first published in 1532, the Florentine diplomat and Renaissance philosopher argues that, if he is to reign, a prince must know “how to employ the nature of the beasts.” That is, he “should be a fox, to know the traps and snares; and a lion, to be able to frighten the wolves; for those who simply hold to the nature of the lion do not understand their business” (Machiavelli 1882a, 18). By way of example, he says of the Roman emperor Septimius Severus that he “combined the ferocity of the lion with the cunning of the fox, and that he was feared and revered by every one, and was not hated by the army” (Machiavelli 1882a, 19). The double animal metaphor used here suggests that the business of governing depends first and foremost on demonstrations of natural courage paired with practical thinking, astuteness, and cunning. It also suggests that men in power pursue ends that are essentially self-serving, using whatever means are at hand. This is a widespread and long-standing interpretation of Machiavelli’s political philosophy. However, a closer look at his writings, with a focus on the ethics of courage, reveals a more subtle perspective on how power and wisdom can meet the interests of both the ruling class and those under its command. Machiavelli is not an abstract philosopher. Nor is he particularly methodical when articulating his thoughts on politics and social history. Some inconsistencies and contradictions can be detected in his writings. Nonetheless, his overall thinking on courage starts from a basic premise and remains faithful to it: people will dare practically anything to protect

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their freedom and gain access to wealth, honour, and rank. They will seek vengeance on those who keep them in servitude, even if it means putting themselves in grave danger and fighting a losing battle. The Romans were a great nation because they went to great lengths to defend their liberty. Likewise, the valiant Samnites long resisted their attacks despite their many defeats and slaughter (Machiavelli 1882b, 2:2). One consequence of this is that battles should be fought by armies of freemen seeking glory and the safety of their homeland. On the battlefield, citizen soldiers are braver than non-citizen troops or mercenary troops fighting for meagre stipends. To achieve victory, rulers lead armies composed of their own subjects instead of relying on the support of allied rulers and their soldiers (Machiavelli 1882a, 13, 24; 1882b, 1:43). They also set the example. Men who achieve and keep power face danger and hardships with exemplary courage, earning their subjects’ admiration and loyalty. This is how Moses, Cyrus, Theseus, and Romulus “began to be held in veneration; and having crushed those who were jealous of their great qualities, they remained powerful, secure, honored, and happy” (Machiavelli 1882a, 6). Foreign rulers and subjects in positions of power are unlikely to betray or attack a prince respected for his excellence, especially if his decisions are irrevocable and if he has the support of a dependable army and strong allies. On the other hand, a prince is weak and disliked “when he incurs by his acts the reputation of being variable, inconstant, effeminate, pusillanimous, and irresolute; he should therefore guard against this as against a dangerous rock, and should strive to display in all his actions grandeur, courage, gravity, and determination” (Machiavelli 1882a, 19). When engaged in small-scale combat, the Italians have shown their superiority in strength and dexterity. But things are different when it comes to their armies: their chiefs are incapable of enforcing obedience from their fighting men. History shows that soldiers obey only those who are superior in valour and good fortune. People show courage, provided they are led by brave men (Machiavelli 1882a, 19, 26; 1882b, 3:33). Although brave soldiers can sometimes win battles on their own, the heroism of a capable commander usually determines the outcome (Machiavelli 1882b, 3:13). This is what happened when the Romans went to war against the Latins during the consulate of Torquatus and

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Decius. The two armies were equal in all possible respects, save for one aspect that led to the Roman victory: the extraordinary heroism of two consuls. To sustain the courage and obedience of their soldiers, Torquatus sacrificed his son, and Decius took his own life. The Romans won. Victory hinges on transmitting this kind of heroic “stubbornness, for so long as that endures in the combatants, no army will ever turn its back” (Machiavelli 1882b, 2:16). In addition to leading by example, captains and commanders may use all available means to assist soldiers in fighting valiantly, particularly in difficult circumstances. This includes using horns and trumpets, speaking publicly and haranguing the troops, making threats, promising rewards, and awarding special commendations. Giving military advice and hope and removing fears and misunderstandings also help (Machiavelli 1882b, 3:12; 2020, 3:4). For Machiavelli, valour is the most important attribute of an army commander or high-ranking official. “A minister should pursue his course with courage and vigilance, regardless of any other considerations” (Machiavelli 1882c, 14:7). The same holds true for any prince. While he may use all means at his disposal to secure power, a prince must always keep in mind that virtue is essential to his success and longevity as a ruler. “For the real virtues of a prince have so much influence that the good men desire to imitate him, and the bad ones are ashamed to follow a different course of life” (Machiavelli 1882c, 13:1). But what about his possession of military equipment and an arsenal? Machiavelli questions whether modern battles aren’t mostly fought with artillery and war horses. The answer is no. War horses move with less precision and order compared with foot soldiers. They are not always brave, like the soldiers who mount them. As for weapons, they are useless unless soldiers show the same courage as the ancient Romans (Machiavelli 1882b, 2:17; 2020, 2). Military equipment may help, but it is no substitute for valour. The same can be said of religion. Depending on how it defines valour, it can play a positive or negative role. According to Machiavelli, the church doctrine of fortitude of the soul fails completely in this regard. The philosopher is scathingly critical of Christian beliefs that do not attach importance to great achievements and celebrate suffering instead. They promote a contemplative education and way of life based on the spirit of humility, lowliness, and contempt for the material world. This causes

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men to be feeble and become “an easy prey to evil-minded men, who can control them more securely, seeing that the great body of men, for the sake of gaining Paradise, are more disposed to endure injuries than to avenge them” (Machiavelli 1882b, 2:2). The teachings of happiness in humility are for lazy men who want the world to “become effeminate and Heaven disarmed.” To soften his stance, Machiavelli explains that the ideals of lowly fortitude are a distortion of the Christian faith. In his mind, biblical teachings are misinterpreted if they do not entice people to love, exalt, and honour their country and prepare themselves to defend it under any circumstances. Pagan religion and the institutions of Roman antiquity set a good example of what faith in the divine can do to instill unwavering courage in soldiers. Belief systems embraced the pursuit of worldly honours and possessions, which made men and their cities stronger, i.e., more energetic and ferocious in all their undertakings. They deified those known for outstanding deeds, such as army commanders and chiefs of republics. Also, pagans created a sense of terror by slaughtering animals for ritual purposes. All of this helped place “the supreme good in grandeur of soul, strength of body, and all such other qualities as render men formidable” (Machiavelli 1882b, 2:2). But there is an important caveat here, as the historic battle between the Romans and the Samnites teaches. Religion, while inspiring courage, is only a last resort when true confidence fails. The Samnites battling against the Romans had no other way of reviving hope and courage except to kindle the fire of faith through religious oaths. Yet these oaths had the effect of instilling fear rather than courage; soldiers feared their fellow citizens, their gods, and their enemies. As a result, the Samnites lost the battle (Machiavelli 1882b, 1:15). In the end, religious zeal is a poor substitute for courage and may even foster a culture of fear and mistrust. This is not to say that lion-like valour will solve all problems. Fortune can still seal the fate of men. Historical factors such as a ruler’s ill health and premature death, or his obligation to fight two wars at the same time, can determine the outcome of a military campaign (Machiavelli 1882a, 7; 1882b, 2:1). No matter how courageous and ambitious they are, men who confront great adversity may not be to blame for their defeat on the battlefield. Likewise, those who live in prosperity may not be responsible

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for their blessings. Ruin or glory may result from “some great occasion offered by Heaven, which gives them the opportunity, or deprives them of the power, to conduct themselves with courage and wisdom” (Machiavelli 1882b, 2:29). Chance favours capable men who recognise opportunities when they arise and ruin to those who do not. This is where fox-like wisdom proves its worth in coping with the uncertainties of military history. As brave as they may be, citizen soldiers and their powerful leaders must exercise caution, take existing conditions and circumstances into account, and not rush into action. Waiting for the right opportunity to achieve individual and collective gains is key to success. Planning the right action and anticipating its outcome also enable men to cope with chance events. According to Machiavelli, Plutarch erred in thinking that the Romans won many wars by building more temples to the goddess of Fortune (Machiavelli 1882b, 2:1). Rather, he should have assumed that Fortune “to the extent of one half is the arbiter of our actions, but that she permits us to direct the other half, or perhaps a little less, ourselves” (Machiavelli 1882a, 25). In The Prince, Machiavelli uses the strong river current as a metaphor to explain this relationship between chance events and the rule of “organised valour,” as he calls it: I compare this to a swollen river, which in its fury overflows the plains, tears up the trees and buildings, and sweeps the earth from one place and deposits it in another. Every one flies before the flood, and yields to its fury, unable to resist it; and notwithstanding this state of things, men do not when the river is in its ordinary condition provide against its overflow by dikes and walls, so that when it rises it may flow either in the channel thus provided for it, or that at any rate its violence may not be entirely unchecked, nor its effects prove so injurious. It is the same with Fortune, who displays her power where there is no organized valor to resist her, and where she knows that there are no dikes or walls to control her. (Machiavelli 1882a, 25)

Unlike Spain, Germany, and France, Italy resembles an open country, he adds. Since it lacks valour and practical wisdom, it has no dykes or any other protection against flooding and the material damage that follows.

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This is an important lesson for all modern republics that have given up the ancient ways of Rome: “Where men have but little wisdom and valor, Fortune more signally displays her power” (Machiavelli 1882b, 2:30). Constant training, experience, discipline, and mutual trust are required to master the vicissitudes of history. These principles inspire republics and great men who show constancy and remain courageous under all circumstances, irrespective of past incidents and outcomes. They do not become intoxicated by good fortune and prosperity. Instead, they continue to make plans to defend themselves against potential harm and take all the necessary steps to ensure that armies are well organised to fight heroically (Machiavelli 1882b, 3:31, 33; 1882c, 11:15). This includes making sure there is among every ten soldiers “one of more life, of more heart, or at least of more authority, who with his courage, with words and by example keeps the others firm and disposed to fight” (Machiavelli 2020, 2). Establishing a climate of trust is also critical. Nothing can stop marching soldiers if they know each other well because they are from the same country and have lived together for some time. Confidence must be accompanied by training to fight and obey commands, with the understanding that an army is courageous because its ranks are properly disciplined. On the battlefield, well-trained soldiers know their places and who to obey. First-line soldiers fight bravely, knowing that second-line fighters will come to their rescue and deliver the final blow, as planned. In short, soldiers will be fearless in battle, provided they are well organised and have reason to hope for victory (Machiavelli 2020, 7). Well-trained soldiers do not confuse steady courage with acting rashly and impulsively, as the Gauls do. The great Roman historian Titus Livius once said of the Gauls that they began “a combat as more than men, and afterwards as less than women” (Machiavelli 1882b, 3:36). This is due to their natural temperament. Machiavelli goes on to distinguish three types of armies. The first type imposes itself by combining ardour with discipline and good order in combat. Ancient Roman soldiers are a case in point. Due to their military training and system, they exhibited unyielding courage in every combat they fought, from beginning to end. They followed orders and conquered the world. The second type, unworthy of being called an army, is guided by ardour and blind impulse. Soldiers are unable to use their zeal at the right time and with restraint. The

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undisciplined Gauls fall into this category. “For if they did not overthrow the enemy by their first furious onset, upon which they relied for victory, not being sustained by a well-regulated valour, and having nothing besides their impetuosity to give them confidence, they failed when that first ardor was cooled” (Machiavelli 1882b, 3:36). Soldiers who have no fear of gods or men also make for a bad army. They disregard direct orders and ignore all the oaths they take. They fight in favourable or unfavourable positions at any time of day or night, and they act like a horde of thieves roving freely through friendly or hostile territory. But the worst possible army is of the Italian type, which consists of soldiers who have neither natural courage nor discipline. In Machiavelli’s History of Florence, the Italians only win when their enemies flee due to some unexpected accident (Machiavelli 1882d, 5:34). By welding courage and wisdom together, systems of “organised valour” bring a better turn of the wheel of Fortune. Rulers must take inspiration from these principles by demonstrating courage and the art of cunning in their own conduct rather than relying on chance or the right circumstances to achieve their goals (Machiavelli 1882a, 1, 7). A good example of military valour and cunning is Rome’s decision to conquer one neighbour at a time and use deceit and temporary alliances to keep other powers quiet. Another example is the Roman policy of making friends in foreign countries in order to establish their rule and protect their possessions in newly conquered lands. These are instances of Rome’s lion-like valour being matched by her political and military savvy. Deliberative and foreign policy institutions can be helpful in this respect. Machiavelli observes in his Discourses on the First Ten Books of Titus Livius that Rome acquired new territories because of the valour of her armies. But it was “the wisdom of her conduct and the nature of her institutions, as established by her first legislator, that enabled her to preserve these acquisitions” (Machiavelli 1882b, 2:1, 15). The history of all republics is shaped by feats of military daring mixed with practical wisdom and savvy in both times of war and peace. Both factors are essential to achieving patriotic goals and preserving the rule of freedom enshrined in civil laws and institutions. Machiavelli expands on the danger of not balancing the two principles over time, using the example of early Roman wars against neighbouring nations. Romulus, the first

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king of Rome, was courageous and warlike. Numa succeeded him. He governed by the art of peace and played a key role in the development of Rome’s civil institutions. Tullus, the son of Numa and third king of Rome, had to choose between preserving the wisdom of his father and reviving his grandfather’s art of war. At first, Tullus was disposed to follow the ways of peace, but he soon perceived that his neighbors regarded him as effeminate, and esteemed him but little; so that he concluded that, if he wished to maintain the Roman state, he must devote himself to war, and imitate Romulus, and not Numa Pompilius. (Machiavelli 1882b, 1:19)

Had Tullus been peace-loving like his father, the city would have become effeminate and vulnerable to outside attacks. All princes who wish to retain their thrones would do well to learn from his example and combine military valour in battle with practical wisdom. Ideally, one king who possesses great genius and courage should succeed another of equal virtue. This is the best way for princes to conquer the whole world (Machiavelli 1882c, 13:3–4). David and his son Solomon are a case in point. They were men of great wisdom and valour, skilled in both the arts of peace and war. Rehoboam, the son of Solomon, broke the tradition and failed to preserve the virtues and legacy of his father and grandfather (Machiavelli 1882b, 1:19). There are instances where a feeble king can keep the kingdom inherited from a wise and able prince and even help it flourish. But it is essential that his own successor choose war over peace. This way, the government and accomplishments of the feeble king will not go to ruin. When it comes to achieving great things, the “organised valour” of a disciplined army of free citizen soldiers carries more weight than the circumstances of history, military equipment, religious oaths, or bold actions based on hasty decisions. Showing practical wisdom in times of war is particularly important. This rules out any fervent appeal for bold action or military vengeance that might create false hopes and lead overconfident people and states to their ruin (Machiavelli 1882b, 1:53). But the reign of reason also applies to matters of government and the exercise of power inside a country, with a view to satisfying all contending

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interests, including the prince’s and the people under his rule. The battle against all forms of tyranny hinges on it. Machiavelli was enough of a realist to know that valour in the service of freedom is not a panacea for everything. In the hands of rulers who are blind to reason, courage can serve evil purposes. Tyrants who gain new territories and greater power through their own bravery may do so at the expense of the good and brave citizens who continue to be terrorised by their despotic rule (Machiavelli 1882b, 2:2). While he was revered for his courage and talent, Hannibal inspired terror among his troops. His valour may have compensated for his detestable conduct and cruelty. In the end, however, wickedness had disastrous consequences for Hannibal and others like him, including Commodus, Severus, Antoninus Caracalla, and Maximinius (Machiavelli 1882a, 17, 19; 1882b, 3:21). Ordinary citizens who rise to power through military valour and a life of crime share the same fate. Agathocles, the Sicilian son of a potter who rose to be king of Syracuse, achieved “high rank in the army, which he had won by a thousand efforts and dangers, and he afterwards maintained his sovereignty with great courage, and even temerity.” Yet the man is mostly remembered for his inhumanity and unspeakable crimes. Agathocles lacked true valour and the stature of great men. For “we cannot call it valor to massacre one’s fellow-citizens, to betray one’s friends, and to be devoid of good faith, mercy, and religion; such means may enable a man to achieve empire, but not glory” (Machiavelli 1882a, 8). Unlike malice, valour is pleasing to everyone, even the enemy. For Machiavelli, considerations of valour, honesty, and shame are at the heart of politics and war. In the absence of virtue, nothing is worth praising, and all is lost (Machiavelli 1882c, 2:17, 35). For all its apparent logic, at the heart of Machiavelli’s concept of “organised valour”—the mirror image of La Boétie’s system of “organised cowardice”—lies a fundamental tension: while people will do anything to defend their freedom, they need strong and noble leaders to rule them, ensure their security against internal divisions and external threats, and conquer new lands. Freedom from danger and progress on all fronts cannot be achieved without rulers in command. Machiavelli ponders this question and comes to the realisation that the cause of every evil that affects a republic resides in

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the great and natural enmities that exist between the people and the nobles, and which result from the disposition of the one to command, and the indisposition of the other to obey. It is this diversity of disposition that supplies nourishment to all the troubles that disturb these states. (Machiavelli 1882d, 3:1)

The values of freedom, courage, and equality are at the core of the republican vision of government and life in society. All the same, personal ambitions and power differentials cause problems in all republics. Individuals, rulers, and nations constantly seek their own interests at the expense of others, which means that internal and external divisions and disputes between unequals inevitably break out. The ruling prince should always keep this in mind: all citizens think mostly of their own interests when expressing their loyalty, “for when adversity comes they will always turn against him and contribute to his ruin” (Machiavelli 1882a, 9). It follows that rulers and armies must impose themselves on their own citizens if they are to protect everyone’s interests. Well-enforced laws help to suppress men’s arrogance and ambition. Citizens themselves must show virtue and courage by assisting in the enforcement of laws against those with the power to break them (Machiavelli 1882b, 3:1). Divides between citizens and nobles lead to war and ruin unless laws are enacted and significant concessions are made to those with high rank and privileges for the sake of peace. This is the path that Rome took. It maintained itself through the government of a prince and a class of nobles, allowing the whole nation to rise in both power and virtue. Instead of overthrowing the nobles, the common people gave them access to civil, military, and judicial offices and developed noble traits themselves. By contrast, the Florentine Republic excluded the nobles from the magistracies and forced them to behave like common people. As a result, the nobles lost their valour in arms and magnanimity in spirit, with no commoners capable of filling their shoes. “Florence thus became steadily more debased and abject” (Machiavelli 1882d, 3:1). Machiavelli seeks to weld the disposition to command with the indisposition to obey. This is easier said than done. A ruling order and its class divisions serve to protect and advance everyone’s interests at the expense of common enemies. Courage is required to achieve this, yet stability is

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never assured, and bravery may eventually contribute to overthrowing the ruling order when it falls into tyranny. Machiavelli sees this overall contradiction at work in the history of different kinds of government. When the world began, people were dispersed. Eventually, the human race grew, which meant that people had to band together and organise to defend themselves against enemies, with the strongest and the most fearless men in command. People show more courage and obedience when united under a strong chief; individually, they are feeble and cowardly (Machiavelli 1882b, 1:57; see 2:17). However, human nature is such that not all brave leaders prove to be virtuous. Some are cruel and wicked, and justice must be restored by enforcing laws and punishing those in power who break them. This is how justice began, with a prince chosen because he was thought to be the wisest and fairest, not the strongest or bravest (Machiavelli 1882b, 1:2). The strong gave way to the wise. But history doesn’t stop there. A new problem arose from the fact that power was passed on to children who were pale reflections of their fathers. Once in power, heirs indulged in luxury and all kinds of pleasures. They fostered so much hatred that they became tyrants, fearful of everyone. Masses eventually rebelled under the leadership of outraged citizens and liberators famed for their “grandeur of soul, in wealth, and in courage.” Princes were deposed, new aristocratic governments formed, and strict laws enacted to administer public and private affairs. However, degenerate children took over from their courageous fathers and fell prey to greed, ambition, debauchery, and violence. Civil rights suffered once more under these new oligarchs. History moves on with brave leaders and their followers standing up to tyranny and forming popular governments that are no longer in the hands of a corrupt prince and a small number of aristocrats. Popular governments, in turn, give rise to new problems. The fact that people are free to pursue their own interests leads to license, injustice, and anarchy. Eventually, people return to the government of a prince, followed by new cycles of abuses of power and bold rebellions. Machiavelli’s theory of politics going back to the beginnings is reminiscent of Plato’s speculations on the same topic, except that wisdom now plays a secondary role compared with the pursuit of human interests, which is the prime mover of history. His approach echoes many ideas

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dating back to classical Greek realism on matters of war, well developed in the writings of Thucydides. In some ways, this is what makes it so controversial among his religious contemporaries, particularly those who are wedded to the abstract logic of scholastic philosophy and theology. Courage consists in facing enemies from a position of manly strength rather than submission, suffering, charity, or the fear of damnation in hell. Seen through the lens of political science, obedience fulfils a purpose only when it is self-serving. Some events and outcomes of history lie outside the control of men, but they no longer reflect the dictates of Fate let alone God’s will. Machiavelli elevates the rule of practical wisdom and the constant balancing of self-interests above all other considerations. The pursuit of freedom, honour, power, and material wealth renders obsolete the hopes of eternal life in heaven.

 ourage at War and the Conditions of Peace: C Thomas Hobbes Like Machiavelli, Thomas Hobbes (1588–1679) shows little interest in scholastic models of perfection serving otherworldly ends. He too holds that all men are naturally inclined to pursue their own interests, even when bravely defending their homeland and the ruling order against external threats. The English philosopher—a royalist sympathiser working for the aristocratic Cavendish family—nonetheless claims that a strong sovereign authority is essential for men to elevate themselves above the natural “condition of war of everyone against everyone.” The power vested in the state must inspire both fear and courage and forms an integral part of the covenant designed to establish a common measure of peace, order, and wealth. Fearlessness in the service of a feared ruler is a biblical idea, except that power is now wielded by a sovereign who protects the interests of a real, historical commonwealth. For Hobbes, humans are naturally driven by what they love or dislike and how they see the chances of their object of desire becoming reality. These “passions of the mind” and related calculations vary from person to person. They may combine in different ways and change over time. By

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definition, courage is the lack of fear when fighting for what one loves and avoiding what one despises because it is bad and evil. More specifically, “it is contempt of wounds and death, when they oppose a man in the way to his end” (Hobbes 1969, 9:4). It takes courage to let go of one’s fear when fighting for what is deemed good, regardless of the danger involved. Anger is a sudden show of courage aimed at overcoming immediate opposition and facing it with confidence and hope (Hobbes 1839, 6; 1840a, 2:14). Hobbes adds that anger, hope, confidence, and courage proceed from the conscience of power and the possession of will or strength (Hobbes 1839, 10). This sense of power gives rise to the zeal and valour required for victory in battle. Other passions can also lead to success; in fact, the feeling of vengeance is more conducive to victory than valour and experience combined (Hobbes 1840b, 3). All passions are part of human nature, and there is nothing abstract about them. Thus, biblical passages that portray fortitude as the Spirit of God are mere metaphors. The courage evoked in the Scriptures is not a ghost but rather man’s zeal in punishing a cruel enemy in defence of God’s people (Hobbes 1839, 34). Biblical stories of courage in battle are also a reminder that men are by nature more apt than women to display zeal, anger, and valour. This is why every monarch prefers his successor to be a male child (Hobbes 1969, 23:14). Age matters equally. For instance, middle-aged men are neither excessively daring nor excessively fearful. “They are neither easily angry, not yet stupid.” “They are valiant and withal temperate” (Hobbes 1840a, 2:16). From a moral standpoint, Hobbes’ notion that courage is a simple passion or “voluntary motion of the body” is not intended to edify. His contribution to moral philosophy lies elsewhere: in understanding what courage becomes when harnessed to support the government of the commonwealth. His theory of the commonwealth is a milestone in the history of political philosophy. In the natural condition of mankind, people live without a sovereign authority. They do everything they can to preserve their lives and gratify their desires, including the passion for glory. A direct effect of the scarcity of goods and equal hopes of obtaining them is to push individuals to compete with one another. However, logic tells them that peace and security from both internal and external threats are vital to fulfil their goals. Basic drives are essentially at odds with the

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natural counsel of reason (Hobbes 1839, 15). Sociable passions exist, but judgements as to what is good and what is evil for everyone vary from person to person and keep changing over time. To overcome this miserable condition of war, humans must follow a fundamental law of Nature and political history: they must strike a pact or covenant whereby individuals transfer their rights to a sovereign responsible for maintaining peace at home and providing security against foreign enemies. A supreme authority is needed to decide what is good and evil and to make sure that the principles of justice set out in the covenant are followed using the right rules and laws of life in society: And in this law of nature, consisteth the fountain and original of justice. For where no covenant hath preceded, there hath no right been transferred, and every man has right to every thing; and consequently, no action can be unjust. But when a covenant is made, then to break it is unjust: and the definition of injustice, is no other than the not performance of covenant. And whatsoever is not unjust, is just. (Hobbes 1839, 15)

In a state of war with everyone against everyone, all men must rely on their own strength and ingenuity to secure their well-being. Since everyone is an enemy, there is no room for collaboration in the advancement of industry, society, culture, the arts, literature, navigation, international trade, architecture, transportation, or the measurements of time and space. Worst of all, there is “continual fear, and danger of violent death; and the life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short” (Hobbes 1839, 13). In this state, the law of Nature dictates that every man’s self-­ interest and well-being command his actions and no more. All kinds of honourable activities can nonetheless emerge. Private duels can take place, guided by rules of honour and calls for courage, “though for the most part they be effects of rash speaking, and of the fear of dishonour, in one, or both the combatants” (Hobbes 1839, 10). Piracy and highway theft also adhere to certain rules. Even though they instil fear, cruelty does not necessarily follow. Invaders and plunderers care about their own safety, which is natural, but they don’t get benefits or pleasure from killing people or taking everything they own (Hobbes 1839, 10; 1969, 19:2):

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Everything changes under a government of the commonwealth. The rule of law is established, and courage serves to combat fraud and broken promises. That which gives to human actions the relish of justice, is a certain nobleness or gallantness of courage, rarely found, by which a man scorns to be beholden for the contentment of his life, to fraud, or breach of promise. This justice of the manners, is that which is meant, where justice is called a virtue; and injustice a vice. (Hobbes 1839, 15)

From a simple passion of the individual mind, courage turns into a moral virtue grounded in the exercise of reason for the “common good of them all.” The argument is reminiscent of the distinction that Greek philosophers made between superior courage and innate bravery, or being bold by nature. However, Hobbes is adamant that the idea of moral virtue should not be understood in its Aristotelian sense, i.e., as the middle ground between vices that are at opposite ends, such as rashness and too little fear on one end and too much cowardice and fear on the other (Hobbes 1969, 19:2). When exploring virtue, moral philosophers waste time seeking a universal law and measurement of “mediocrity,” involving mid-level quantities and degrees of justice, gratitude, modesty, and mercy. Moral laws presented as eternal and universal fly in the face of human passions and rational judgements that vary according to character, customs, and beliefs. They hide too many quirks that give rise to disputes, controversies, and armed conflicts. The science of good and evil should not concern itself with general rules, theorems, or aphorisms, which do not constitute laws in the proper sense. Instead, moral philosophy should focus on the basic cause of all virtues, which is that all men desire peace and the means to achieve it. If courage and other virtues deserve praise, it is essentially because they are “the means of peaceable, sociable, and comfortable living” (Hobbes 1839, 15). The rule of law upheld with courage is the means par excellence. It involves the enforceable judgements, decisions, and intentions of the legislator, who has the right to command. All commonwealth subjects must follow a set of rules known as “civil law,” whether they are

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conveyed verbally, in writing, or by other expressions of the will. They allow everyone to distinguish between right and wrong (Hobbes 1839, 26). Courage is not a middle point between too much daring and too much dreading. Far from being a vice, extreme fear may be a normal response to a situation where an enemy threatens one’s life. Likewise, extreme daring is commendable only if the cause is good and justice is at stake (Hobbes 1969, 19:2). All actions and habits can be judged as good or evil based on their utility to the commonwealth. The fact that the action is or is not halfway between extremes is irrelevant. Nor is the advice of an authoritative philosopher useful here. “For several men praise several customs, and that which is virtue with one, is blamed by others; and, contrarily, what one calls vice, another calls virtue, as their present affections lead them” (Hobbes 1840b, 1). The rule of law, established through civil laws and enforced by a sovereign authority, is the only gauge for moral virtue. In The Whole Art of Rhetoric, Hobbes defines virtue as the faculty of obtaining and preserving what we love and deem to be right and accomplishing great things for the good of all. Fortitude is thus a virtue wherein a man carries himself honourably and abides by the laws in times of danger. Other virtues also contribute to the administration of just laws for the common good. They include justice, which disposes every man to seek and obtain what belongs to him according to the law. Temperance is the virtue of a man who governs himself “in matter of pleasure according to the law.” Liberality and magnanimity make men apt to do things that benefit others, while magnificence makes these benefits apt to be obtained at great cost. Prudence is the intellectual ability to “deliberate well concerning any good leading to felicity” (Hobbes 1840a, 1:9). These are lofty ideals, and integrating all virtues into one’s conduct may seem impossible. The ability to judge others’ conduct according to the law is at odds with the habit of pardoning others for their weaknesses, for instance. Nor is it an easy thing to combine reasoning in the pursuit of truth with flights of eloquence to get assent and cater to personal interests and passions. A similar tension lies at the heart of courage, understood as both a simple passion and a moral virtue. Courage, viewed as a person’s contempt for wounds and violent deaths, is a natural passion

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that inclines people to seek private revenge and, at times, disturb the public peace. The opposite passion is “timorousness,” governed by fear, which leads people to betray their obligation to protect the common good. Both passions can be put to the service of the commonwealth. Fear is a good habit when it comes to maintaining public peace, but fearlessness is also required to defend the common good. Some argue that the two dispositions cannot coexist in the same person. Hobbes disagrees and suggests that education and discipline can help reconcile courage with the wisdom of fear. He cites Sir Francis Godolphin, a good friend and English member of Parliament, as the perfect example of someone who combines “clearness of judgment, and largeness of fancy; strength of reason, and graceful elocution.” The man deserves praise for being able to find a balance between “courage for the war” and “fear for the laws.” Both are key to saving the commonwealth from internal problems and outside threats (Hobbes 1840a, Review). Perfection of character, however, is not a requirement of the Commonwealth. As exceptional as his friend may be, Godolphin does not set a standard of excellence that every good citizen should follow. Hobbes proposes an alternative approach to the ethics of courage: namely, making sure the virtue exists where it is needed, starting with the office of the sovereign. As with frugality and liberality, fortitude in maintaining peace at home and protecting the nation from its enemies is first and foremost a royal virtue (Hobbes 1840b, 1). The general who leads an army comes next. He must be brave and have many virtues in the hope that soldiers under his command will both love and fear him: He must therefore be industrious, valiant, affable, liberal and fortunate, that he may gain an opinion both of sufficiency, and of loving his soldiers. This is popularity, and breeds in the soldiers both desire, and courage, to recommend themselves to his favour; and protects the severity of the general in punishing, when need is, the mutinous, or negligent soldiers. (Hobbes 1839, 30)

Hobbes adds that a commander’s courage and his soldiers’ loyalty must never undermine the supreme power of the sovereign and the safety of the people under his rule. Obedience is expected from all faithful

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subjects, including high-ranking army officers. As for soldiers, they must demonstrate courage, assuming they enlist or receive money to fight the enemy with the purpose of serving the commonwealth. If not, they may justifiably refuse to go to battle and decide to run away out of fear, despite orders to the contrary. Their conduct may be cowardice that brings dishonour, but it is not treachery or injustice that deserves punishment. The implication here is that allowances should be made for those who, by their nature, are easily scared. This includes women and “men of feminine courage,” who may find other men to fight in their place. It also includes lay Christians who suffer persecution and betray the church by worshipping an idol on pain of death. Only pastors whose duty it is to preach God’s word may be expected to behave as martyrs (Hobbes 1839, 45). Sound laws should never punish those who, by an accident of nature or bad fortune, do not possess “things honourable by nature; as the effects of courage, magnanimity, strength, wisdom, and other abilities of body and mind” (Hobbes 1839, 28). Just laws punish only those who fail to perform their duty and are no longer deserving of badges, titles, offices, or other tokens of the sovereign’s favour. Allowances for accidents of nature or personal circumstances do not apply to wartime situations that require every abled-bodied man to bear arms. All citizens are then bound by a duty to fight; “otherwise the institution of the commonwealth, which they have not the purpose, or courage to preserve, was in vain” (Hobbes 1839, 21). While necessary, compulsory enrolment brings the expected results on one condition: the sovereign must be wise enough to pass laws that people can tolerate and follow. When this condition is met, soldiers have the strength and courage to defend their king and country against neighbouring enemies. As peace returns, however, demonstrations of courage from all citizens no longer serve a purpose and may even create problems. The king, his generals, and the soldiers duly enrolled in the army must continue to exemplify heroic qualities. Yet “for other men, the less they dare, the better it is both for the commonwealth and for themselves” (Hobbes 1840b, 1). In short, courage is a virtue only if it is in the service of the king and the commonwealth. Otherwise, it is a nuisance and a vice. In its natural condition, courage stems from the conscience of power, strength, or skill. It expresses a man’s confidence and fearlessness in

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pursuing his goals in the face of grave danger and possible death. Its sole function is to protect a person’s well-being and survival, ideally through peaceful means and without unnecessary malice. This changes under a Commonwealth government. Courage turns into a moral virtue, provided it meets the following condition: demonstrations of fortitude must serve the public good by upholding a sovereign authority. The sovereign assumes the task of establishing a covenant of peace within the dominion, enforcing all related laws, and defending its subjects from outside enemies. Importantly, expectations of moral courage must adjust to people’s positions in society. The sovereign must show the highest level of courage and inspire great admiration and equal fear. Army commanders and volunteer soldiers able to bear arms are also bound by duty to conduct themselves bravely in battle. But as subjects of the kingdom, they must remain faithful to the sovereign and fear his laws at all times. Other citizens must conduct themselves bravely when conscripted for service. In times of peace, however, it is better for the commonwealth that they be less daring. Machiavelli and Hobbes show how calls for courage represent one means, among others, of maintaining sovereigns in power and protecting the common good. The sovereign shows his intelligence and shrewdness by setting up a regime centred on the rewards of personal safety, material possessions, and social honours. Satisfying the interests of both the rulers and the ruled is nonetheless key to achieving peace and prosperity. In a sense, the approach ties in with Descartes’ analysis of reasoned self-­ interest and natural desires as the foundations of human conduct. Polis is an enlightened physis. Chapter 2 explained how Mandeville adopted the same down-to-earth approach, using a mixture of Cartesian physiology and moral egoism to account for men’s courage. La Boétie also endorses the principle of self-interest prevailing against the rule of tyranny. But he deplores the generalised habits of foolishness and cowardice that stand in the way of achieving the rule of justice and human fellowship. Unfortunately, he does not expand on these higher principles. In fact, none of these social theorists recognises the importance of moral aims and principled politics on their own. The next chapter discusses theoretical perspectives that fill this vacuum, notably those of Hugo Grotius, Samuel von Pufendorf, and other proponents of men’s rational disposition towards God and country.

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References Hobbes, Thomas. 1839. Leviathan. In The English Works of Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury, Vol. III, ed. Sir W. Molesworth. London: John Bohn. ———. 1840a. The Whole Art of Rhetoric. In The English Works of Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury, Vol. VI, ed. Sir W. Molesworth. London: John Bohn. ———. 1840b. Behemoth. Vol. VI. In The English Works of Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury, Vol. VI, ed. Sir W. Molesworth. London: John Bohn. ———. 1969. The Elements of Law, Natural, and Politic. Ed. F.  Tönnies. London: Frank Cass. Machiavelli, Niccolo. 1882a. The Prince. In The Historical, Political, and Diplomatic Writings of Niccolo Machiavelli, Vol. 2, Trans. C.E.  Detmold. Boston: J.R. Osgood. ———. 1882b. Discourses on the First Ten Books of Titus Livius. In The Historical, Political, and Diplomatic Writings of Niccolo Machiavelli, Vol. 2, Trans. C.E. Detmold. Boston: J.R. Osgood. ———. 1882c. Thoughts of a Statesman. In The Historical, Political, and Diplomatic Writings of Niccolo Machiavelli, Vol. 2, Trans. C.E.  Detmold. Boston: J.R. Osgood. ———. 1882d. History of Florence. In The Historical, Political, and Diplomatic Writings of Niccolo Machiavelli, Vol. 1, Trans. C.E.  Detmold. Boston: J.R. Osgood. ———. 2020. The Art of War. Trans. H. Neville (1675). In The Complete Works of Niccolo Machiavelli Works of Niccolo Machiavelli. Shrine of Knowledge, Kindle edition.

4 Justice, the Laws of Nature, and God

The early Christian approach to the God-centred politics of courage is completely at odds with the moral wisdom and intellectualism of Ancient Greece. Nonetheless, the Church Fathers recognised early on that there was much to be gained by incorporating virtue-based thinking into their own belief system and putting the exercise of reason, both speculative and practical, at the service of God’s fear and love. The early modern period illustrates a similar process of breaking away from the past and then finding ways to mend or attenuate the rift. This time, the break brings into question the twin rules of reason and faith in the moral domain. With Descartes, La Boétie, Machiavelli, and Hobbes, the workings of the body and the body politic, governed by the pursuit of self-interest, set entirely new standards in the field of moral thinking. The requirements of physis and the state-centred polis overthrow the well-established regime of epistêmê and wisdom dedicated to the Lord. But the reaction to this new mindset is not long in coming. Many early modern philosophers and social theorists take a negative view of the narrow rule of reasoned self-­ interest and moral egoism. In their discussions of courage, they propose instead that some inspiration continue to be drawn from Christian morals, classical philosophy, or a combination of the two. For some, the virtues of justice and natural rights in times of war must temper the patriotic © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_4

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struggles for self-preservation. Hugo Grotius, Samuel von Pufendorf, and Emer de Vattel develop arguments in support of this view. Others see the value of virtue-based ethics in containing the passions of men and countries at war, a goal that may be further enhanced by the Christian ethics of fortitude. This line of thought runs through the writings of Pietro Pomponazzi, Francis Bacon, Richard Cumberland, Thomas Gordon, John Trenchard, and Jean-Jacques Burlamaqui.

 elf-preservation and Just War: Hugo Grotius S and Samuel von Pufendorf The Dutch scholar and jurist Hugo Grotius (1583–1645) is remembered to this day for questioning the politics of self-preservation and protection of the fatherland and developing a theory of international justice. In The Rights of War and Peace, written in 1625, he presents his own approach to laws of “perpetual justice,” those that Nature dictates and are appropriate in all circumstances. They differ from laws that are established and enforced through mutual agreements between states. Natural laws reflect principles that are permanent and can be handled systematically, more so than conventional laws that vary from place to place and change over time. Their role is to prevent crimes against humanity committed in interstate wars where the law remains silent: What some people say, that in war all laws cease, is completely unacceptable: rather, war should only be undertaken in the pursuit of rights, and once under way should be conducted according to the measure of law and honesty (fides). (Grotius 2005, III p. 200)

Too many men, Christians and barbarians alike, run to war for frivolous reasons and have no respect for divine or human law. Waging war calls for no less justice than courage. This was the viewpoint the ancient Romans held, he adds. They extolled courage that served a just war. More broadly, history teaches us that “a soldier’s courage rises or falls according to the merit of his cause; seldom does he return safely, who took up arms unjustly” (Grotius 2005, I p. 42; III p. 200). It follows that men should

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never rush into battle. They must launch war out of necessity, not out of greed or ambition. It must serve just ends, such as security and the preservation of a people’s constitution. Furthermore, it must be carried out with honour and true valour, employing force of arms rather than relying on chance, let alone treachery or fraud (Grotius 2005, II pp. 678–79; III pp. 19, 61, 94). As in Stoic philosophy, justice of some sort ought to control demonstrations of bravery. Ideally, if all men were just, there would be no need for courage (Grotius 2005, III p. 200). For Grotius, the end goal of all courageous battles is to use law, not spear and sword, to establish the boundaries of a commonwealth and its happiness. This is for the good of all nations. Citing Themistius in his speech to Valens, Grotius says of wise kings that they “take care, not only of the Nation whose Government they are entrusted with, but of all Mankind” (Grotius 2005, I p. 41). Noble kings and their heirs know that nothing brings more harm to posterity than limiting equity within the borders of their empires. Grotius follows other teachings of Stoicism as well, on topics such as the freedom of assent and the cowardice of self-killing. For an act to be heroic, the man must be able to exercise his freedom of choice and consent to the deed (Grotius 2005, III p. 293). As for suicide, it is the “thoughtless bravery of courting death,” an action that reveals ungratefulness to God even when it passes for courage (Grotius 2005, II p. 585). Emer de Vattel expresses similar ideas (1714–1767). Following Grotius, the international lawyer lauds the patriotic courage and firmness of a prince who loves his people and strives to make them happy (Vattel 2008, p. 85). Reason dictates that he should love his country in the same way that he loves himself. More generally, the affection a citizen or leader feels for his state is a necessary consequence of the wise and rational love he owes to himself, since his own happiness is connected with that of his country. This sensation ought also to flow from the engagements he has entered into with society. He has promised to procure its safety and advantage as far as in his power: and how can he serve it with zeal, fidelity, or courage, if he has not a real love for it? (Vattel 2008, p. 86)

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Soldiers ought to act bravely when they fight enemies that threaten the liberty of their republic. Their display of valour is critical for protecting public interests against foreign threats (Vattel 2008, pp. 297, 482). Men known for their soft living and effeminate leanings and morals contribute little in this regard (Vattel 2008, p. 523). Women are not of much help either. While some are capable of great courage, most busy themselves with other services in society (Vattel 2008, p. 328). Prelates who accumulate large fortunes are subject to the same criticism. Their idleness, hidden under the cloak of devotion, makes them useless to society both in peace and war; “they neither serve it by their labour in necessary professions, nor by their courage in arms” (Vattel 2008, p. 100). Vattel adds, however, that acts of wartime valour may not be enough to protect the nation from external threats. Achilles was so sure of his own valour and strength that he overlooked the necessity of stratagem and surprise in winning a war. Artifice and ruse also play a critical role, provided the means used are not unlawful and reproachable in themselves (Vattel 2008, pp.  380, 523). Equally important, the ardour of brave men should be balanced with a healthy dose of moderation and generosity, qualities that may better reflect a victor’s glory more than his courage. Cruelty is incompatible with genuine acts of courage. Fearlessness must never stop brave men from showing a sense of humanity and fighting for their rights without violating those of human nature. “Let our valour preserve itself from every stain of cruelty, and the lustre of victory will not be tarnished by inhuman and brutal actions” (Vattel 2008, p. 369). One consequence of this is that enemy leaders who behave heroically and fulfil their duties should never be executed when vanquished (Vattel 2008, p. 359). The seventeenth-century German jurist and philosopher Samuel von Pufendorf (1632–1694) takes up Grotius’ theory of natural justice and complements it with Hobbes’ idea of a “mutual civil society” that brings peace among neighbours and protects their liberty against common enemies. This involves trusting the wisest and the bravest with the responsibility of passing judgement, taking decisions, and administering laws for the public good. Pufendorf also defends Hobbes’ notion that man should be “allowed to be most dear to himself ” and to protect his well-being at all times, even if it means preferring one’s life to someone else’s (Pufendorf

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1735, p. 72). Given this natural law of self-preservation, committing suicide for one reason or another—because one lacks fortitude in the face of suffering or wants to show off his fidelity or bravery—is a sin against the laws of Nature. Putting one’s life in danger is justifiable only if one is fighting for one’s king, country, and fellow citizens, doing so freely, willingly, and out of honour (Pufendorf 2009, Obs. 4:10). Like Hobbes, Pufendorf believes that natural law does not justify committing acts of unnecessary cruelty. He expands on this subject by showing the many implications and advantages of just war practices. The rule of martial honour and fortitude requires that soldiers refrain from plundering and harassing people in other countries (Pufendorf 1735, p. 287). Army commanders should be open to striking agreements with the enemy by declaring truces, establishing measures to protect innocent civilians, and prohibiting the use of certain weapons. When “warlike fortitude” is the rule, violence is kept to a minimum; this aligns with the natural quest for security and peace at the root of any “public and just war” (Pufendorf 2009, Def. 12:22; Obs. 4:18). Furthermore, as in ancient Rome, conquerors should not enslave defeated soldiers and inhabitants or put them to the sword. Instead, they should naturalise them and increase the number of brave citizens and troops ready to defend their new nation against other foes (Pufendorf 2013, 1:12). A nation seeking peace should avoid establishing a military regime. Justice and prosperity hinge on the exercise of wisdom. However, the valour of those in power, as well as the king acting as commander in chief, remains critical in ensuring victory over the enemy and preventing internal political or civil unrest (Pufendorf 2013, Preface; 1:12; 4:36). Citizen soldiers serving their country are expected to show courage as well, assuming they have the skill and strength to bear arms (Pufendorf 1735, p. 285). Well-to-do citizens will fight even harder on the battlefield, if only to protect their own wealth from potential invaders (Pufendorf 2013, 1:13). Nonetheless, Pufendorf breaks from Hobbes’ perspective on courage in several significant respects. For one thing, he does not advocate a strong and autocratic rule as the only possible remedy for the natural condition of war. Instead, he allows for democratic regimes in which the sovereign authority shares power with the leaders of pre-civil pacts, as

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imperfect and unstable as they may be (Pufendorf 2009, Def. 12:22, 33; 2013, 1:2). He also rejects the assumption that courage is a universal passion inherent in man’s nature and warlike condition. Like Machiavelli, he rather holds that Nature distributes the “passion of courage” unevenly. This explains how different nations behave in war. The English, for instance, do not fear death. They are courageous and brave, especially at the beginning of a battle. However, because they are accustomed to living in wealth, they are unable to withstand famine and other severe afflictions (Pufendorf 2013, 4:31). While the French used to have the same problem, they are now more warlike, showing “heat and fury at first” and “constancy at last” (Pufendorf 2013, 5:25). More importantly, Pufendorf remains faithful to conceptions of Nature and virtue dating back to classical Greece. In his view, people’s reputation reflects their personal accomplishments and abilities, all of which contribute to “the ends of the laws of nature or societies” (Pufendorf 1735, p. 169). Excellence and perfection can be attained by wit, knowledge of the arts and sciences, sound judgement in business, and a steady spirit. Performing good and brave deeds is also important (Pufendorf 1735, p. 268). This requires men to “cast off all effeminacy of the mind” and show resolve in overcoming adversity and terrible hardships (Pufendorf 1735, p. 71). To this reinstatement of virtue-based ethics, Pufendorf adds the Aristotelian notion of moderation in passion under the guidance of reason. The best way to maintain and improve the body’s natural strength and power is to abstain from all excesses, such as too much eating, drinking, working, or sexual activity. Laziness and debauchery are among the worst enemies of valour (Pufendorf 2013, 5:3). Care must be taken to bring passions under the control of reason, lest they bring harm to individuals and society as a whole. Thus, when doing their duty and defending their country, brave soldiers must aim for the middle ground, which means neither running into danger nor avoiding it out of fear (Pufendorf 1735, p. 287).

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 Reasoned Disposition Towards God A and Country Natural law theory that combines reasoned self-interest with a basic sense of humanity is one way to tone down the twin rules of egoism and state power advocated by Machiavelli and Hobbes. It is a more positive approach compared with the anarchism of La Boétie and the cynicism of Mandeville. In its pursuit of justice, the state can act rationally and enact laws to prevent crimes against humanity and avoid foolish wars between countries or churches. With this goal in mind, Grotius promotes religious toleration, and Pufendorf urges the separation of church and state. But this is not the only way to counter moral egoism and the war of all against all. Another strategy is to pair science and political theory with some combination of virtue-based ethics and the teachings of the Christian faith. Pietro Pomponazzi and Francis Bacon pioneered this line of thought. In his controversial work entitled On the Immortality of the Soul (1516), Pomponazzi (1462–1525) wavers between the wisdom of Greek virtue and a religious stance on the ethics of courage. In some passages, the Italian humanist attacks the mainstream interpretation of Aristotle’s notion of the immortal soul and the scholastic synthesis of faith and reason, or theology and philosophy. Contrary to the teachings of Aquinas, Pomponazzi claims that Aristotle considered the soul to be perishable since it is tied to a material body and has limited knowledge of universals. Philosophical reasoning has inherent limitations and cannot establish proof of the immortality of the “human intellectual soul.” However, the Scriptures fill in the vacuum and provide ample justification for Christians to hold on to the promise of life after death. Religion must coexist with philosophy and derive insights from the exercise of reason. But its role is to advance teachings that go beyond the limits of reason. When religion and philosophy give different answers to the same question, faith is the ultimate arbiter of truth. In other passages, the primacy of faith over reason is subject to important caveats that must be borne in mind when examining people’s motivation to observe moral principles. When it comes to key questions of doctrine, like the immortality of the soul, there is some risk that the

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absence of proof will deter men from risking their lives for their friends, their country, and the public good. If life after death cannot be demonstrated, men might as well turn to a life of crime and sin. Pomponazzi’s response to this problem is for knowledge of philosophy and Nature to step in and shore up confidence in the Christian creed. Taking his cue from Aristotle, he argues that virtue and courage bring happiness: “Nothing is more precious and more happy than virtue itself.” Virtue is the source of a “great part of happiness, even though it be of short duration” (Pomponazzi 1948, pp.  13, 18). By contrast, crimes committed against the community affect everyone, including those who commit them in the vain hope of living longer and better lives. All in all, men should prefer a brief life that receives praise to a longer life that goes down in infamy and misery. Virtue is its own reward, and the constant fear of punishment is the fruit of sin. This explains why creatures like bees put their lives in danger to protect their colony and ruler. While faith in God comes first, philosophical reasoning corroborates the idea that Nature is directed by an unerring intelligence. The English philosopher and statesman Francis Bacon (1561–1626) offers a less abstract path to reconciling science, political theory, religion, and moral philosophy. The father of empiricism advances ideas on the nature of courage that echo Machiavelli’s line of thinking. In general, men win battles and achieve greatness primarily through acts of natural bravery. Even so, military daring works best when combined with rational counselling based on science. Boldness on its own is blindness to danger. A prince should thus receive the kind of education that prepares him to “play the part of a lion in violence, and the fox in guile, as of the man in virtue and justice” (Bacon 1915, p. 84). Unlike Machiavelli, however, Bacon has no problem integrating the ethics of Christian suffering with patriotic heroism. Instead of advocating the politics of self-interest, he promotes faith and suffering as the best breeding grounds for higher forms of courage, the achievement of noble ends, and the greatness of a people’s kingdom or state. Bacon clarifies his eclectic stance on courage in his commentaries on adversity, boldness, vain glory, atheism, and the nature of men. As with other virtues, courage is an integral part of the work of Nature and all that is good in life, as dictated by reason and ordained by God:

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For the same may be said of all earthly goods: of wit, courage, strength, beauty, wealth, light itself, and the rest. Only let the human race recover that right over nature which belongs to it by divine bequest, and let power be given it; the exercise thereof will be governed by sound reason and true religion. (Bacon 1960, 1:129)

Bacon is nonetheless a realist about the unity and possible integration of all virtues in people’s lives. Those who have strength of wit and courage do not always lead decent or untroubled lives, for instance. Reconciling rational and moral knowledge with health, beauty, strength, and pleasure is easier said than done. All of these are good things, but they rarely come together in real life. In the end, there is in human nature more of the fool than of the wise (Bacon 1912, p. 60) Physicians who join one sect or another are a good example of the negative impact of boldness that clashes with rational thinking. Unscrupulous physicians make a business of offering miraculous cures to strengthen people’s courage, mind, or memory. Their medicine consists mostly of superstition. It has no scientific basis and fails to deliver on what is promised. While their business is bold, it is the “child of ignorance and baseness” and should be laughed at. People who are shallow in judgement and weak in courage become easy prey for these charlatans. They do not realise that boldness on its own is blind; it does not see danger or possible disadvantages to excessive daring. The same reasoning applies to military commanders and soldiers. Armies at war must be more than just bold. To win, they must combine steady and sober commanders with fearless and valiant warriors who seek glory. “For in counsel, it is good to see dangers; and in execution, not to see them, except they be very great” (Bacon 1912, p. 63). Adversity, according to Bacon, creates the conditions for courage in the pursuit of honest and noble aims. The same can be said for harsh climates. He believes, like Hippocrates, that “the cold of the northern parts, which is that, which without aid of discipline, doth make the bodies hardest, and the courages warmest” (Bacon 1912, p. 317). In a cruel twist of irony, Bacon died in a cold bed, after performing a series of experiments with ice. Warmer climates and prosperity have the opposite effect. They lead to unnatural and ungodly vices such as wickedness,

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luxury, and the debasement of the arts and sciences. Atheism is another consequence of good fortune. It is a denial of man’s nobility and godlike spirit, which is the ultimate source of courage, and the “better nature” of a human being. Atheism destroys likewise magnanimity, and the raising of human nature; for take an example of a dog, and mark what a generosity and courage he will put on, when he finds himself maintained by a man; who to him is instead of a God, or melior natura; which courage is manifestly such, as that creature, without that confidence of a better nature than his own, could never attain. So man, when he resteth and assureth himself, upon divine protection and favor, gathered a force and faith, which human nature in itself could not obtain. Therefore, as atheism is in all respects hateful, so in this, that it depriveth human nature of the means to exalt itself, above human frailty. As it is in particular persons, so it is in nations. (Bacon 1912, p. 90)

Johannes Althusius, a contemporary German jurist and Calvinist political philosopher, makes a similar case (1557–1638). In Politica (1614), he claims that when a commonwealth becomes overpopulated, it suffers from overconsumption, material scarcity, and poverty, making it difficult to maintain order and discipline. Such regions “overflow with sycophants, with wealth and corruption, until wealth is preferred among them to virtue, bribes to justice, timidity to courage, and evil to good” (Althusius 1995, p.  68). Large and powerful empires generate corruption, which eventually wears them down. Might leads to overconfidence, which breeds folly, contempt, lust, the weakening of authority, and the loss of imperial power and glory. Fortitude and virtue decline as the commonwealth grows and achieves might. Bacon concurs. Times of peace are conducive to the weakening and corruption of men. The body needs physical exercise to remain healthy. Similarly, a kingdom or state requires a just and honourable war to maintain its strength and the rule of law; “for in a slothful peace, both courages [physical and political] will effeminate, and manners corrupt” (Bacon 1912, p. 173). A kingdom’s greatness and reputation hinge on the use of arms and its soldiers’ courage. It follows that military arsenals and the money to hire mercenaries are no match for a race’s brave and warlike

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disposition. Like Machiavelli, Bacon believes that the wealth and size of an army matter little if soldiers lack courage and audacity. No matter how many sheep there are, a lone wolf is never scared. This means that “the true sinews” of war and fortune lie not in money but rather in the arms of “a valiant, populous, and military nation” as well as in their “minds, wit, courage, audacity, resolution, temper, industry, and the like” (Bacon 1915, p. 201). He adds in passing that men are more valiant and martial if they are not burdened with heavy taxes. People overcharged with tribute tend not to be “fit for empire.” Also, an empire benefits from increasing its population by naturalising strangers. No matter how courageous and ambitious a handful of people may be, they will have difficulties extending their rule over a broad territory (Bacon 1912, pp. 164, 167). Richard Cumberland (1631–1718) also advocates the marriage of reason, sovereignty, and Christian faith. Unlike Bacon, he claims that Nature reveals the will of God and teaches how to live, i.e., bravely, according to Christian morals. Rejecting Hobbes’ egotistical war of all against all, the English philosopher and Bishop of Peterborough believes that people’s peace of mind hinges on their courage and perseverance in using practical reason and pursuing the happiness of all men. But strength and courage also help in promoting justice and punishing assaults against the common good, an obligation dictated by the laws of Nature and God’s will (Cumberland 1727, pp. 80, 219): Whereas, on the contrary, they who, neglecting the pursuit of the common Good, slight the favour of God and men, in neglecting the principal causes upon which, both their being and happiness necessarily depend, wittingly undermine the foundations of their own happiness, and convert that friendship, which they themselves know to be necessary to them, into most deserved hatred. (Cumberland 1727, p. 245)

Cumberland reasons that all human emotions and passions contribute to achieving happiness in this world and fostering a spirit of universal benevolence. They include the instincts of fear, which are needed to avoid danger, and anger, which incites men to show courage. Likewise, man is naturally inclined to believe in a superior power and demonstrate moral devotion to a deity. His innate awareness of duty and sin, his hope of

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being rewarded when following the dictates of his conscience, and his fear of punishment for violating them all testify to God’s laws governing his creation (Cumberland 1727, p. 136). It follows that atheism is unnatural, as is courage without faith (Cumberland 1727, p. 128). Pagan philosophers and uncivilised nations may have great esteem for the manly courage that superior men display when going to war, killing a tyrant, or risking their lives to save their loved ones. But the truth is that even when acting bravely, pagans are no more than “ungodly virtuous heathens.” Like Hercules, their fortitude is motivated by “the foulest of vices, the inordinate appetite of vain-glory” (Cumberland 1727, p. cxliii; see pp. lx, lxiii, 41, 77). Faith in God and courage in serving him are essential, if only because evil and real suffering, whether caused by illness, torture, death by fire, or tyranny, are facts of life that cannot be ignored with Stoic indifference. Subjects must have faith in their sovereign ruler to maintain their courage and trust that they will be rewarded for their loyalty in both peace and war (Cumberland 1727, p. 373): Pomponazzi, Bacon, and Cumberland share an optimistic view about the complementarity between rational thinking, faith in God, the exercise of power, and the common good. Good men protect their country from outside threats, keep their “natural appetites” in check, and accept a healthy dose of suffering in their lives. Thomas Gordon (1692–1750) and John Trenchard (1662–1723) approach the question of courage with similar concerns for the preservation of self and country and related battles for freedom, human justice, and the common good. They welcome rational thinking and the rules of respect for authority, devotion to God, and the laws of Nature. As in the Cartesian tradition, courage and matters of the soul are grounded in human physiology because God has ordained that the body and the soul should be one. It follows that actions in the mind produce effects in the body. The opposite is equally true: bodily dispositions can produce courage, impetuosity, and valuable mental energy. They can also depress the spirits, “give them panick fears, dismal apprehensions, melancholy images, and secret frights” (Gordon and Trenchard 1995, IV pp. 86–87). Humans are courageous, jealous, fearful, or melancholic depending on their physical state, and they reason differently when they are ill or in good health (Gordon and Trenchard 1995, IV p.  31). “A certain

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organization of the body, and mixture of the unity in the blood, concurring with suitable and correspondent actions of other beings without us, produce prudence, temperance, moderation, humanity, indolence and complacency of mind” (Trenchard and Gordon 2011, pp.  273–74). While many passions exist, they may all be reduced to hopes and fears that are necessary for our survival. Courage triggers specific mental and physical impressions that act jointly and fluctuate over time (Trenchard and Gordon 2011, pp. 264–65). As with anger and other passions, it may be influenced by a variety of factors, such as drinking wine or taking medicine that affects the mind, heartbeat, and blood flow. Mental activity and decisions of the will can also serve to moderate expressions of fortitude. Human understanding is actually the key to controlling human instincts and emotions. Without it, passions turn into unruly appetites, violent passions, and foolish vices. Thoughtless courage allows anger, rage, and fury to run wild. Religious faith gives in to intolerance, fanaticism, and idolatry. People go so far as to venerate heroes and ascribe remarkable bravery to Mars, for example (Trenchard and Gordon 2011, pp.  273–74; Gordon 2011, p.  238). Displays of religious zeal and boldness are symptoms of an infectious fever in the head (Gordon and Trenchard 1995, IV p. 80). Men of virtue should not let intense passions dictate their thoughts and will. They can resist the tyranny of the body, knowing that mental activity is not reducible to its physical causes. The authors reject the notion that matter is a self-moving power that acts on its own, independently of human understanding and reason. To say otherwise is tantamount to advocating “atheism with a witness” (Gordon and Trenchard 1995, IV p. 30). When understanding is removed, all that is left is matter, with no reason that causes or “co-causes” the action. Courage guided by the mind reaches the higher level of virtue, a reasoned disposition towards God and country. In this perspective, any discourse on cardinal and private virtues that is divorced from real politics is empty rhetoric. Essentially, Christian fortitude stands like a man’s wall of defence against those who attack his liberty (Gordon 2011, pp. 211–12, 341). It protects anyone who wishes to defend himself and others against injustice and oppression (Gordon and Trenchard 1995, IV p.  16). Without it, those who live in fear of powerful men cower beneath the

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yoke of tyranny. For lack of Christian fortitude and fear of God, they blindly submit to brutal masters, open their mouths to flatter them, and redirect their courage to strengthen their iron-fisted rule (Gordon and Trenchard 1995, I p. 81; II pp. 157–58): Tyrants consider their people as their cattle, and use them worse, as they fear them more. Thus the most of mankind are become the wretched slaves of those, who are or should be their own creatures; they maintain their haughty masters like gods, and their haughty masters often use them like dogs: A fine specimen of gratitude and duty! (Gordon and Trenchard 1995, I p. 127)

Men in chains do not have the true mettle of brave warriors. When under attack, a tyrant cannot count on servile subjects to conquer the enemy. They lack the arms, courage, and reason to fight with him. Every victory they gain for a tyrant reduces their number and makes them even poorer; they fight to increase his pride and cruelty with their own misery. In free countries, people work and fight for themselves. They also engage in extensive trade. This creates an army of able-bodied and courageous soldiers who will defend a nation’s honour and safety. They are free to do whatever they please when abroad, to everyone’s benefit and at no cost to the state (Gordon and Trenchard 1995, II pp. 136, 146, 149). Fortitude based on patriotic discipline and Christian piety serves to uphold justice, benevolence, and other virtues. Serving one’s country with valour is the most admirable trait of a noble monarch or any honourable man. This is to say that fortitude manifests itself mostly in action, not in speech (Gordon 2011, pp. 9, 11, 211, 361; Trenchard and Gordon 2011, II p. 21). Words express what men have in their minds but not necessarily in their hearts. Even though they are intended to make an army more brave, eloquent speeches matter little compared to the discipline and habits that soldiers display in battle. They understand that bold acts alone are worthy of glory and honour. True warriors are like primitive heroes who lead disinterested lives of “virtue and useful valor.” They are capable of great prowess and will bravely face danger for a just cause, such as overthrowing public thieves and tyrants, creating laws, and enforcing them justly. But few men are

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real heroes. Men are naturally ambitious and inclined to exercise power with cruelty and arrogance, taking advantage of the wealth they acquire by accident or force (Gordon 2011, p. 357). This is why many primitive heroes demand to be worshipped. “And thus arose persecuting priests and lawless kings” (Gordon and Trenchard 1995, III p. 120). Over time, religion and zeal give way to superstition and bigotry, and courage morphs into rashness and inequity. The heroic struggle for equality and liberty is soon lost at the hands of corrupt magistrates and politicians who divide to rule and erode people’s sense of virtue and courage (Gordon and Trenchard 1995, II pp. 20–21; III pp. 156–57). Gordon and Trenchard take a dim view of the Roman clergy’s fearmongering and their French allies’ history of bigotry, arrogance, and cruelty. Their actions offend the manly principles and virtues of clemency, courage, and “protestant zeal” characteristic of the brave English nation. More specifically, the authors reproach Catholic priests for using the threats of Satan and eternal suffering to terrorise people, weaken their courage, and mould the church into an instrument of dominance. Religious fanaticism and hatred based on ignorance and passions pass for heroic courage and constancy in faith. “Its courage is madness, and it is bold through blindness” (Gordon and Trenchard 2011, I pp.  123, 127–28). Instead of promoting philosophical wisdom, the arts, and the sciences, “Romish priests” use the art of deceit to put their own greed, ambition, and pleasures ahead of humanity’s pursuit of liberty and happiness (Gordon and Trenchard 2011, I pp. 103, 150; II pp. 88, 117; IV pp. 43, 154, 191). The cruelty of the Roman Church is a travesty of true lion-like courage. If a pope could have a conversation with a lion, the pope would likely reproach the beast for being a four-footed monster bent on destroying other animals. But the lion could give the following rebuttal: I have more courage, more strength, more activity, and better senses of seeing, hearing, etc. than you have: Nor do I destroy the hundredth part of my fellow animals in comparison with those that you destroy. I never destroy my own species, unless I am provoked; but you destroy yours for pride, vanity, luxury, envy, covetousness, and ambition. (Gordon and Trenchard 1995, IV p. 17)

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The lion teaches the pope a lesson in physical and moral courage by emphasising the importance of instinctive self-preservation and restraint in the use of reasonable force. Several eighteenth-century philosophers developed a similar approach to fortitude, where faith and the exercise of reason and self-command, guided by the laws of Nature, come together to support the struggle against tyranny, egoism, and self-love. They include Johann Gottlieb Heineccius, Jean-Jacques Burlamaqui, and Cesare Bonesana di Beccaria. While mostly concerned with the laws of nations, the German jurist and philosopher Heineccius (1681–1741) argues that God has implanted moral rules in our minds, inclining us to “act the part he approves and commands” out of love and reverence for his authority. These rules of divine perfection are the foundations for laws dictated by the will of a superior who hath a just title to command, and sufficient power to enforce conformity to his commands. And indeed it is when prudence, temperance, fortitude, benevolence, and all the other virtues are considered in this light, that they alone can have their full force. (Heineccius 2008, p. 316; see pp. 304–5, 312–13)

In The Principles of Natural and Politic Law, the Genevan legal and political theorist Jean-Jacques Burlamaqui (1694–1748) adds that civilised men who possess fortitude of the mind would rather suffer terrible things than falter in their patriotic duty, betray their country, and lose their honour by doing things contrary to religion or justice (Burlamaqui 1807, I p.  177). He, too, believes that valour must take inspiration from the twin principles of justice and prudence. Princes should serve as examples by exposing themselves to the greatest perils, especially in times of war and on the battlefield, but without running needlessly into danger. Those who show contempt for their own lives and the lives of those under their command are perhaps fierce, but they are not brave. Prudence requires that they give proper orders, show foresight, and calmly wait for the right moment to defeat the enemy. “Virtue is the more revered, as she shews herself plain, modest, and averse to pride and ostentation” (Burlamaqui 1807, II p. 101).

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Apart from showing prudence and seeking peace with other powers, the king’s principal duty is to maintain and strengthen his subjects’ courage and inculcate a strong sense of self-discipline in young people who eventually join the army. Youth must engage in physical exercise, learn to work hard, and practise virtue by avoiding a life of lust and effeminacy, which impair both the body and the mind (Burlamaqui 1807, II pp. 109, 146, 160). However, there is so much that a king or prince can do to promote virtue and advance the public good. As with other men, rulers are prone to errors and failings. Actually, the position that sovereign rulers occupy exposes them to temptations that are unknown to ordinary citizens. When they realise they have unlimited authority, most princes give in to their passions, losing virtue and courage. People and government officials have reason to fear them and seek protection from their abuse of power (Burlamaqui 1807, II p.  45). They must resist injustice with all their might, even at the peril of their lives, knowing that it is better to obey God than men; no one should ever be ordered to violate God’s laws, whether natural or revealed (Burlamaqui 1807, II p. 52). Furthermore, people must make sure they have a share in their own government, take an interest in matters of public concern, and partake in their country’s fortune or misfortunes. “This is what renders men active and generous, what inspires them with an ardent love of their country, and with an invincible courage, so as to be proof against the greatest misfortunes” (Burlamaqui 1807, II p. 68). Men of honour are like the ancient Romans, who were invincible so long as they fought for their own interests. When they became slaves under absolute masters, they lost courage and asked for no more than bread and public diversions. Beccaria (1738–1794), an Italian legal philosopher and politician, expands on the distinction between the private and public spheres. In An Essay on Crimes and Punishments (1764), he pleads against torture and the death penalty. Both clash with public morality and natural justice expressed in state laws, which differ from private laws prevailing in the domestic sphere—laws designed to inspire submission and fear rather than liberty and courage serving the common good. Laws based on the dubious “good of the family” require that kindness be shown to a few people who are not of one’s own choosing without extending it to the

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whole of mankind. Men abandon the pursuit of virtue because of this confusion between private and public morality, or between natural and moral objects (Beccaria 1819, p. 91). The confusion is such that crimes committed for personal gains pass for bravery. To avoid “crimes of courage,” a benevolent power must intervene to steer courage towards the public good. Crimes of cowardice must also be punished. They are contagious and should never be condoned, even when dealing with criminals. Judges should never ask an accomplice to betray another criminal, for instance. A court weakens its authority by seeking assistance from those who are likely to breach the law. The pursuit of public morality places restraints on human passions that run too high and personal interests that are purely egotistical. This is a recurring theme in the history of classical philosophy and church doctrine. It is a caution against reducing lessons of courage to human physiology and the pursuit of selfish interests, whether reasoned or not. The warning seems justified. However, developments in the natural and human sciences are still in their infancy, and the notion that natural passions are powerful drivers of human behaviour has a long future ahead. The laws of Nature and human physis have yet to be extended to all aspects of life, including “moral affections” that may be perfectly healthy: they can ensure people’s self-preservation and reward their contribution to battles for freedom and life in society. The next chapter turns to this eminently modern idea and a cornerstone of “moral sentiment” theory: the idea that human passions can function as levers of moral courage.

References Althusius, Johannes. 1995. Politica. Trans. F.S.  Carney. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund. Bacon, Francis. 1912. Bacon’s Essays. London: Adams & Charles Black. ———. 1915. The Advancement of Learning. London: J.M. Dent. ———. 1960. The New Organon and Related Writings. New  York: Liberal Arts Press. Beccaria, Cesare Bonesana di. 1819. An Essay on Crimes and Punishments. Philadelphia: P.H. Nicklin.

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Burlamaqui, Jean-Jacques. 1807. The Principles of Natural and Political Law [1747]. In Two Volumes. Trans. T.  Nugent. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cumberland, Richard. 1727. A Treatise of the Laws of Nature. Trans. J. Maxwell (1727). London: R. Philips. Gordon, Thomas. 2011. The Works of Sallust. Trans. into English with Political Discourses upon that Author, to Which is added a translation of Cicero’s Four Orations against Catiline. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund. Gordon, Thomas, and John Trenchard. 1995. Cato’s Letters, or Essays on Liberty, Civil and Religious, and Other Important Subjects. Four volumes in Two. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund. ———. 2011. The Independent Whig. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund. Grotius, Hugo. 2005. The Rights of War and Peace. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund. Heineccius, Johann Gottlieb. 2008. A Methodical System of Universal Law: Or, the Laws of Nature and Nations. Trans. G. Turnbull. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund. Pomponazzi, Pietro. 1948. On the Immortality of the Soul. Trans. W.H.  Hay II.  In The Renaissance Philosophy of Man, Selections in translation, ed. E. Cassirer, P.O. Kristeller, J.H. Randall. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Pufendorf, Samuel von. 1735. The Whole Duty of Man According to the Law of Nature. Trans. A. Tooke. London: A. Gosling. ———. 2009. Two Books of the Elements of Universal Jurisprudence. Trans. W.A. Oldfather, Indianapolis: Liberty Fund. ———. 2013. An Introduction to the History of the Principal Kingdoms and States of Europe. Trans. J. Crull (1695). Indianapolis: Liberty Fund. Trenchard, John, and Thomas Gordon. 2011. A Collection of Tracts. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund. Vattel, Emer de. 2008. The Law of Nations, Or, Principles of the Law of Nature, Applied to the Conduct and Affairs of Nations and Sovereigns, with Three Early Essays on the Origin and Nature of Natural Law and on Luxury. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund.

5 Moral Sympathy and Higher Passions

Moral egoism portrays state power as the balancing of interests, an exercise that is well advised in the case of Machiavelli and Hobbes, somewhat artificial in the cases of Mandeville, and plainly manipulative and detrimental in the case of La Boétie. Those who oppose this narrow view of ethics and politics argue in favour of the rule of reason and human fellowship in matters of war. Others fall back on the ethics of Christian faith and virtue to counter spirals of “appetites” for wealth and power. Whether they follow Natural Law or the Christian creed, all brave men have one thing in common: they know how to control their natural inclinations and passions. This view of human nature is well implanted in the history of Christianity and moral philosophy. Nevertheless, many social theorists of the eighteenth century had serious doubts about this long-­ held belief: that bodily passions and human ethics are at odds with each other. When discussing courage, some propose a third way forward in understanding and promoting it, one that offers a much broader view of human passions and their implications for politics. They draw attention to the direct role that passions play in reconciling the pursuit of self-­ interest with life in society. In this approach, practical reason and intellectual wisdom are no longer the overarching principles of moral goodness. Natural passions take precedence and include “moral © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_5

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affections” that motivate people to protect their own interests at the same time as they fight for their country and their freedom from tyranny, for the good of all. This chapter examines various contributions to “moral sentiment” thinking, starting with Helvétius’ praise of men of passion, genius, and noble courage who fight for their country and live their lives to the fullest. In his view, the brave need not rely on God or abstract ideals to achieve happiness in the here and now. David Hume adopts the same line of reasoning, except that he considers feelings of “social sympathy” and the enjoyment of other people’s praise to be vital passions in their own right. What he proposes is an enlightened rule of freedom and self-­ interest that encompasses deeply felt sentiments of social sympathy and well-deserved pride. When people let themselves be moved by these “tender affections,” they are more likely to show courage, fight for freedom and justice, and pursue whatever makes men happy and, by the same token, serves their interests. Adam Ferguson follows the same line of thought: courage is an expression of self-affection and social love governed by the natural laws of utility, sociability, and pleasure. However, he offers a broader view of human passions, their complex mixture, and the merit of virtue-based ethics in keeping them in check. Feelings of kindness and concern for others must be balanced against other emotions. Fear, envy, anger, animosity, daring, and testing one’s strength and abilities are all passions that bring pleasures and benefits in this life. However, they can lead to moral corruption if abused, preventing human nature from progressing towards the perfection of wisdom and virtue.

F reedom and Well-rewarded Passions: Claude-Adrien Helvétius In 1758, Claude-Adrien Helvétius (1715–1771) published De l’esprit, a provocative treatise on the workings of the mind. In it, he rejects the notion that differences in climate shape the minds and souls of men. History provides too many examples that invalidate the rule. While

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climates do not change, the Romans, the Greeks, and the Egyptians were once courageous and are now effeminate. Virtue is like philosophy, the arts, and the sciences: it too migrates over time from one country to another, regardless of differences in weather. If some nations are braver, it is clearly for reasons of morality and politics (Helvétius 1818, pp. 401–402). People from the north are often thought to be very strong, but this is just a matter of opinion and bias against foreigners. All nations, be they from the south or the north, consider themselves to be the most valiant and evoke their own victories abroad, in foreign lands and climates, as demonstrations of their superior strength and courage. They attribute to their national heroes all the good sentiments and virtues they admire (Helvétius 1818, p. 468). In short, Nature does not bestow special privileges on any one nation in terms of virtue, intellect, or courage. If northern warriors are fearless and victorious in battle, it is because they have made a conscious decision not to embrace easy living or servitude under the yoke of oppression and arbitrary rule (Helvétius 1818, pp. 402–11, 426). Given this warning, Helvétius queries what the term “courage,” also known as “valour” and “boldness,” means (Helvétius 1818, pp. 402–11). His answer brings the reader back to the role of human passions. He begins with a discussion of animal boldness, which is essential in overcoming threats to the satisfaction of physical needs and appetites. Human beings are not all that different. They too fear suffering and what they believe may cause death or deprive them of the pleasures of life. Most people will do anything, even be very brave, to avoid feeling afraid in the face of a real or imagined threat. Unlike animals, however, men’s yearning to be happy outweighs their urge to survive, and they will take risks that match their object of desire. Moreover, humans have many passions, ranging from greed to ambition, the lust for women, and the love of country. This affects the way they show courage, which varies considerably. Since pride matters little to pirates, they never engage in duels to defend their honour, for instance. The degree to which passion is felt is another important consideration. Those who feel no desire are less likely to act boldly. By contrast, the truly brave have intense passions and are willing to suffer and die for them. They see the danger and confront it because the game is worth the candle.

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Stronger passions cause them to take higher risks. A man may be afraid of most things yet risk his life to save his wife or children because he loves them intensely. This does not mean that the brave constantly measure the danger they encounter against the greater good they seek. The likelihood of courage may collide with prejudice, overconfidence, an overwhelming passion (such as greed), or sheer ignorance of the risk involved. Fear itself can become uncontrollable and lead to despair and even suicide. It can cause unhappiness, a lack of zest for life, and weakness in the face of suffering. Passions and the satisfaction of human desires are strong motives for showing courage in war. The pleasures of life, especially those involving sexual fantasies, are powerful incentives for men to defend their country with the utmost loyalty. Soldiers’ courage is proportional to the rewards they can expect when acting bravely (or the punishments meted out when accused of cowardice). Greek and Roman history teaches that nations that reward virtue with life’s joys instil greater courage in men. Soldiers are braver in combat knowing they will take possession of the enemy’s wealth and women. Instead of being shamed for their cowardice, their military prowess attracts the attention of the most beautiful women in their own country. During the heyday of French chivalry, women taught both the catechism and the art of love to young men aspiring to become knights. This explains the fame enjoyed by French knights in Italy, as Machiavelli observes. Ladies granted their favours to the most gallant and valiant knights, who came back with prisoners of war and stories of heroic deeds in battle (Helvétius 1818, pp. 328–32). Likewise, disciples of the prophet Muhammad and pirates worshipping Odin were fearsome and invincible because they anticipated dying in combat and being blessed with the favours of countless women in heaven (Helvétius 1818, pp.  384–87, 412–13). However, fanatical beliefs that emphasise heavenly rewards do not sustain courage over time, at least when compared to sentiments of patriotic fervour and loyalty. In the words of Helvétius: I cannot refrain from observing that between these two forms of courage, one based on religious fanaticism and the other on the love of country, the

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latter is the only one that a skilful legislator should inspire among his ­citizens. Fanatical courage weakens and is soon extinguished. Moreover, this kind of courage takes its source in blindness and a soon as a nation loses its fanaticism, only stupidity remains. It then becomes the object of contempt from all people, because inferior in all regards. (Helvétius 1818, p. 395, my translation)

Despite this note of caution, man’s feverish desire for women’s love has been the most effective force behind expressions of morality and legislation throughout the ages. Men who pursue glory with moral courage inherit a treasure trove of sensual pleasures and worldly delights. This balances their own needs with the needs of society as a whole. Courage is a direct offshoot of passion, and the rewards it brings are well worth fighting for. But Helvétius is not consistent in this approach. In other passages of De l’esprit, he insists on saying that material cravings and easy living are antithetical to virtue and the spirit of courage. He has harsh words for both the northern pirates roaming the seas and Cortez and his men setting out to conquer the New World. Their fearless undertakings reflected their appetites for the booty of war above all—spoils plundered from countries that worked harder and were therefore wealthier. As a rule, war loot benefits the privileged few and, when shared with a greater number, is antithetical to a nation’s sense of honour and struggle against slavery and despotism (Helvétius 1818, pp. 27–29, 376). On the matter of material wealth, Helvétius reproaches the people of England and Holland for devoting much of their time to business and commerce, at the expense of the science of war and the pursuit of national pride and glory. This makes them vulnerable to military attacks and dominance by foreign powers. If England still enjoys its freedom, it is not because of its courage but mostly because of a geographic accident, namely its isolation from mainland Europe. When people live in troubled times and face revolutionary struggles, they learn to be brave. They demonstrate their loyalty to their friends and country with greater strength, prudence, honesty, and courage, qualities that are less needed in times of peaceful commerce and industry (Helvétius 1818, pp. 181, 179, 321–25, 376).

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The latter comments suggest a view of courage that goes well beyond the risks taken to secure the pleasures of life. Despite his numerous concessions to hedonism, Helvétius believes that true valour is largely political and intellectual in nature. Its source lies in people’s passionate love and devotion to their country on the one hand and the pursuit of innovative thinking that benefits the nation on the other. His focus on patriotic and republican fervour is nothing new, save that incentives to bravery are deeply felt sentiments and passions not founded on rational thinking and wisdom. The noble struggle for liberty and the freedom to think and speak against all forms of tyranny and slavery demonstrate an intense love for one’s country, its republican legislation, and the corresponding form of government. This explains why despots are prone to punishing valour and rewarding crime. Oriental regimes and Rome under the rule of Domitian fostered cowardice and established power by demanding total submission from their subjects and fomenting distrust and betrayal among them. Because they brought about the demise of virtue, these systems of government were inherently fragile (Helvétius 1818, pp. 169, 347, 367–74). Half-politicians and despotic rulers obsessed with power are inherently lazy. They lack the courage and perseverance needed to advance moral legislation and novel thinking in their own country. The greatest resistance comes from men of power who lack virtue and are neither gifted nor brave. Fearing ridicule, they never question received opinions and falsehoods and stupidly spread the fear of anything considered to be new. They become enemies of humanity by silencing courageous ideas and promoting people’s ignorance and faith in the arbitrary rule of chance and fate (Helvétius 1818, pp.  205, 287, 353, 359, 539–41, 546–47). Education may help combat the many effects of their ignorance and stupidity. It is key to overcoming the fear of ridicule and prejudice and inculcating a sense of duty and manly courage. The arts also play an important role. Poetry that is both simple and energetic can strengthen men’s souls, give them their courage, and help heal a nation afflicted with weakness and cowardice (Helvétius 1818, pp. 152, 169, 423). It is incumbent upon moralists and legislators to combat the rule of tyranny and cowardice of the mind. Of all scientists, they have the most to offer. They can inspire their fellow citizens to pay back what they owe

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their country and do so with their own lives, if necessary. They can extol the soldiers’ love of country and passion for it, which works better to foster courage than the fear that comes from military discipline and training. They can celebrate demonstrations of patriotic pride, honour, and glory, as exemplified by wise statesmen and valiant soldiers who fight for their country against all odds. They can also deter proud men from defending their personal honour through dueling, an antiquated custom that does not express true valour and serves no purpose for the nation (Helvétius 1818, pp. 149, 218, 277–81, 365–66, 391). Unfortunately, most moralists fail in their task. They waste time repeating ancient maxims, such as the idea that dying for one’s country is a beautiful thing, to name just one. Instead, they should promote virtue and courage through deeply felt sentiments and ideas admired throughout the ages. This goes well beyond the exercise of prudence. The rule of common sense and practical reasoning may have some merit in preventing people from making errors of judgement that stem from passion. Likewise, honesty and proper training are commendable in that they enable magistrates and legislators to bravely serve the public good. But courage calls for much more, such as dedicating time to philosophical meditation and innovative thinking and action. Geniuses, men of great passion, and peaceful heroes of the arts and sciences are models to follow (Helvétius 1818, pp.  200–201, 218, 269, 274, 554–55, 571). If they practise virtue and moderate their passions, it is because higher pursuits push them to surpass the normal accomplishments of reasonable men. The latter may be wise, yet their happiness lies in not being unhappy. Unfortunately, they miss out on both the pleasures and the pains of a bold and passionate life (Helvétius 1818, pp. 528, 562).

 ympathy and Sentiments of the Heart S and Mind: David Hume David Hume (1711–1776) was a Scottish scholar and essayist well known for his advocacy of philosophical empiricism and scepticism. He too holds that a person’s temper or character develops from a web of passions

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rooted in human nature. The latter can be examined through dream recollection and analysis, a method that may reveal a person’s natural courage or cowardice in the most vivid terms (Hume 1854, I 4:3). The implication here is that courage does not express itself through rational thinking and deliberate action. Still, there is more to courage than a passionate quest for self-fulfilment and the many pleasures and benefits associated with man’s combative spirit and genius, as portrayed by Helvétius. Life in society and the feelings that it creates also motivate people to act bravely. “Interest and ambition, honour and shame, friendship and enmity, gratitude and revenge, are the prime movers in all public transactions; and these passions are of a very stubborn and untractable nature” (Hume 1826a, p. 108). The passions that drive people’s lives and cause pleasure or pain revolve around many wants, which include eating, clothing, and sheltering. Unlike other species, humans are ill-equipped to meet all their needs. Being a voracious animal, the lion has been given the temper, agility, courage, and strength required to survive. Humans are at a disadvantage in this regard. They have received fewer gifts from Nature. The Greek general and statesman Epaminondas may possess all qualities, from physical strength to eloquence, vigour of mind, contempt for riches, and a gentle disposition (Hume 1826c, 6:2). But no man has the supernatural power to defeat all his enemies. Nor does anyone lack the imperfections of human nature, such as avarice, ambition, revenge, and selfishness (Hume 1826b, 65). All people experience pleasure and pain, and no one is exempt from virtue and vice. If humans are superior to animals, it is due to one significant advantage that they have over all other species: the capacity to live in society, which compensates for their individual limitations. It is by society alone that man “is able to supply his defects, and raise himself up to an equality with his fellow-creatures, and even acquire a superiority above them.” “By society all his infirmities are compensated” (Hume 1854, III 2:2). While passions fill human lives with joy and pain, life in society compensates for each individual’s inability to satisfy all his wants. This brings us to Hume’s approach to courage and other ethical issues. In his view, natural and social passions drive moral thinking and conduct. To be more precise, vice and virtue are founded on “the four principles of the

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advantage and of the pleasure of the person himself, and of others” (Hume 1854, III 3:2, my emphasis). To these principles, Hume adds a major source of pleasure: the satisfaction of giving and receiving praise, reflecting the sympathy that people normally feel for one another (Hume 1854, II 1:7). All in all, people can tell right from wrong by applying the principles of utility, pleasure, and sympathy and expressing them through feelings of admiration and self-esteem. The social dimension of sympathy is key to understanding Hume’s moral philosophy. A fundamental quality of human nature resides in people’s propensity to sympathise with others and grasp their sentiments and inclinations, as different as they may be. The communication of natural affections—fear, anger, courage, and grief—takes place among animals as well; they too can sense each other’s pain and pleasure (Hume 1854, II 2.12). Children, who are susceptible to outside influences, are a good example of this. Likewise, adults are known to “catch passion by contagion.” That is, they adopt the same way of thinking, taste, or emotional state as those they keep company with. “A cheerful countenance infuses a sensible complacency and serenity into my mind; as an angry or sorrowful one throws a sudden dump upon me” (Hume 1854, II 1:11). Thus, sympathy fosters bravery in the same way that it engenders esteem, love, and joy, or resentment, hatred, and melancholy. All passions come from others rather than merely reflecting each person’s natural temperament. The pleasure of receiving and giving praise is particularly contagious. Favourable comments from others bring great satisfaction, especially when they highlight qualities that they themselves possess and consider relevant. Soldiers take pleasure in being commended for their courage, not for their philosophical wisdom or eloquence (Hume 1854, II 1:11). Commanders who lead them to victory are praised almost automatically, using rhetoric that creates a pattern of exceptional virtue. In the leader’s treachery lies a wise policy, and in his cruelty, a necessary evil that brings military victory. “In short, every one of his faults we either endeavour to extenuate, or dignify it with the name of that virtue, which approaches it” (Hume 1854, II 2:3). The people we closely associate with are more likely to earn our praise. The sympathy that we feel for others seldom extends beyond our narrow

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circle of family, friends, or people living in the same region or country. Those who serve the interests of friends and loved ones are esteemed and become the standard we use to judge everyone, including those who are more distant. Moral discourse feeds on sentiments that spread within limited social spheres: The intercourse of sentiments, therefore, in society and conversation, makes us form some general inalterable standard, by which we may approve or disapprove of characters and manners. And though the heart does not always take part with those general notions, or regulate its love and hatred by them, yet are they sufficient for discourse, and serve all our purposes in company, in the pulpit, on the theatre, and in the schools. (Hume 1854, III 3:3)

Virtue is any aspect of our character that wins the esteem and sympathy of those we associate with. The desire for approval explains why people are prone to showing off their bravery, intelligence, and talents. For fear of public scorn and mockery, they will conceal their cowardice, stupidity, meanness, or loose morals (Hume 1826c, Appendix 4). One implication of this sympathy principle is that natural abilities are virtues in their own right, in the same way that natural defects are vices. The criteria that philosophers have always used to tell natural talents from moral habits developed over time no longer hold. Qualities such as courage and self-command are esteemed even though they do not result from personal choice. Some philosophers argue that habits are moral if they enjoin us to play an active part in society, as opposed to intellectual abilities that engage the mind only. This distinction does not hold either; exercising wisdom and judgement has moral and social consequences. Could we say that virtues stand out by expressing deeply felt emotions or sentiments of the heart? If so, this would leave out many commendable powers or habits known mostly by their effects, including frugality, industry, and perseverance. Hume concludes that natural abilities are virtues for a simple reason: they deserve to be praised. They bring pleasure and are esteemed and envied everywhere in the world. This accounts for the fact that physical qualities often earn more praise than the so-called

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moral virtues. Men will thus boast of their physical courage or spirit and downplay their temperance and good nature. Given these observations, disputing the strict meaning of virtue is pointless. Good judgement and courage, industry, temperance, knowledge, and wisdom are all factors that contribute to a person’s overall worth. Those who possess these qualities are more content with themselves and rely on them to gain the goodwill and esteem of others (Hume 1854, III 3:4). The sentiments remain the same, no matter where they come from: natural talent or life in society (Hume 1826c, 2:1, Appendix 4). It is important to note that Hume’s principles of utility, pleasure, and sympathy do not necessarily paint a positive picture of courage. From a moral perspective, pride in qualities, things, and people that serve to bolster a person’s self-confidence and courage has both merit and weaknesses. On the positive side, humans may take pride in practically anything, whether it be a quality of the mind (wit, good sense, learning, justice, integrity, etc.), their body (beauty, strength, skill at dancing, riding, etc.), an object they possess, or people they associate with (Hume 1854, II 1:2). In the case of courage, the quality deserves praise because of its utility, or the advantages it offers. It is good because it contributes to our self-­ preservation. Cowardice is a vice because it lays us open to every attack. Similarly, we appreciate people’s generosity because we gain from it and lose from their avarice (Hume 1854, II 1.7). However, a person’s heroic virtue is not merely useful. It also attracts people’s sympathy and is admired on its own. It expresses a steady and well-established sense of pride, ambition, and self-esteem. “Courage, intrepidity, ambition, love of glory, magnanimity, and all the other shining virtues of that kind, have plainly a strong mixture of self-esteem in them, and derive a great part of their merit from that origin” (Hume 1854, III 3:2). When pushed to the limit, notably in times of war, self-­ esteem and risk-taking garner overwhelming admiration from others. Military feats earn men the highest degree of merit. War causes pain, yet a stronger, more immediate feeling of sympathy and admiration for the hero’s noble qualities eclipses the harm it does to society. A man’s exceptional courage can dazzle people and override any defect he may have. It can also absorb and influence other emotions moving in its orbit. Passions and ideas tend to mingle and unite in support of

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whatever happens to be the predominant feeling. For instance, a soldier’s courage and confidence in battle rise when he thinks of his friends and fellow soldiers; the feeling of friendship bolsters his primary emotion, which is courage. Beauty can serve the same purpose. “Hence it is that in martial discipline, the uniformity and lustre of our habit, the regularity of our figures and motions, with all the pomp and majesty of war, encourage ourselves and allies; while the same objects in the enemy strike terror into us, though agreeable and beautiful in themselves” (Hume 1854, II 3:4). Adversity can also inspire people to gather strength and elevate their souls to unseen heights. A soul full of courage and grandeur welcomes opposition and strives for greater accomplishments and higher levels of passion. “Virtue, genius, power, and riches are for this reason associated with height and sublimity; as poverty, slavery, and folly are conjoined with descent and lowness” (Hume 1854, II 3:8). In the same way that a strong leader becomes a model of virtue, the strongest passion attracts all other feelings to its cause. But there is a negative side to courage and related sentiments: they may turn into vices that cause displeasure and shame. Religiously minded thinkers see no good in the passion of pride, a vice that is purely pagan and natural and contradicts the ethics of Christian humility (Hume 1854, III 3:2). Their concerns are justified, given that pride often turns into vanity, a passion that offends others and is widely condemned. Vanity is a problem in that it serves no purpose and offers no immediate satisfaction. Haughtiness also undermines other people’s self-esteem; they suffer from the “disagreeable passion of humility” and sympathise with those who endure the same insult. Hume adds that military pride and ambition are particularly questionable because of the displeasure they bring. Cool-headed men are little dazzled by what brave soldiers can accomplish; there is no great merit in the infinite confusion, disorder, and devastation they create. The audacity of cruel and treacherous Hannibal is uninspiring (Hume 1826c, Appendix 4). For these reasons, most societies have established rules that discourage men from indulging in self-praise. Expressions of noble pride and self-value may be in order when a person’s moral character is under attack or in the presence of intimate friends or persons of high status and “very manly behaviour” (Hume

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1826c, 2:8). Still, showing some modesty, especially among youths and ordinary people, is always in good taste and appreciated by others. While scattered and at times convoluted, Hume’s commentaries and passing remarks on the pros and cons of courage and related passions rarely deviate from the overarching themes of utility, pleasure, and sympathy. His final assessment of courage, however, hinges on the extent to which this natural quality supports the softer virtues that contribute to social life, those founded on the spirit of love and friendship. An obstacle to achieving this is the tendency to rank these qualities or pit one against the other. People assess and rate courage and love based on how closely they mirror their own characteristics: The man of a mild disposition and tender affections, in forming a notion of the most perfect virtue, mixes in it more of benevolence and humanity, than the man of courage and enterprize, who naturally looks upon a certain elevation of mind as the most accomplished character. (Hume 1854, III 2:3)

While each person’s assessment may vary, courage is generally more impressive than gentler dispositions. Its display “catches the eye, engages the affections, and diffuses, by sympathy, a like sublimity of sentiment over every spectator” (Hume 1826c, 2:8). The Romans had such esteem for martial courage and manliness that it became a synonym of virtue. Poets celebrated it, parents and instructors recommended it, and the public had great admiration for it. But this does not mean that love and other social dispositions represent inferior virtues. Softer attributes, in fact, bring more pleasure, if only because they incline us to care for others and admire them for the qualities they possess. Nations that extol bravery above all else stand much to lose; their ignorance causes them to overlook the advantages associated with beneficence, justice, and the social virtues. Courage, pride, and ambition are moral, provided they are useful. To serve their purpose, however, they must seek guidance from the “tender passions” of goodness and benevolence, i.e., generosity, humanity, compassion, gratitude, friendship, fidelity, zeal, disinterestedness, and liberality. People should embrace these softer sentiments. They “make a man agreeable and useful

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in all the parts of life; and gives a just direction to all his other qualities, which otherwise may become prejudicial to society” (Hume 1854, III 3.3). Without their influence, courage and ambition will not serve the interests of society and can lead powerful leaders and authorities to behave like tyrants and public thieves. In An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals, Hume reiterates the same argument. Men known to be sociable, good-natured, humane, merciful, grateful, friendly, generous, and beneficent are universally applauded and “exalted to heavenly heights.” They assist in maintaining a good government and educating people: Exalted capacity, undaunted courage, prosperous success; these may only expose a hero or politician to the envy and ill-will of the public: but as soon as the praises are added of humane and beneficent; when instances are displayed of lenity, tenderness or friendship; envy itself is silent, or joins the general voice of approbation and applause. (Hume 1826c, 2:1)

Qualities of the heart are superior and essential to life in society (Hume 1826c, Appendix 4). Ordinary men should cultivate these softer virtues and ensure that courage and ambition do not “degenerate into a turbulent ferocity.” Qualities of the head are suspect in this regard: they encourage sentiments of excessive pride and self-conceit. But they can also be the source of great joy. Despite his criticism of philosophical rationalism and the Stoic preaching of indifference to pleasure and pain, Hume has the utmost admiration for “courage of the mind.” By this, he means the “undisturbed philosophical tranquility” of a wise man—the one who elevates himself above pain, sorrow, anxiety, and misfortune and resists the lure of honour, fame, wealth, and frivolous pleasures. A man’s greatness of mind is an expression of magnanimity, a sublime passion that provides the safest path to human fulfilment and joy (Hume 1826c, 2:7). Virtues are of many kinds. While everyone admires a man resembling Cato, love is the blessing of the man who follows the example of Caesar. One is proud and ambitious to the point of inspiring fear. The other is amicable, like a good friend. Similarly, “good sense and genius beget esteem and regard: wit and humour excite love and affection” (Hume 1826c, Appendix 4). Hume’s position is that we should acknowledge and

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mix all virtues instead of focusing on one aspect or narrow definition of virtue. Sentiments of admiration and self-esteem nonetheless remain central to his reasoning. But if Hume were to seek people’s admiration above all, he would display his genius and sense of daring. Social virtues on their own do not impress people. Nor are they sufficient to achieve a strong sense of self-worth. Good-natured people who behave like cowards and imbeciles never pass as models of virtue. Hume’s discussion of courage touches on another passion inscribed in human nature, namely the “love of dominion,” a principle that has a direct bearing on the utility of courage in its age-old battle against tyranny. According to Hume, evidence shows that non-tyrannical governments have been more effective in maintaining social order and fostering courage among citizens. By contrast, servitude renders people indifferent to whatever happens to their sovereigns (Hume 1826a, p.  23). Paradoxically, governments that value freedom are founded on men’s natural desire to gain ascendency over those who hold power over them. Man’s yearning for freedom and power drives him to take risks and face many hardships, such as those required to remove tyrants, promote justice, and establish the rule of law. Hume’s discussion of tribal chieftainship drives the argument home. The “love of dominion” among savages causes a chief to display superior courage and genius during times of war, in circumstances “where unanimity and concert are most requisite, and where the pernicious effects of disorder are most sensibly felt” (Hume 1826a, p. 40). During times of peace, the chief commands respect for his bravery, force, and integrity. A chief who cherishes equity and prudence can also act as a peacemaker and consolidate his authority via the use of both force and the rule of consent. As society advances, effective leaders build the rule of law by entrusting officers of justice and troops to assist in securing their authority and maintaining social order. Power is no longer limited to a single king or minister who may lack ambition, capacity, courage, or good fortune. Authority is wisely distributed among several assemblies or senates. The habit of civic obedience and “duty to the magistrate” soon follows and “consolidates what other principles of human nature had imperfectly founded” (Hume 1826a, p. 39). Historically, courage has been the key to

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beating the enemy and establishing freedom, wisdom, and justice for the good of everyone. All in all, Hume stresses the many pleasures and benefits that individuals and society gain from displays of patriotic courage, self-confidence, and the “love of dominion” in the service of freedom and justice. The advantages range from sheer excitement to praise, self-esteem, and protection of the public interest against the forces of tyranny. Demonstrations of courage shine even brighter when combined with sentiments of humanity and generosity.

Self-love and Social Love: Adam Ferguson In Characteristics of Men, Manners, Opinions, Time, Lord Shaftesbury (1671–1713) makes a similar argument: moral life hinges on achieving balance between all the passions that are properly human. This includes meshing fear with anger. A healthy blending of the two passions sheds more light on courage than Descartes’ idea of animal spirits that cause legs to run, teeth to chatter, and knees to knock together (Shaftesbury 1999, III 3:3.1). In the animal kingdom, fear and flight may be more conducive to the preservation of self and species than courage and strength. A deer does well to flee when the enemy approaches. Timorousness is beneficial to this creature and its species, whereas boldness is harmful and therefore a vice. Humans are different in that excessive fear and cowardice make them vulnerable to danger (Shaftesbury 1999, II 2:2.1–2). Some degree of fearless daring and anger allows them to fight off the enemy. Anger serves the individual’s best interests and contributes to the good of the species. Still, a good mix of self-interest and sociability is a better expression of human nature. For Shaftesbury, deliberate selfishness is a guiding principle but not an excuse for fits of anger, hatred, or the fury that comes naturally to women. True courage is cool and calm, and the bravest man is the one who “loved and served himself the rightest, and after the truest manner” (Shaftesbury 1999, I 2:3.3). The preservation of mere life is not his sole concern, and the man prefers death to a base action that would condemn him to a miserable existence deprived of

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natural affection, friendship, and sociability. In truth, man’s ability to combine “self-affection” with “social love” is key to his struggle for liberty. Adam Ferguson (1723–1816) has more to say on the subject and a greater appreciation of what social sentiments may bring in terms of satisfying human needs. His views on courage resemble those of Hume, at least with respect to the role of deeply felt passions and social dispositions. He is less willing, however, to abandon traditional thinking regarding the ideals of virtue. Despite their limitations, they are critical in moulding the course of history and civic society. In An Essay on the History of Civil Society (1768), the Scottish “common sense” philosopher acknowledges the power of self-interest based on the law of self-­ preservation. Yet his goal is to reconcile self-serving utility with two seemingly inseparable things: the law of society, founded on feelings of benevolence and mutual sympathy, and the pursuit of excellence and perfection, founded on the practice of virtue. Calculations of self-interest and the rational pursuit of personal safety and happiness are an integral part of man’s moral fabric (Ferguson 1768, 1:2). On his own, man is nonetheless weak and unable to develop his faculties. Life in society is essential to his self-preservation and engagement in commerce and livelihood activities. It also inspires him to act rationally and seek distinction with self-confidence and valour. Under this perspective, the virtue of courage is a gift of society to man, a noble expression of his membership in the human species. Society has much to gain in return. Nations that aspire to power and safety must inculcate courage and virtue in their people. “By the use of such means, they at once gain their external ends, and are happy” (Ferguson 1768, 1:9). But the benefits of courage extend beyond considerations of personal interests, safety, and livelihood. Bonds of friendship, public affection, and patriotic loyalty are also at stake. They grow over time through the sharing of life’s many joys and sorrows that put fortitude to the test. “Mutual discoveries of generosity, joint trials of fortitude redouble the ardours of friendship, and kindle a flame in the human breast” (Ferguson 1768, 1:3). Self-interest, social sentiments, and virtues come together in the fabric of courage. Life in society brings advantages, creates “tender affections,” and raises expectations of bravery and moral excellence. But man’s

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happiest emotions and affection for his loved ones and his country have a darker side, which lies in the animosity he feels towards the common enemy. Thus, man’s nature combines feelings of generosity and self-denial with feelings of hostility towards fellow men (Ferguson 1768, 1:4). In the best of mankind, “there is an alloy of evil; in the worst, a mixture of good” (Ferguson 1768, 3:6). The complex interweaving of human kindness and enmity is instinctive and universal. All people experience courage, generosity, fear, and envy. Stories of ambitious men who achieve eminence through bravery are proof of this. They can reach their full potential in all circumstances, regardless of their level of education, personal wealth, or the type of government they live under, whether republican, monarchical, or despotic (Ferguson 1768, 1:8, 10; 6.3). According to Ferguson, the values of friendship and concern for the general good create intense feelings that lie at the root of courage. They enable the brave to overcome their fear of danger and suffering. But animosity and feelings of danger also bring pleasure. “Vehement passions of animosity or attachment are the first exertions of vigour in his breast; under their influence every consideration, but that of his object, is forgotten” (Ferguson 1768, 1:3). Even when the situation seems perilous, men can find excitement in facing difficulties and taking risks. While they do not prefer pain over pleasure, courageous souls are restless and eager to struggle against adversity and prevail. Like young men, they may lack prudence, primarily because they become bored with a lack of challenge and prefer danger to the rewards of courage. Man resembles the dogs and horses he domesticates: he is happy when he overcomes hardships and demonstrates the “most respectable attributes of his nature, magnanimity, fortitude, and wisdom” (Ferguson 1768, 1:7). Sentiments of attachment and hostility are deeply rooted in human nature. Man also takes pleasure and pride in deploying his mental abilities, eloquence, courage, and physical strength against his opponent, whether in sports or in combat. He thrives on facing opposition and danger. From this come the practice of war, rivalries between countries, and the double-edged rule of generosity and violence in social history: To overawe, or intimidate, or, when we cannot persuade with reason, to resist with fortitude, are the occupations which give its most animating

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exercise, and its greatest triumphs, to a vigorous mind; and he who has never struggled with his fellow creatures, is a stranger to half the sentiments of mankind. The quarrels of individuals, indeed, are frequently the operations of unhappy and detestable passions, malice, hatred, and rage. If such passions alone possess the breast, the scene of dissention becomes an object of horror; but a common opposition maintained by numbers, is always allayed by passions of another sort. Sentiments of affection and friendship mix with animosity; the active and strenuous become the guardians of their society; and violence itself is, in their case, an exertion of generosity, as well as of courage. (Ferguson 1768, 1:4)

Men who brave danger for the sake of their country are crowned with the highest rewards, including the esteem of others. They deserve special praise for embracing the highest virtue. They become the subjects of poems and legends about “the characters of the violent and the brave, the generous and the intrepid, great dangers, trials of fortitude and fidelity” (Ferguson 1768, 3.8; see 4:4). Some admirers are so impressed by their bravery that they will inflict pain on themselves and make a show of it in the hope of gaining the same level of esteem and winning the hearts of women (Ferguson 1768, 1:7). The twin pillars of kindness and enmity have been the cornerstones of social life since the dawn of history. Ferguson adds that when it comes to questions of honour and courage, the people of ancient times and the rude and uncorrupted nations of America compare favourably with the people of modern Europe. They preserve their liberty by wielding the sword rather than the state’s rule of law and justice (Ferguson 1768, 6:5). They have “a penetration, a force of imagination and elocution, an ardour of mind, an affection and courage”—attributes that are comparable, if not superior, to the qualities observed among the Europeans (Ferguson 1768, 2:1). They form bonds of mutual attachment, loyalty, and courage through the practice of war or internal feuding, led by chieftains renowned for their magnanimity and valour (Ferguson 1768, 2:3). The way they fight and seek honour is nonetheless different. Instead of facing the enemy as equals on the battlefield, they prefer to ambush and slaughter as many as possible. Also, they take pride in dying in combat. They aspire to

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the honour of dying like true men and displaying their courage while being tortured and mutilated by the enemy. Like all people, savage nations are vulnerable to moral decline and corruption (Ferguson 1768, 6:1). Human qualities can be preserved and enhanced by curtailing the abuse of passion and the spread of brutality and violence (Ferguson 1768, 2:1–2). But the progress of mankind is rather poor in this regard. Men continue to acquire wealth and resolve quarrels using force and feats of courage, as among the ancient Gauls. To this day, men “are still averse to labour, addicted to war, admirers of fortitude, and in the language of Tacitus, more lavish of their blood than of their sweat” (Ferguson 1768, 2:3). They are fond of ornaments, engage in dangerous sports, and play games of chance while slaves and women carry out the menial work. Childish superstitions fueled by anxiety, ignorance, and mystery continue to override the bold exercise of reason in public matters and wartime decisions. Ferguson’s warnings about the moral decay that threatens all nations dampen the pleasures and rewards of naked courage. They echo views dating back to Greek antiquity, advocating courage and virtues practised for their own sake. While making important concessions to self-interest and related principles of loyalty and enmity, the Scottish philosopher and historian finds a way to promote the more conventional spirit of self-­ denial, services rendered to fellow humans, and the unity of virtue in both private and public life. “He who is qualified to promote the welfare of mankind, is neither a sot, a fool, nor a coward.” “Can it be more clearly expressed, that temperance, prudence, and fortitude, are necessary to the character we love and admire?” (Ferguson 1768, 1:6). Superior men, like the legendary Cato, serve as models of fortitude and disinterestedness, battling against the enemies of mankind. They rise above their animal condition and the rule of self-interest pursued at the expense of their species (Ferguson 1768, 3:2; 6:1). They show real courage and elevation of the mind by resisting the temptations of their senses and focusing on the good of humanity or the society to which they belong: Men of real fortitude, integrity, and ability, are well placed in every scene; they reap, in every condition, the principal enjoyments of their nature; they are the happy instruments of Providence employed for the good of mankind. (Ferguson 1768, 6:6)

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Man’s ultimate happiness does not revolve around his safety, shelter, food, and whatever he needs to enjoy life and ensure his self-preservation. Nor does it lie in titles, frivolous occupations, or possessions that money alone can procure (Ferguson 1768, 6:3–4). It lies rather in his “public affection,” which he pursues at the expense of all personal considerations (Ferguson 1768, 1:10). This “disinterested love of the public” makes his social dispositions the ruling spring of his occupations; to state himself as the member of a community, for whose general good his heart may glow with an ardent zeal, to the suppression of those personal cares which are the foundation of painful anxieties, fear, jealousy, and envy. (Ferguson 1768, 1:8)

The strength of a nation and its institutions cannot rest on the accumulation of wealth. Virtue alone is apt to “fortify the mind, inspire courage, and promote national felicity” (Ferguson 1768, 4:4). It protects nations from ruin and decadence that result from the enjoyment of mere fortune, disengagement from public life, and indifference to the good of mankind. Courage and intelligence can be used for personal gain, but they are still admirable and worthy of praise if they are used for a good cause (Ferguson 1768, 6:4). Good examples of virtue can be found in some popular traditions. The hero of modern romance and chivalry deserves special mention here. Much to his credit, he seeks honour and the esteem of others above all. He rescues the distressed, protects the innocent, does not act out of revenge, respects his enemy, and shows veneration for the female sex. He rises “above nature as much in his generosity and gentleness, as in his military prowess and valour” (Ferguson 1768, 4:4). By mixing religion and war, he develops a character that is both ferocious and holy. For Ferguson, the preservation of oneself and others is not the be-all and end-all of the human condition. True happiness can withstand misfortune and even death. Real joy lies in knowing that one has acted “the part of a man,” regardless of the outcome (Ferguson 1768, 1:7). Therefore, the greatest good that men can offer consists in sharing their fortitude and generosity with their fellow creatures, knowing that fortitude combined with other virtues is its own reward (Ferguson 1768, 1:8). The perfection of man’s nature is a courageous, intelligent, disinterested, and

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affectionate mind (Ferguson 1768, 6:1). The Spartans are a source of inspiration in this regard. Their institutions “gave a lesson of obedience, of fortitude, and of zeal for the public.” They experienced “the happiness of a mind courageous, disinterested, and devoted to its best affections; and they studied to preserve this character in themselves” (Ferguson 1768, 3:5). As in the Stoic tradition, virtue expresses a level of human perfection or excellence that is inherently admirable and the source of enthusiasm, satisfaction, and great joy (Ferguson 1768, 1:6). Not all “moral sentiment” theorists view courage as a happy blend of self-affection and social love guided by the wisdom of virtue. Some express strong reservations about the qualities of human friendship and sociability. Others find ways to reintroduce signs of divine Providence into the moral order. The next chapter speaks to these more conservative interpretations of moral passions that fuel martial courage and Christian fortitude in carrying out God’s will.

References Ferguson, Adam. 1768. An Essay on the History of Civil Society. London: Millar and Cadell. Helvétius, Claude-Adrien. 1818. De l’Esprit. In Œuvres Complètes d’Helvétius, Tome Premier. Paris: Lepetit. Hume, David. 1826a. Essays. In The Philosophical Works of David Hume, in Four Volumes, Vol. III. Edinburgh: Black and Tait. ———. 1826b. An Inquiry Concerning Human Understanding. In The Philosophical Works of David Hume, in Four Volumes, Vol. IV. Edinburgh: Black and Tait. ———. 1826c. An Inquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals. In The Philosophical Works of David Hume, in Four Volumes, Vol. IV. Edinburgh: Black and Tait. ———. 1854. Treatise of Human Nature. In The Philosophical Works of David Hume, in Four Volumes, Vol. I. Edinburgh: Black and Tait. Shaftesbury, Anthony Ashley Cooper. 1999. Characteristics of Men, Manners, Opinions, Times. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

6 The Natural and Rational Duty to God and Country

Descartes’ emphasis on the workings of physis is a radical departure from classical and mediaeval conceptions of courage centred on the exercise of reason or the fear and love of God. The same is true of the politics of moral egoism that Machiavelli, Hobbes, La Boétie, and others advocate: they introduce fresh perspectives and debates about the ethics of courage. Yet their down-to-earth approaches to moral philosophy do not go unchallenged. Some philosophers seek to reconcile the inclinations of human nature with the ideals of reasoned justice and natural rights, as conceived by Grotius and Pudendorf. Others maintain the role of Christian morals and virtues in containing the passions of men and countries at war. Arguments along these lines run through the writings of Pomponazzi, Bacon, Cumberland, Gordon, and Trenchard. Another line of thought transpires in the writings of Helvétius and Hume. In their view, moral principles matter, but no one can use them to elevate reason or God above the passions that lurk in the realms of physis and polis. More to the point, moral sentiments are affections and passions in their own right. They inspire men to live their lives to the fullest, act with courage, and receive praise and other rewards for it. As discussed in the previous chapter, the ideas of pleasure, utility, and sociability come together to form a vision of courage that is grounded in the real world. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_6

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While advancing similar ideas, Adam Ferguson refuses to let go of the distinction between natural passions and virtues designed to keep them in check. This is also true of many other eighteenth-century philosophers, including Thomas Reid, Francis Hutcheson, and Henry Home. As this chapter shows, they too see courage as both a passion and a virtue worthy of the highest esteem, so long as it involves rational thought prevailing over adversity and inordinate passions for wealth, pleasure, and power. However, their reasoning is now founded on Christian principles: brave men must fulfil their duty and serve both God and their country in times of war. Raising the bar even higher, Edmund Burke elevates the sublime rewards of martial fortitude, justice, and wisdom, all driven by faith, above the ethos of human gentleness and compassion. George Turnbull aims rather for a good balance between masculine and feminine dispositions, in the name of God. Similarly, Baruch Spinoza and David Fordyce recommend a healthy mix of animositas and generositas, with a touch of humility before God, who grants fortitude to whomever he wishes.

 artial Courage and Christian Virtue: Francis M Hutcheson and Henry Home For the Scottish philosopher Thomas Reid (1710–1796), fortitude is an integral part of human nature. It develops through exposure to danger and gives rise to brave actions in a wide range of settings (Reid 1813, II p. 393; III p. 312; IV p. 129). In barbarous tribes and animal species, strength and courage are at the root of rank and power. However, pursuits other than survival compel humans and civilised people to develop a higher form of courage. Motivations range from places in government to titles, fortune, and reputation. Fortitude is the product of a civilised life built on standards of loyalty and trust, as opposed to the solitude of man living in the state of nature (Reid 1813, III p. 152; IV pp. 109, 393). Since the “desire of esteem” is fundamental and universally sought, there is no quality more esteemed than courage or more despised than cowardice, which is worse than death. “How many have died to avoid being

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thought cowards! How many, for the same reason, have done what made them unhappy to the end of their lives!” (Reid 1813, IV pp. 76–77, see p. 101). As in Stoic philosophy, Reid nonetheless expresses a preference for courage that serves the rule of wisdom, the love of truth, and the rational mind triumphing over pain and misfortune in the service of both country and God (Reid 1813, II p. 198; III pp. 202–203, 334; IV pp. 24, 160, 163). This involves doing what is right and fulfilling our duty to ourselves and our neighbour, as the Lord commands (Reid 1813, IV pp. 311, 315, 324, 347, 429). Obstacles to achieving this strength of mind and moral duty are legion. They include party zeal, the desire for victory, vanity, the love of money, laziness, and yielding to animal instincts such as the fear of death (Reid 1813, III p. 235; IV pp. 15, 161, 260). Francis Hutcheson (1694–1746), a Scots-Irish philosopher and preacher, expresses similar ideas on how the wisdom of virtue can enhance the passion of courage. In An Essay on the Nature and Conduct of the Passions and Affections (1742), he sees courage as one of many virtues that men must possess and display in order to serve the public good and be commended for it. However, the difficulty with men’s fortitude, desire for virtue, and commitment to the public good is that foolish and immoderate passions can corrupt them. Morality can go mad in a variety of ways, such as when people claim that stolen objects are theirs because they won them through conquest or bravery (Hutcheson 2002, p. 122). They assume that might makes right and that courage without justice can be moral. Virtues can also stray from their purpose through zeal for a religious doctrine or a political party. They may conflict with avarice or an excess of manly courage and gallantry towards women at the expense of noble dispositions such as “humility, compassion, industry, hardiness of temper and courage, the offspring of the sober rigid Dame Poverty” (Hutcheson 2002, pp. 92–93). Courage is noble when it keeps company with other moral qualities. On its own, it is an orphan of virtue. To escape the madness of “phantom virtues,” men must tailor their desires for private or public good (Hutcheson 2002, p. 57). They must find moral pleasure in true fortitude, as the Stoics understood it. That is, they must submit to the “order of the whole,” liberate moral ideas from “objects of the senses,” and bear all the pains and sufferings that follow.

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Men win the respect and approval of all righteous men, God, and their own hearts as they persevere in serving the common good with firmness (Hutcheson 2002, p. 83). Failure to do so will likely result in remorse, shame, and fear of future punishments. Morality is serving the common good and deserving praise for it. On the matter of praise, Hutcheson warns against confusing the desire for men’s approval with the folly of “tender sympathy.” Virtuous men do not take pity on those who are in distress, not even those they love. If they do, the latter may take advantage of the signs of affection they receive and pretend to be unhappy as a ploy to gain other men’s sympathy and protection. The pleasure of sympathy is part of our social nature, yet it is the fore-runner of the greatest corruption of mind. It disarms the heart of its natural Integrity; it induces us to throw away our true armour, our natural courage, and cowardly to commit our selves to the vain protection of others, while we neglect our own defence. (Hutcheson 2002, p. 67)

Men’s sensitivity to praise and blame is quite normal. Hutcheson defines the sense of honour as that “which makes the approbation or gratitude of others the necessary occasion of pleasure, and their dislike, condemnation or resentment of injuries done by us the occasion of that uneasy sensation called shame” (Hutcheson 2002, p.  22). The moral sense, implanted by God, differs in that it enables humans to clearly distinguish those actions and passions that are virtues from those that are vices, using the public good as the primary criterion to assess the merit of one’s action. In real life, honour and shame constantly mingle and intertwine with virtue and vice. The guilt or shame that results from a moral offence or a wounded sense of honour represents the most serious pains in life. In the absence of healing, our self-image becomes “an uneasy burden.” A moral wound is particularly hurtful. Life can become utterly miserable when a man discovers that his virtues are vices in disguise. This is what happens when he takes full measure of his cowardice, for instance. He suffers when he becomes aware of his selfishness and unreadiness to risk his life for the sake of his country, friend, or reputation (Hutcheson 2002, pp. 80–81).

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The importance granted to moral virtue and honour based on the approval of others varies from person to person and country to country. Hutcheson is hesitant to declare the superiority of virtue over honour. His discussion of the bravery of dueling is interesting in that regard. Some may oppose this practice for moral reasons but still view it as necessary to defend one’s honour and avoid shame, which men fear more than death. A man shows courage in combat in order to protect himself against “losing all the advantages depending upon the character of courage, and sometimes even some species of virtue and publick good, in restraining an insolent villain” (Hutcheson 2002, p. 76). Hutcheson, on the other hand, considers that true fame comes from bravery in a just war, which bears little relation to acts of cruelty or vengeance, such as torture or private duels inspired by hatred (Hutcheson 2002, p. 73). Henry Home (1696–1782), also known as Lord Kames, is a key figure of the Scottish Enlightenment. He expands on the merits of combative courage and great passion in the service of God and country. The philosopher, who is also an agriculturalist and a lawyer, follows the well-trodden path of virtue, understood as the fulfilment of duty and the battles of reason against the passions aroused by the body (Home 2005, I p. 103). A nation becomes invincible when the reciprocal duties of sovereign and subject are fulfilled, due attention is given to the military branch of government, and honour is pursued above all else, as in ancient Rome (Home 2007, II p.  107). Home’s thinking on fortitude is nonetheless full of nuances, far from the strict duality of mind and body, or virtue and passion. For one thing, courage is a virtue with a physical dimension “chiefly founded on the solids,” not on the quantity of blood flowing through the arteries: When by the vigour and elasticity of the heart and arteries a brisk circulation of blood is produced, a man is in good spirits, lively, and bold; a greater quantity of blood, instead of raising courage to a higher pitch, never fails to produce sluggishness, and depression of mind. (Home 2007, I p. 209; see pp. 27–34)

All passions exercise influence on the mind, shape our beliefs and opinions, and may distort our perceptions of reality. This is the case when

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a man’s courage causes him to underestimate danger (Home 2005, I p. 84). Some passions, however, can lift the mind to great heights, as best portrayed in action and epic poetry. The courage of a soul that perseveres in the face of adversity lends dignity to the mind and the upright body (Home 2005, I pp. 116, 124, 212; 2007, I p. 148). Home adds that fearless courage rates higher, creates a stronger impression, and receives far more esteem than qualities that contribute more to public happiness, such as good nature or even justice (Home 2005, I pp. 174–76). “Tender passions,” usually expressed in the language of sentiment and tragedy, may be more beneficial to society, but they are “little and groveling” (Home 2005, II p. 201). Men’s courage can spread and become contagious through sympathy, an emotion in its own right. While his bravery may frighten the enemy, a virtuous man who shows fortitude and dignity when facing misfortune triggers pleasant emotions in others and encourages his admirer to emulate his behaviour (Home 2005, I pp.  33–34, 135, 143, 174; 2007, I p.  117). Martial music and stories of conquerors and heroes may also serve to muster courage in men. They make men “conscious of a boldness and intrepidity beyond what is usual” (Home 2005, I p. 43; see 2007, I p. 98). Listeners long for an opportunity to demonstrate their prowess through grand and noble actions of their own. Drinking excellent sherry on a regular basis can also enhance a man’s valour. The fortified wine warms up his blood, illuminates his face, and strengthens his heart (Home 2005, I p. 190). The higher passion of courage takes root in the human body and life in the physical world. Passions that compete with it, like the desire for material wealth, pleasure, or power, can nonetheless hinder its development. For instance, riches acquired without effort, as in ancient Egypt or the Peruvian town of Quito, inevitably lead to softness and cowardice. When men put others to work, never go hungry, and rest without being tired, they become weak in mind and body. They lose confidence in their own abilities and become prone to flattering their enemies instead of braving them (Home 2007, I p. 131). Home reproaches the French for falling into this trap and giving in to the slow poison of greed, luxury, sensuality, and effeminacy. They show how “man, by constant prosperity and peace, degenerates into a mean, impotent, and selfish animal.” “An American

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savage, who treasures up the scalps of his enemies as trophies of his prowess, is a being far superior” (Home 2007, II p. 46). In England, moral laxity is becoming the norm. While willow houses are being replaced with oak houses, men of oak-like strength are now made of willow (Home 2007, I p. 197). The Dutch, on the other hand, extended their commercial activities to the point of eradicating patriotism and all dispositions other than the passion for mercantile gains. The Portuguese also suffered a great downfall. Their love of liberty used to be their ruling passion. But this is no longer the case, mostly because of the unbounded power, and immense wealth, having produced a total corruption of manners. If sincere piety, exalted courage, and indefatigable industry, made the original adventurers more than men; indolence, sensuality, and effeminacy, rendered their successors less than women. (Home 2007, II p. 56)

Any empire governed by men who seek wealth, power, and pleasure above all else is on the road to ruin (Home 2007, II p.  44). Military achievements and hard work are preferable. They produce physical strength and enhance a nation’s courage, boldness, and firmness of mind (Home 2007, II p. 58). By way of example, the inhabitants of Mount Etna in Sicily used to engage in constant feuds and wars, which gave rise to “action friendship, courage, heroism, and every social virtue, as well as many selfish vices” (Home 2007, I p. 158). Because they spent so much time protecting their liberty against Austria, the Swiss became a brave people feared and courted by neighbouring princes (Home 2007, II p.  46). While he prefers perpetual peace to deadly feuds and constant war, Home adds that the anarchy of armed conflict tends to rectify itself over time. The same cannot be said for effeminacy brought on by prolonged peace: it tends to last (Home 2007, II p. 49; see also pp. 98–99). A steady state of universal peace and security is not conducive to preserving the virtues that elevate human nature and provide protection against barbaric nations, such as courage, magnanimity, and heroism (Home 2007, II p.  22). As with military activity, the hard work and struggle for survival in rugged lands foster courage. Therefore, differences in land fertility and levels of industry, as between the northern and

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southern regions of Asia, go some way in explaining differences in degrees of fortitude: Some soils, naturally fertile, require little labour: some soils, naturally barren, require much labour. But the advantages of the latter are more than sufficient to counterbalance its barrenness: the inhabitants are sober, industrious, vigorous; and consequently courageous, as far as courage depends on bodily strength. The disadvantages of a fertile soil, on the contrary, are more than sufficient to counterbalance its advantages: the inhabitants are rendered indolent, weak, and cowardly. (Home 2007, I p.  158; see II p. 162)

However, Home rejects the idea that climate has a major influence on sentiments of courage, as Montesquieu would have it (Home 2007, I p.  277). It is misleading to suggest that regions of the world with hot climates are inhabited by people who are timid, cowardly, and effeminate (even if they are wittier) and regions with cold climates by robust people and fierce animals. Too many facts contradict the theory (Home 2007, I pp. 27–35). Contrary to what Sir William Temple claims, the consumption of animal meat or blood is also irrelevant. Using national characters to account for differences in courage is not compelling either, if only because characters can change over time (Home 2007, I p. 45). Nor is familiarity with danger a good explanation, considering that the source of danger might change from one day to the next: a soldier bold as a lion in the field may be faint-hearted at sea (Home 2007, II p. 22). The reasons for being courageous are many and vary greatly. In Scandinavia, hopes of redemption in heaven or marriage with a woman of high rank help men muster their courage in combat. The influence of gender varies as well. Some societies lack strict gender role definitions; for example, women in northern Europe are as courageous as men (Home 2007, I pp. 145–54). In the end, differences in levels of fortitude are hard to explain. They must have a cause, but “it is better to acknowledge our utter ignorance, however mortifying, than to squeeze out conjectures that will not bear examination” (Home 2007, I pp. 150–51). To further complicate the matter, people may be courageous in different ways. For instance, North American savages possess remarkable

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courage of the passive kind. That is, they can withstand torture and torments “not only patiently, but with singular fortitude; deriding their tormentors, and braving their utmost cruelty” (Home 2007, I pp. 27–34). The forefathers of European nations were more likely to use open violence, reflecting their superiority in active courage. Courage takes different forms for different people. As in the writings of Homer, it is unique to each modern-day hero. “Knowledge of an endless variety of character in the human species, acquired from unrestrained society, has enabled the moderns to enrich the theatre with new characters without end” (Home 2007, I p. 94). Home’s preference nonetheless goes to the courage displayed in the Christian crusades. The model ties in with his understanding of courage as a passion that exalts the mind. Knights fought for noble ends, never for revenge or the spoils of war (Home 2007, I p. 235; II pp. 49, 107). Proud warriors who joined the ranks of chivalry devoted their lives to protecting widows and orphans and righting wrongs throughout Europe. They elevated women above men, treating them like goddesses whose chastity had to be defended at all costs (Home 2007, I p. 182). They tempered their courage with mildness, infusing wars with humanity and “the elevated virtues of courage, generosity, and disinterestedness” (Home 2007, II p. 46). Honorable men embraced war as a way of life. This may turn men into beasts of prey, but perpetual peace is worse in that it turns men into beasts of burden. Men need war because it acts as “a school for improving every manly virtue” (Home 2007, II p. 50). In the end, since both ways of life have drawbacks, men must rely on the cycle of war and peace to uphold their morality and the wisdom of “Providence in the government of this world.”

 onservatism and the Sublime Passion C of Duty: Edmund Burke Hardly any other philosopher has written more about the passion of courage serving the rule of law and order than Edmund Burke (1729–1797), the founder of modern conservatism. The Anglo-Irish

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statesman and philosopher is a staunch defender of Christian ethics, manly strength and honour, private property, class hierarchy, and the authority of established institutions. His perspective on the question of courage takes on the corresponding hue, emphasising men’s fulfilment of duty and respect for the laws of God and country and for the rulers of the land. In A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful, written in 1757, Burke draws a basic distinction between two kinds of virtues, or “qualities of the mind.” Virtues that are soft and beautiful produce love and inspire admiration. They include ease of temper, compassion, kindness, and liberality, all of which are useful when it comes to bestowing favours. Virtues such as fortitude, justice, and wisdom, on the other hand, produce terror. They subject men to adversity and sanctions intended to prevent misconduct. While these qualities do not create a friendlier environment, they are more venerable and sublime owing to the fact that they are of greater concern to society and foster a higher sense of dignity. Caring people lack these stronger virtues: Those persons who creep into the hearts of most people, who are chosen as the companions of their softer hours, and their reliefs from care and anxiety, are never persons of shining qualities or strong virtues. It is rather the soft green of the soul on which we rest our eyes, that are fatigued with beholding more glaring objects. (Burke 1839a, p. 146)

The sublime, unlike the beautiful, comes from God, who created and battled Satan. Those who obey the Almighty and fear him have no reason to fear anything, not even the anti-clerical French Revolution and its rule of terror. Holy fear is the true source of courage and the “tribunal of conscience” that atheists like Voltaire and Helvétius purport to erase from the mind (Burke 1839b, pp. 311–12). Given its Christian inspiration, the sublime manifests in the way men deal with suffering and death. It compels them to act according to duty in the service of God and country, even if it puts them in danger of losing everything, including their lives. Reformers of the church in England set an example of piety and heroism by accepting to suffer and die for their beliefs (Burke 1839c, p. 74).

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In keeping with his commitment to Christian morals, Burke condemns fortitude that does not serve a just cause. He sees no virtue in a war where the calculation of profit motivates men to “barter their blood for lucre” and “hazard their safety to gratify their avarice” (Burke 1839d, p. 397). Genuine courage involves wrestling with injustice and defying oppression with patience and mental vigour. The battle calls for perseverance and obedience to existing laws, knowing that justice takes time and that no one can bend the order of Nature and Providence (Burke 1839e, p. 270). While giving lip service to representative forms of government, Burke stresses that the true republican spirit is respectful of ruling monarchies and do what is needed to protect them from foolish crowds and court imbecility. The republican cause is worth fighting for, but it should not “suffer men in high place to bring ruin on their country and on themselves.” “It would reform, not by destroying, but by saving, the great, the rich, and the powerful” (Burke 1839f, p. 245). True courage that serves God, country, and the ruling order hinges on the exercise of reason and the virtue of wisdom. This means that fortitude should not serve as an excuse for stubbornness. Politicians often push the masculine virtues of constancy, gravity, magnanimity, fortitude, fidelity, and firmness beyond the limits of virtue (Burke 1839g, p. 484). All questions of public concern should be addressed calmly and rationally. This is particularly true of war, a murderous divinity that loves courage but commands counsel (Burke 1839h, p. 387). In his discussion of the proposals for peace with the French Revolutionary government, the philosopher sees no reason to fear the French enemy. A steady fortitude founded on a careful and sober appraisal of the actual wartime situation better serves the great mission of making England “the arbitress of Europe, the tutelary angel of the human race” (Burke 1839h, p. 383). He adds that the ruling classes have a duty to lead the way. In times of war, the fortitude required of them consists in using their wealth to furnish the means of war and filling the ranks of military officers. But they must also apply their minds to steering the entire machine to victory. This is very different from the unthinking alacrity of the common soldier or common sailor in the face of danger and death: it is not a passion, it is not an impulse, it is not a

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sentiment; it is a cool, steady, deliberate principle, always present, always equable,—having no connection with anger,—tempering honor with prudence,—incited, invigorated, and sustained by a generous love of fame,— informed, moderated, and directed by an enlarged knowledge of its own great public ends… it is a fortitude which unites with the courage of the field the more exalted and refined courage of the council,—which knows as well to retreat as to advance,—which can conquer as well by delay as by the rapidity of a march or the impetuosity of an attack. (Burke 1839h, p. 520)

Different stations in life and society call for different expressions of fortitude. The courage of those in power is the kind that overcomes extreme hardship and the provocations of the enemy. More importantly, it enables those in power to assume the moral responsibility of deciding when the safety and glory of their country may require the sacrifice of thousands of people. Burke is critical of all expressions of impulsive and uneven courage. He deplores the behaviour of William II of England, surnamed Rufus, a king whose “views were short, his designs few, his genius narrow, and his manners brutal; full of craft, rapacious, without faith, without religion; but circumspect, steady, and courageous for his ends, not for glory” (Burke 1839i, p. 624). The English nonetheless set the standard for ethical courage combined with rational policies. The Italians are a different story. They lack the wisdom needed to understand the complexity of European interests and politics, a shortcoming that comes from the mildness of Italy’s climate, which softens people’s minds (Burke 1839j, p. 455). The wild and romantic courage of the Northern and Western parts of Europe does not inspire admiration either. As for France, King Louis XI and his son Charles VIII are not models to follow. Burke laments the French Revolution and the passing of an era of men of honour and chivalry, giving way to the reign of sophisters, economists, and calculators: Never, never more, shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom! The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise, is gone! It is gone, that

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sensibility of principle, that chastity of honor, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil by losing all its grossness! (Burke 1839c, p. 98)

In An Account of the European Settlements in America, Burke extends his comparative analysis of moral courage to include the ancient Mexicans, painting them in the unflattering light of ethical inferiority. Leaders such as Montezuma demonstrated courage, but they were hypocritical and cruel. Native warriors and their wives shared the same traits; they tortured their enemies with utmost barbarity (Burke 1839j, p. 60). Their savage customs contrast with Christian tradition, which teaches people to be kind to their enemies and appreciate the benefits of commerce and civilised life. Hernán Cortés deserves praise where his barbarous enemies have failed. The hero counted on his good fortune to “give a lustre to his wisdom and courage, and to create that confidence and superiority in him that nothing else can give” (Burke 1839j, p. 84). The first planters of the island of Barbados ought also to be admired for their courage and perseverance; they struggled to clear the forest and cultivate cotton and tobacco in a deserted part of the globe (Burke 1839j, p. 273). Likewise, the native Spaniards are models of determination and patience, a fineness of character that the Creoles lack. The latter are universally weak and effeminate, essentially because of the insignificant lives they lead. “Living as they do in a constant enervating heat, surfeited with wealth, and giving up their whole time to loitering and inactive pleasures, they have nothing bold or manly to fit them for making a figure in active life” (Burke 1839j, p. 166). Burke embraces the modern conservative values of “courage, decision, manliness, and rectitude.” His writings celebrate the dignity and wisdom of statesmen and commanders who carry out their duties “steadily, vigilantly, severely, courageously,” with discipline and the complete trust in their own authority, never to be challenged by their subordinates (Burke 1839k, p. 278). The source of a nation’s prosperity lies in its brave leaders’ commitment to industry and justice for the public good (Burke 1839l, p. 279). Their courageous wisdom is the antithesis of “a false, reptile prudence, the result, not of caution, but of fear” (Burke 1839h, p. 337). Fear

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weakens the mind by exaggerating the power of the enemy and making it difficult to assess and confront future danger. The short-term plans and compromises that follow lead men to dread their own boldness, thus searching for safety and “a refuge from their fears in the fears themselves” (Burke 1839h, p. 337). In short, courage is a natural disposition, mostly military and masculine in character. The passion of courage brings sublime pleasure and precious rewards to those who possess it, notably the praise and admiration of others. It stands well above the passions of greed, lust, and fear. It also ranks higher than love and generosity, which manifest the softer side of the human spirit.

 od, Valour, and Victories of the Mind: George G Turnbull and David Fordyce Scottish Enlightenment figures such as George Turnbull and David Fordyce show less hesitation in combining the love and rewards of society with mainstream conceptions of moral and patriotic courage. They reaffirm the teachings of Christian theology but also those of classical antiquity, using either Cicero or Aristotle as their source of inspiration. Turnbull (1698–1748) wrote extensively on the principles of moral and Christian philosophy and education. In his mind, courage is a manly virtue well illustrated in the “masculine, hardy, martial spirit” of men who are skilled in the arts war and use them to defend their country and public liberty (Turnbull 2005a, p. 207; see 2003, p. 274). Physical training is key to developing military courage and lion-like fearlessness in the face of an enemy (Turnbull 2003, p. 171; 2005a, p. 319). In Observations upon Liberal Education, in All its Branches [1742], he remarks that training the body helps strengthen a soldier’s soul and therefore his courage, tenacity, and manly vigour. It ensures that the mind is fit for action. Because they do not unite mind and body, youths who obtain a liberal education (philosophy, rhetoric, music, and the sciences) and become scholars end up shivering in the face of adversity and peril (Turnbull 2003, pp.  210–11). However, bravery should not be confused with

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violence, anger, hatred, rashness, rudeness, brutality, or rage. Reflecting the misogyny of his time, he adds, “What is done in fury or anger, can never be placed to the account of courage.” “Were it otherwise, womankind might claim to be the stoutest sex: for their hatred and anger have ever been allowed the strongest and most lasting” (Turnbull 2005a, p. 217; see 2003, pp. 33, 45, 60, 170–72, 214). Manly courage at its best is cool, calm, and steady. Developing the habit through various trials should begin in early childhood. The young should learn to overcome their fears and meet life’s challenges, which include pain, disgrace, poverty, and natural afflictions (Turnbull 2003, pp.  171, 173; 2005a, p.  202). Courage matures and reaches its full strength, as it does in the Stoic tradition, primarily in the school of affliction (Turnbull 2005b, p. 48): The frequent repetition of certain exercises, in which dangers are to be foreseen, avoided and warded off, or bravely encountered and surmounted, are the only proper means of forming and improving this useful, this indispensably necessary good temper of mind, by often calling it forth into action, and putting it to trials. (Turnbull 2003, p. 211)

Like any virtue, fortitude must be tested if it is to shine through. This is especially true for a man born to command, who cannot afford to become a slave to fear (Turnbull 2005b, pp. 184–85; 2003, p. 201). But war and public life are not the only testing grounds for courage. The inward struggle of reason against the pleasures and passions of the senses is wider and goes deeper. When a man’s virtue and sense of duty enable him to scorn physical pleasure and pain, his fortitude becomes even more admirable. This is where the rational soul comes into play, by resisting and subduing all emotions of pride and haughtiness and “conquering and subduing anger, revenge, sensual concupiscence, and many other evil passions, which sadly degrade and corrupt the mind” (Turnbull 2005b, p. 47). The well-formed mind shows inward strength and courage by withstanding all temptations and succumbing to neither pleasure nor the most cruel suffering (Turnbull 2005a, p. 110; see pp. 120, 249). Instead of being slaves to lust or fear, minds that are genuinely independent and heroic

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seek inward liberty and become masters of themselves (Turnbull 2005a, p. 129; 2005b, p. 176). The moral mind rules to such an extent that no fancy, no appetite, no passion, is able to hurry us away with it into any pursuit it may paint to us in the most tempting colours, till reason and moral conscience have examined the matter, and pronounced sentence. It consists in self-government or mastership of the mind; and in being so strong, as never to act contrary to reason, or even without a very good reason. (Turnbull 2005b, p. 152)

Sound reasoning governs the life of virtue, calling for the courage to overcome the dread of suffering and combat all forms of vice (Turnbull 2005b, p. 199). Courage, in turn, sustains the exercise of reason. “The courage to govern our pursuits by reason,” using the methods of patient thinking, “fore-thinking and after reflection,” is the defining feature of the human soul, to be improved and perfected in young minds through proper education and discipline (Turnbull 2003, pp.  50, 65). Among other things, rational thinking prevents youths from running to danger out of impulse or ignorance; when the danger is real, the utter lack of fear is evidence of man’s stupidity (Turnbull 2003, pp. 170–72). The courage to confront our inner enemy and act rationally reaps its own rewards. Bold efforts to subdue and master our worst habits and passions are victories of the mind. They have intrinsic value and are most precious, which means that the moral mind needs no external bribe to excite it (Turnbull 2005a, p. 125; 2005b, pp. 68, 170–72, 194). Courage produces pleasure and joy of a superior kind, well beyond the lures of vice. The only way to outperform the pleasure obtained from virtue is to attain higher levels of virtue. Happiness and self-love thus lie in man’s progress towards moral strength and divine fulfilment in every expression of “virtuous fortitude,” guided by the rational mind (Turnbull 2005a, pp. 110, 225; 2005b, p. 176). Those who have fortitude boldly adhere to what is true and right at all times (Turnbull 2003, p. 33). Without it, man cannot fulfil his duty, face danger, or resist the assaults of evil. He cannot come into quiet possession of himself and refrain from letting his base, unmanly, or effeminate part take over (Turnbull 2003, p.  171; 2005b, p. 152).

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However, fortitude cannot exist on its own and must link up with other qualities, starting in early childhood. Other virtues, such as civility and the “polite arts and sciences,” contribute to a balanced temperament, the kind that lies between two extremes: namely, “gentleness that danger will quickly rouse to thought and courage, and foresight and fortitude, that will act with equal mildness, gentleness and firmness” (Turnbull 2003, p.  211; see p.  216). Physical activities that require physical and mental vigour complement “more mollifying arts and studies, which have a natural aptitude to humanize the mind, and preserve it from degenerating into ferocity, as the other to strengthen and invigorate it, against all the too softening passions.” Cultivating benevolence is equally important (Turnbull 2005b, p. 176). Unlike the Spartans, the Athenians knew how to combine feminine and masculine traits. This made them not only brave, bold, and unconquerable but also polite, humane, social, generous, and gentle (Turnbull 2005a, p. 207). Facing moral evils and afflictions of all kinds gives men the opportunity to acquire patience and fortitude. But these struggles incite men to develop their sense of compassion and charity as well. They involve heroic battles to reform mankind from errors and vices and to combat corruption and tyranny, upholding “the noble, public-spirited, generous virtues, which add such lustre and glory to human life” (Turnbull 2005a, p. 202). All in all, expressions of manly courage must meet the requirements of prudence, the love of society, generosity, wisdom, and the sense of beauty that comes from sublime sentiments and good actions. These qualities form an integral part of the greatness of the human mind. Without them, the evils described by Hobbes have free reign (Turnbull 2005a, p. 120). Brave men give in to their ambition and turn into cruel tyrants seeking power above all else, using “false courage” to achieve their goal (Turnbull 2003, p. 149). The rule of virtue encourages men to use power for noble ends, i.e., to do good and spread happiness liberally, preferring the welfare of their fellow creatures to their own selfish pleasures (Turnbull 2005b, p. 152). Much of Turnbull’s thinking on the ethics of virtue and courage is reminiscent of Cicero and the Stoics (Turnbull 2005a, p.  108). The Scottish Enlightenment philosopher, who later became an Anglican clergyman, adds a thick veneer of Christian morality to this ancient train of

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thought, with a focus on principles of human benevolence and the love of God and society. He finds inspiration in Christ, who endured the raillery and persecution of sinners with divine patience and fortitude for the sake of his followers (Turnbull 2005a, p. 217). He condemns the immoderate self-love and cruelty of mercenaries who show no concern for the general good (Turnbull 2003, 76; 2005b, pp. 156–57). In his view, moral goodness lies in what is properly called humanity, which is the habit of loving the Lord and cheerful resignation to his will; and finally, in that fortitude and magnanimity of mind, which enables one to suffer with due resolution and bravery any evil, rather than forego his integrity, and act contrary to his inward sense of right and wrong; and generously to forgive injuries. This is the substance of what the holy scripture recommends to us as our chief study. (Turnbull 2005b, p. 152)

Our humanity resides in our duty to the higher principle of love, namely the love of God and neighbour and the well-being of society, as expressed through acts of benevolence, compassion, mercy, and forgiveness (Turnbull 2005a, p. 120). “Sons of valour” and “persons of exemplary virtue, faith, and piety, of whatever nation they are of, are children of Abraham” (Turnbull 2005b, p. 95). Instead of craving for wealth or some imaginary good, they uphold the authority of reason and the mind, in accordance with their own conscience and the will of God (Turnbull 2003, 65; 2005a, p. 223). Christian courage is a generous ambition that exalts human nature and inspires an energetic resolve to attain perfection of the mind. Men who become images of God on Earth are worthy of dwelling with him forever in the afterlife (Turnbull 2005b, pp. 183, 221). The Scriptures support this view of undaunted courage—rational men’s disposition to moderate their natural appetites, accomplish good works as God commands, and dread nothing but sin and a corrupt life (Turnbull 2005a, p. 108; 2005b, p. 194). Fortitude, patience, persevering in virtue and holiness, magnanimity, and resignation to God’s will are all habits of the noble mind that qualify the soul for happiness in a future state where evil and sorrow will no longer exist (Turnbull 2003, p. 231; 2005b, pp. 47, 223, 263–64).

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Heroic virtue is the faith or persuasion that overcomes the world (Turnbull 2005b, pp. 184–85). It is the source of true happiness, self-enjoyment, divine favour, and the consciousness of merited esteem (Turnbull 2005b, pp. 156–57). David Fordyce (1711–1751) is another Scottish Enlightenment philosopher who became a minister. In The Elements of Moral Philosophy, he concurs that courage is a virtue ingrained in human nature, an inward disposition that plays a key part in people fulfilling their moral duties to society, God, and themselves. God is the origin of fortitude and all other virtues that are implanted in the human mind and serve both individual and public goals, acting against the debasement of human nature (Fordyce 2003, p.  42). However, fortitude stems from what Fordyce calls the “defensive passions,” which are primarily concerned with duties to oneself, the pursuit of personal happiness, and the avoidance of suffering in life (Fordyce 2003, pp.  45–46). Together with patience, humility, and resignation, courage enables us to rise above misfortunes and turn them into blessings (Fordyce 2003, p. 101). More precisely, it is a state of mind that helps us control our fears and stay calm in hard times. As in the Aristotelian tradition, courage as a virtue requires that we avoid two extremes, both of which are unsound and unnatural. One extreme is the excess of fear that leads to cowardice or timidity and undermines a person’s sense of self-preservation. The other is foolhardiness, i.e., running into danger with no measure of fear. In the latter case, an excess of resentment and anger “robs us of that presence of mind which is often the best guard against injury, and inclines us to pursue the aggressor with more severity than self-defence requires” (Fordyce 2003, p. 21). In other places, Fordyce describes courage as choosing the right mixture or just balance of strength and indulgence, or animosity and caution, both of which protect men from tragedies of all kinds (Fordyce 2003, pp. 118–19). Duties to oneself are the primary means of attaining happiness (Fordyce 2003, p. 51). Understanding our own nature helps to enforce them, and they make us beautiful in the sight of God (Fordyce 2003, p. 57). But they do not cover all aspects of moral conduct and courage. Social affections also matter, starting with the smaller circle of family life. Echoing Plato’s conception of the organic and social unity of virtue, Fordyce defends the institution of marriage and its contribution to mingling the

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minds of both sexes. The virtues of manly strength and female tenderness coexist under the same roof, to everyone’s benefit: The strength, firmness, courage, gravity, and dignity, of the man, tally to the softness, delicacy, tenderness of passion, elegance of taste, and decency of conversation, of the woman. The male mind is formed to defend, deliberate, foresee, contrive, and advise. The female one to confide, imagine, apprehend, comply, and execute. Therefore the proper temperament of these different sexes of minds, makes a fine moral union; and the well-­ proportioned opposition of different or contrary qualities, like a due mixture of discords in a composition of music, swells the harmony of society more than if they were all unisons to each other. (Fordyce 2003, p. 66)

Disinterested courage in the service of country and mankind is also admirable (Fordyce 2003, pp. 118–19). Since all passions seek balance in the fabric of the mind, people must not let their love of life override their moral duty to their country (Fordyce 2003, p. 23). In fact, the natural affection they feel for their homeland must take precedence over all selfish concerns, such as the pursuit of power and pleasure, replacing them with expressions of friendship, gratitude, and affection for their loved ones. Men must face danger and bravely sacrifice for others in order to protect their country’s security, honour, and happiness (Fordyce 2003, pp. 80–81).

F ortitudo, Pleasure, and the Universe: Baruch Spinoza Baruch Spinoza (1632–1677) extolled the virtues of rational thinking and fortitude well before Turnbull and Fordyce. Raised in a Portuguese-­ Jewish community in Amsterdam, the Dutch philosopher acknowledges the power of the mind in actively curbing human passions and desires, by which he means “all man’s endeavours, impulses, appetites, and volitions, which vary according to each man’s disposition” (Spinoza 1901, p. 175). The latter are not bad, provided they do not diminish the mind’s capacity to form clear and distinct ideas about what the body feels and yearns for.

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By controlling the body, the intellect guards us from being overly affected by evil emotions. While perfect knowledge of our emotions is difficult to achieve, practical reasoning and ready-made precepts come in handy when we need them. Also, the emotion of pleasure may direct the intellect and every action under its command; whether we seek honour, fortune, or love, we employ the appropriate means to achieve a pleasurable outcome. This must be done in a rational and reasonable manner. The mind should not get obsessed over the object of desire, resulting in despair and anger (Spinoza 1901, p. 260). Virtue, understood as the habit of right living, must follow the rule of reason, not lust. It is the source of true happiness. Everyone should seek it, including those who are ignorant of the Christian doctrine of the immortal mind. Since it brings pleasure in this life, virtue must not feel like a burden imposed by one’s faith or religion. Right living is not a shackle that requires everyone to give up their rights and freedom in order to satisfy their every desire, achieve happiness in heaven, and avoid eternal punishment, as feeble spirits believe. Just as no one in their right mind prefers poisonous food, it is ludicrous to think that humans would wish to live without the use of reason. If anything, virtue is like healthy food that nourishes the good life (Spinoza 1901, p. 277). Spinoza explains that virtues such as temperance, sobriety, and chastity are expressions of the active mind. Avarice, ambition, fear, luxury, drunkenness, and debauchery, on the other hand, point to man’s passive mind and weakness of character (Spinoza 1901, p. 187). The mind then loses the ability to actively seek its true advantage and gain control over pain, desire, pleasure, and their many different combinations. When properly directed, all emotions contribute to a man’s strength of character, understood as fortitudo, which includes courage (animositas) and high-­ mindedness (generositas) (Spinoza 1901, p.  173). The habit of courage demonstrates a man’s presence of mind and effort to overcome pain, danger, or evil. The courageous man is rational in that he seeks his own interest by yielding to neither blind daring nor excessive fear; he retreats from danger in some situations and tries to overcome it in others (Spinoza 1901, p. 238). He does so to preserve himself, which is what he desires and what pleases him the most, as reason dictates. “The first and only foundation of virtue, or the rule of right living is … seeking one’s own

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true interest” (Spinoza 1901, p. 276). The same can be said for temperance and sobriety; they express man’s concern for his own good. If left unchecked, evil, pain, and fear weaken the mind and render it passive and powerless. This may lead to cowardice in the face of some evil or danger that others of equal strength would be capable of handling. A “cowardly fear” can be worsened by confusion and doubt, two emotions that make it difficult to confront danger or choose between two evils (Spinoza 1901, p. 185). A man’s courage in fighting pain, evil, and danger reveals his strength of character or mind. But animositas is not enough. High-mindedness is also essential for keeping the mind active in the pursuit of happiness. Spinoza describes the habit of generositas as a strictly rational inclination to help other men and befriend them, with a view to promoting their good. Someone who possesses high-mindedness strives to do good in all circumstances. He “hates no man, is angry with no man, envies no man, is indignant with no man, despises no man” (Spinoza 1901, p.  241). Well-established precepts of religious inspiration serve this purpose. They encourage every man to replace hatred with love and to wish the same happiness for others that he wishes for himself. Hatred, anger, envy, derision, and pride undermine the power of true knowledge and righteous living. We may, however, control our fear by reflecting on courage. Similarly, by meditating on it and dispelling the weakness of mind, we can fight hatred and keep it from taking over our imagination (Spinoza 1901, pp. 260–61). Expressions of high-mindedness comprise friendliness, courtesy, and mercy (Spinoza 1901, p. 174). They also include men’s readiness to be governed by a state that recognises their civic rights, led by of a sovereign ruler endowed with Moses’ rational mind and wisdom. Free men obey their own system of laws willingly and knowingly, out of duty rather than fear of punishment (Spinoza 1862, p. 75). Their fortitude is such that they will endure all things for the sake of their country, and they will do so with remarkable constancy and valour. Citizen soldiers establish their country’s freedom and glory through their sweat and blood. A prince values their freedom accordingly (Spinoza 1862, p. 227). He also understands that men’s desire to order their lives according to the general good and fight for it coincides with their own struggle for self-preservation.

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This points to a feature “of great importance in retaining the affections of the citizens, and checking all thoughts of desertion, or abandonment of the country: namely, self-interest, the strength and life of all human action” (Spinoza 1862, p. 230). Man keeps emotions from assailing his mind through the power of rational thinking. The faculty of understanding gives him the courage he needs to preserve his own well-being and the high-mindedness required to sustain a spirit of true friendship and citizenship. Animositas combined with generositas distinguish free men from weak-minded souls driven by the fear of danger and pain. But free men who embrace the right way of living are not, for all that, responsible for the virtues they possess. If they have strength of character, it is because of their nature and the gifts they received through the Spirit of God (Spinoza 1862, pp. 19, 22). Human beings are mere clay in the hands of a potter who cannot be held accountable for his creatures’ flaws, particularly their lack of fortitude. It follows that no one can bring a complaint against God for having given him a weak nature, or infirm spirit. A circle might as well complain to God of not being endowed with the properties of a sphere, or a child who is tortured, say, with stone, for not being given a healthy body, as a man of feeble spirit, because God has denied to him fortitude, and the true knowledge and love of the Deity, or because he is endowed with so weak a nature, that he cannot check or moderate his desires. For the nature of each thing is only competent to do that which follows necessarily from its given cause. That every man cannot be brave, and that we can no more command for ourselves a healthy body than a healthy mind, nobody can deny, without giving the lie to experience, as well as to reason. (Spinoza 1901, p. 310)

Weak-minded men envy those who naturally excel in fortitude. They try to emulate them and do things that go against their own nature. They are like men who envy trees for being tall or lions for being courageous. Those who fall into this trap further reduce their powers of activity or virtue through uncontrolled feelings of self-hatred and pain. Contemplating someone else’s virtue is an infirmity of the mind. The strong man thinks and acts differently, with the belief “that all things

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follow from the necessity of the divine nature” (Spinoza 1901, pp. 226–27). He can see whatever appears to be harmful, evil, impious, unjust, or base for what it is: “a disordered, fragmentary, and confused view of the universe.” “Wherefore he strives before all things to conceive things as they really are” (Spinoza 1901, p. 241). Man gathers strength as he guides himself and others “by the free decision of reason” (Spinoza 1901, p. 239). Yet his strength lies in his power to act according to his own nature, which may entail a weak mind unable to hold emotions in check (Spinoza 1901, p. 260). The paradox is glaring: human beings are free to wisely recognise their lack of freedom and wisdom. They can demonstrate courage by fully appreciating things as they really are, including their own lack of wisdom and weakness of mind, which stand as the principal obstacles to acting courageously. The conundrum is so profound that it cannot be resolved. Spinoza’s approach to fortitude is akin to arguing that a circle is a sphere and that one should not complain about it. The Dutch philosopher praises the mind for exercising control over the passions of the body, including fear, which turns into cowardice when left unchecked. However, he too has second thoughts about man’s potential for rational understanding, perfectibility, and freedom to achieve moral excellence. In his mind, man simply has too many faults, and there is little he can do about them. Trying to change his core being would be like expecting a hare to behave like a lion or training a hunting dog to stop running after hares (Spinoza 1901, p. 250). The problem gets worse for those who are poorly gifted in mental and physical strength. They are weak by nature and should be pleased with what God and the universe have given them rather than wishing for more. In the end, the best way to show virtue and fortitude in life lies in the mind actively pursuing pleasure and well-being in the world as it is, by fighting off danger, caring for others in one’s own interest, establishing a wise government, and defending it against its enemies. Happiness is harnessing the power to understand and behave in accordance with one’s natural dispositions and actual advantages in life. Striving to learn and act otherwise is pointless. Most early modern philosophers disagreed on this point. As Turnbull argues, habits and dispositions are malleable; even hounds will stop chasing hares if fed good meat (Turnbull 2003, p. 82). Given a good dose of

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discipline and faith in God, man can develop the courage of a lion combined with the fortitude of the slain Lamb, regardless of his natural leanings (Turnbull 2005a, I p. 319; 2005b, II p. 272).

References Burke, Edmund. 1839a. Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful. In The Works of Edmund Burke, Vol. 1. Boston: Little & Brown. ———. 1839b. A Letter to a Member of the National Assembly, in Answer to Some Objections to His Book on French Affairs (1791). In The Works of Edmund Burke, Vol. 3. Boston: Little & Brown. ———. 1839c. Reflections on the Revolution in France. In The Works of Edmund Burke, Vol. 3. Boston: Little & Brown. ———. 1839d. Thoughts on the Prospect of a Regicide Peace. In The Works of Edmund Burke, Vol. 4. Boston: Little & Brown. ———. 1839e. Speeches on the Impeachment of Warren Hasting. In The Works of Edmund Burke, Vol. 7. Boston: Little & Brown. ———. 1839f. A Letter to William Elliot, 1795. In The Works of Edmund Burke, Vol. 4. Boston: Little & Brown. ———. 1839g. Speech on American Taxation, April 19, 1774. In The Works of Edmund Burke, Vol. 1. Boston: Little & Brown. ———. 1839h. Three Letters Addressed to a Member of the Present Parliament, On the Proposals for Peace with the Regicide Directory of France, 1796. In The Works of Edmund Burke, Vol. 4. Boston: Little & Brown. ———. 1839i. An Abridgement of English History. In The Works of Edmund Burke, Vol. 5. Boston: Little & Brown. ———. 1839j. An Account of the European Settlements in America. In The Works of Edmund Burke, Vol. 9. Boston: Little & Brown. ———. 1839k. Thoughts and Details on Scarcity, and Preface to the Address of M. Brissot to His Constituents, 794. In The Works of Edmund Burke, Vol. 4. Boston: Little & Brown. ———. 1839l. Tracts, Relative to the Laws Against Popery in Ireland. In The Works of Edmund Burke, Vol. 5. Boston: Little & Brown. Fordyce, David. 2003. The Elements of Moral Philosophy. In Three Books with a Brief Account of the Nature, Progress, and Origin of Philosophy, Ed. T. Kennedy. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund.

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Home, Henry. 2005. Elements of Criticism. 2 Vols. Ed. and with an Intro. P. Jones. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund. ———. 2007. Sketches of the History of Man. 3 Vols. Ed. and with an Intro. J.A. Harris. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund. Hutcheson, Francis. 2002. An Essay on the Nature and Conduct of the Passions and Affections [1742]. Ed. A. Garret. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund. Reid, Thomas. 1813–1815. The Works of Thomas Reid. In Four Volumes. Charlestown: S. Etheridge. Spinoza, Benedict de. 1862. Tractatus Theologico-Politicus, Tractatus Politicus. Trans. R.H.M. Elwes. London: Routledge. ———. 1901. Improvement of the Understanding, Ethics and Correspondence. Trans. R.H.M. Elwes. Washington: M.W. Dunne. Turnbull, George. 2003. Observations upon Liberal Education, in All its Branches [1742]. Ed. T. O. Moore. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund. ———. 2005a. The Principles of Moral and Christian Philosophy. Vol. 1: The Principles of Moral Philosophy. Ed. and with an Intro. A. Broadie. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund. ———. 2005b. The Principles of Moral and Christian Philosophy. Vol. 2: Christian Philosophy. Ed. and with an Intro. A. Broadie. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund.

7 Michel de Montaigne and the Vanity of Reason

The previous chapters examined early modern theories that promote the politics of well-being and freedom, using a reasoned and down-to-earth approach to questions of individual and collective safety and prosperity, the workings of the state, and high-order passions rooted in the laws of human physis. They explore fresh ideas on the body and the body politic, with adaptations of the legacy of classical philosophy and Christian morality as appropriate. Some philosophers of this period, however, prefer to keep their distance from the politics of moral goodness and courage. Instead, they apply lessons of fortitude to everyday life situations that involve danger and suffering on the path to happiness in the present world. In their view, the outward focus placed on men’s devotion to country and its many advantages obfuscates all those personal moments that call for inward courage and endurance in the face of adversity and death, away from the public eye and the fields of war. Of course, there is nothing new in this. Self-denial in the Stoic and Christian traditions highlighted internal battles of the soul and mind against fears and temptations of the body and the world. Post-mediaeval intellectuals nonetheless bring something new to the discussion. While they may show less interest in politics, they do not rehash older arguments for the rational and sacrificial foundations of virtue. Instead, they shift the focus to © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_7

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feelings of genuine care for oneself and others, as well as the inner workings and limitations of the human mind. With respect to the wellness of self and others, inward-looking philosophers stress the role of sympathy, gentleness, generosity, compassion, and humanity in demonstrations of courage. Self-serving battles for one’s country and its freedom still matter, notably in the writings of Rousseau, Smith, and even Kant. But fear of the enemy receives limited attention compared with the courage that lies in the sentiments and virtues of social living and self-judgement. This fundamentally alters the role of epistêmê in the moral domain. The change anticipates the rise of humanism and the cultural, subjective, and self-conscious explorations of right and wrong in the modern age. One early version of this novel approach to the ethics of courage involves rejecting the primacy of rational thinking over God’s will, human emotions, and experience-based learning. While Stoicism has much to offer, intellectualism overlooks the fact that humans have imperfect knowledge, mixed motivations, conflicting belief systems, and different constitutions and destinies. Humans also have personal failings and strong emotions that are not easily controlled. In this and the following two chapters, I discuss major contributions to this mode of thinking, starting with Montaigne’s seminal essays written in the sixteenth century.

The Merits of Stoicism Michel de Montaigne (1533–1592), a prominent figure of the French Renaissance, borrows and adapts different ideas on the attributes of courage without oversimplifying the subject to suit one well-established theory or another. This strength, however, is also a weakness. When it comes to discussing moral issues, two streams of thought pass through his essays without ever merging. The first stream is Stoicism, which emphasises attaining excellence in all aspects of life and the noble man’s ability to bear both pleasure and suffering with wisdom, moderation, and resignation. The role of fortitude consists in fighting against pain and “the immoderate and charming blandishments of pleasure… Pain, pleasure, love and hatred are the first things that a child is sensible of: if, when

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reason comes, they apply it to themselves, that is virtue” (Montaigne 1877, 3:13). The second stream is La Boétie’s analysis of servitude in the public sphere, a scathing attack on the futility of rational wisdom and moral perfection in private life. Montaigne’s engagement with Stoicism calls for demonstrations of moral excellence, rare as they may be. Different people possess different virtues, and only a very few can bring all the “fine parts” of the human soul together. His friend La Boétie happens to meet the criteria of a great man in all respects: I know men enough that have several fine parts; one wit, another courage, another address, another conscience, another language: one science, another, another; but a generally great man, and who has all these brave parts together, or any one of them to such a degree of excellence that we should admire him or compare him with those we honour of times past, my fortune never brought me acquainted with; and the greatest I ever knew, I mean for the natural parts of the soul, was Etienne De la Boétie. (Montaigne 1877, 2:17)

The man achieved excellence through learning and study. In addition to uniting all parts of the soul, Montaigne’s beloved friend was a “great sufferer.” He showed exceptional “command over human infirmities” and an unflinching courage in the face of a most painful death (Montaigne 1889, p. 660). The Roman senator Cato the Younger is another source of Stoic wisdom. His courage was so outstanding that he accepted his own death as a natural event and continued with his life and studies as though nothing were happening. He read Plato on the immortality of the soul, hoping to find the best and easiest way to leave this world (Montaigne 1877, 1:44; 2:21, 28). When it comes to showing a life of courage, the man had no one to envy, not even Plato; his knowledge and courage were already above philosophy. Brave souls remain impassive when confronted with death. Montaigne recalls that Roman gladiators never ran away from battle or spoke a single word of weakness or pity (Montaigne 1877, 2:23). They fought and died courageously, even cheerfully, hoping the spectators would admire their performance. They accepted the inevitability of their own deaths and

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wasted little time worrying about when and how they would die, confident that Nature would guide the way in due course. Gladiators remind us that Nature “will do exactly that business for you; take you no care” (Montaigne 1877, 3:12). It is no use clouding our lives with thoughts of death or clinging to life when it is about to expire. If we are to prepare against something, it should be the temptation to prepare for death. While philosophical wisdom invites us to never lose sight of our mortal condition, its main task is to teach us how to live, i.e., firmly and quietly, which is also the best way to die. Great souls face perilous situations with composure and resolve, without changing their normal behaviour. They follow the example of Socrates, who bravely fought the enemy on the battlefield. The man evaluated the danger to himself and to others and did not give in to fear (Montaigne 1877, 3:6). Montaigne values his own readiness to confront danger with open eyes, knowing that a man must have the courage to feel fear but not terror when caught off guard. His response to illness reflects the same disposition. Instead of showing impatience, he lets the illness run its natural course. His view is that “we ought to grant free passage to diseases; I find they stay less with me, who let them alone; and I have lost some, reputed the most tenacious and obstinate, by their own decay, without help and without art, and contrary to its rules” (Montaigne 1877, 3:13). Nature should have her own way, given that she has a better grasp of what life entails and the process of growing old, weak, and ill. She knows how to wean us from the world. In her own gentle way, Nature provides us with many opportunities to “shake the hands of death” and meditate on the good and evil sides of life. Putting up with pain and illness takes as much courage, if not more, than waging war against an enemy: Death is more abject, more languishing and troublesome, in bed than in a fight: fevers and catarrhs as painful and mortal as a musket-shot. Whoever has fortified himself valiantly to bear the accidents of common life need not raise his courage to be a soldier. (Montaigne 1877, 3:13)

To paraphrase Seneca, “to live is to be a soldier.” Faithful to the Stoic tradition, Montaigne views true fortitude as an attribute of the soul or

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mind coping with the sufferings of life and death. He notes that “stoutnesss of heart” differs from “toughness of skin” and “hardnesss of bone.” While the physical life we transmit to our children is precious, the understanding, courage, and abilities that we pass on are nobler aspects of who we are and stand for (Montaigne 1877, 2:8). Both sources of strength, soul and body, are nonetheless mutually compatible and contribute to a child’s education. Montaigne is critical of parents who pamper their children. If they wish to fortify their souls, they must also “make their sinews strong.” This applies particularly well to boys and heirs to an estate: they should learn the lessons of life the hard way, through “the pain and suffering of dislocations, cholics, cauteries, and even imprisonment and the rack itself ” (Montaigne 1877, 1:25). Still, the ability to withstand suffering has limits, which brings us back to the age-old question of suicide. Montaigne’s musings on the matter are reminiscent of debates in classical antiquity about the merits and downsides of self-killing. While Christian beliefs and precepts fade into the background, popular sayings and Cicero’s wisdom support some of his claims. They evoke situations where ending one’s life is amply justified. For instance, killing oneself intentionally may be the only way to escape terrible suffering at the hands of a cruel enemy or an incurable illness; after all, “no man continues ill long but by his own fault” (Montaigne 1877, 1:40). Self-killing is a reasonable exit, says Diogenes Laertius, and may be tragically heroic (Montaigne 1877, 2:3, 11, 27, 29, 32, 35). Nonetheless, it is a last resort. Admittedly, there are times where one should prepare for the worst and find solace in plans to commit suicide. However, we must keep in mind that our fears might never come true (Montaigne 1877, 1:23). Montaigne cites King Cleomenes’ Stoic response to Therykion’s suggestion that he kill himself. The king believed that suicide could be a good way to avoid a humiliating death at the hands of his foe. Still, man should never go down this path while there is still a glimmer of hope. Montaigne concurs: All the inconveniences in the world are not considerable enough that a man should die to evade them; and, besides, there being so many, so s­ udden

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and unexpected changes in human things, it is hard rightly to judge when we are at the end of our hope. (Montaigne 1877, 2:3)

There are times when greater valour lies in living. Cleomenes ended up committing suicide because he had no other choice. Some people may choose to bear pain for the sake of others unless love convinces them otherwise: He that loves not his wife nor his friend so well as to prolong his life for them, but will obstinately die, is too delicate and too effeminate: the soul must impose this upon itself, when the utility of our friends so requires; we must sometimes lend ourselves to our friends, and when we would die for ourselves must break that resolution for them. (Montaigne 1877, 2:35)

Abnormal conditions and humours of the body may incite people to end their lives without good reason. Excessive anxiety causes healthy people to plan their own suicide. Their resolve to end their lives then lacks a rational basis and is not a sign of courage. Real courage involves facing death with open eyes and taking time to deal with it, rather than rushing into it with closed eyes out of fear. Good men cling to life not for as long as they please but for as long as they ought (Montaigne 1877, 2:3, 13, 15). Making some effort to avoid death is always in order. Nevertheless, an extreme fear of death is a sign of cowardice. Montaigne concludes that we should be content with what God gives us and follow the only doctrine that makes sense in the face of pain and sorrow, which is to bear them “so far as our nature permits, or to put an end to them courageously and promptly” (Montaigne 1877, 3.13). Montaigne’s insistence on courage’s inherent goodness echoes a Stoic view of all good habits that should be developed for their own sake. The noble behaviour of cannibals after a victory illustrates the point. They value bravery so highly that it offers its own reward. Since what they have serves their basic needs, cannibals do not worry about acquiring more territories or material possessions. Thus, the only thing they ask of the people they conquer is that they admit defeat, which is the hardest thing to obtain. Instead of surrendering, they would rather be slaughtered and eaten. Likewise, the warlike Hungarians would let their enemy go

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without harm or ransom if they conceded defeat and vowed never to attack again. Magnanimous actions point to people’s nobility of soul, which matters more than being physically stronger or better armed: The estimate and value of a man consist in the heart and in the will: there his true honour lies. Valour is stability, not of legs and arms, but of the courage and the soul; it does not lie in the goodness of our horse or our arms but in our own. (Montaigne 1877, 1:30)

A man who goes to war is brave if his only motivation is to fulfil his conscience and to respond firmly to his sense of duty and dignity. He is valiant for himself. His fortitude comes from within, not from the thought of money or fame: It is not for outward show that the soul is to play its part, but for ourselves within, where no eyes can pierce but our own; there she defends us from the fear of death, of pain, of shame itself: there she arms us against the loss of our children, friends, and fortunes: and when opportunity presents itself, she leads us on to the hazards of war. (Montaigne 1877, 2:16)

Acts of courage must be committed out of a sense of duty, against a dictator, or in a just war. They preclude malice and violence designed to satisfy a craving (Montaigne 1877, 3:1). Nor does bravery hinge on using martial skills, war horses, or weapons of war. The French are admirable horsemen, but it is their courage that commands respect from the horses they ride. Cavalry troopers understand that horses can injure and endanger themselves when they panic (Montaigne 1877, 1:48). The honour associated with the art of fencing is also questionable; a victory that depends on the swordsman’s skill rather than his personal courage has no merit. Sword duels are particularly objectionable. They serve private interests and turn into petty quarrels and skirmishes, as opposed to just wars that serve public ends (Montaigne 1877, 2:27). The finest way to display courage is in its natural state, without artifice or trickery. In this respect, the gold-hungry invaders of Mexico and Cuzco deserve criticism. They were anything but models of courage or perseverance in enduring pain, starvation, and death. If not for their

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cannons, metal armour, shining weapons, and horses that frightened New World nations, they would have lost many battles. In the same vein, courage does not match the profile of greedy men who commit acts of cruelty and betray their own faith as well as the rule of international law. The many thousands of men, women, and children who struggle and suffer in order to defend their gods and liberties are better models in this regard. Unlike their European adversaries, they fight until they die while wearing nearly nothing and armed only with bows and arrows, stones, sticks, and wooden bucklers (Montaigne 1877, 3:6). Overreliance on the art, tools, and techniques of war may weaken courage in its natural form. However, as with suicide, Montaigne’s approach to this issue is not dogmatic. In his praise of La Boétie and elsewhere in his essays, he qualifies his remarks on the art of war, suggesting that fortitude may benefit from other expressions of excellence in life, such as science. Courage can also find support in the exercise of prudence and moderation. In his discussion of Lacedaemonian warriors, he points out that valour lapses into temerity and fury unless it is tempered by prudence. Music can serve a moderating function, by using soft flutes rather than loud battle cries, for instance; courageous souls and minds are more in need of “temperance and composedness than of ardour and agitation” (Montaigne 1877, 3:3). More generally, patience and courage must reign over all human passions. Montaigne confesses that he himself tends to give in to his every wish. His nature nonetheless inclines him to seek moderation in all things, out of self-love. He has no wish to become wealthy or reach high-­ level positions. For him, unlimited power in the pursuit of pleasure is the enemy of pleasure; like excessive want, extreme satiety is the source of pain (Montaigne 1877, 1:54; 3:7). Self-indulgence isolates the all-­ powerful man from everyone else, puts him to sleep, and undermines his strength. The same applies to sexual activity: when performed at the wrong time, i.e., before the age of twenty, it has detrimental consequences. For the ancient Gauls, intercourse with women sapped a man’s courage (Montaigne 1877, 2:8). To keep himself alive, a man should observe abstinence. He should also cultivate a sense of discipline and

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strengthen it through opposition and adversity. Good things can have negative consequences, while bad things, such as suffering, can have positive outcomes. No one wants to suffer, but without the prospect of pain and death, virtues such as courage, force, magnanimity, and resolve would not exist. Virtue feeds on suffering, and courage thrives on danger (Montaigne 1877, 1:40). Happiness does not lie solely in pleasure, laughter, and the avoidance of suffering and sorrow. It also comes from showing constancy and perseverance in the face of hardship, as well as performing good deeds at some personal cost. Courage is more about living in chains than breaking them; fortitude “seeks and requires evils, pains, and grief, as the things by which she is nourished and supported; the menaces of tyrants, racks, and tortures serve only to animate and rouse her” (Montaigne 1877, 1:13). Montaigne adds that he is fortunate to live at a time when the economy is poor and men achieve fame by going bankrupt rather than taking no risks and being idle, as women are. In keeping with the teachings of the Stoa, the French philosopher recognises that suffering and misfortune are integral parts of life and that moderation and practical wisdom help keep evil things and the hazards of life in check. Unlike stupidity, prudence allows men to perceive, weigh, and judge existing circumstances and shield themselves from whatever harm comes their way (Montaigne 1877, 1:54). Reason and honour dictate that men bravely face danger when it is unavoidable. But common sense also requires them to refrain from putting their lives at risk needlessly. Since fear is natural, “all decent and honest ways and means of securing ourselves from harms, are not only permitted, but, moreover, commendable” (Montaigne 1877, 1:12). For instance, soldiers may be wise to retreat from a battle and turn their backs on the enemy when necessary, as the Turks do. Socrates rightly challenged the idea that fortitude means never yielding ground to the enemy. Taking flight and evading danger is part of the art of war designed to achieve victory. Likewise, ducking is the normal response to being shot at. When his life is threatened, a man must trust his judgement and not let his spirit yield to fright and loss of composure. The mind must remain in control even when troubled by fear.

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Irrationality, Chance Events, and Human Emotions A recurring theme in Montaigne’s essays is the stoic use of reason in the face of peril. However, it is not the centrepiece of his contribution to moral philosophy. If anything, his essays stand out for their focus on the limitations of the intellect in explaining and guiding normal life and moral conduct. His arguments against rationalism focus on four main points: the flaws and contradictions of practical reason, the importance of chance events in our lives, emotions that make us act against our better judgement, and the diversity of views that people hold in good conscience. Firstly, putting a lot of faith in our wisdom and potential for perfection is sheer vanity. Seneca’s notion that human beings should aspire to be as virtuous as God and achieve happiness on their own is presumptuous and offensive. The assumption that courage and other virtues come from God and are made in his divine image is flawed from the outset. Only God knows himself, and none of our virtues apply to him. Since evil never touches him, he has no use for the virtue of prudence. Because nothing is obscure to him, he has no need of reason or intelligence to grasp the meaning of things. Nor does he require fortitude to bear pain, work, or risk, all of which are alien to him (Montaigne 1877, 1:12). God is exempt from both vice and virtue. Humans have both and display them unevenly due to their imperfections. Some men may be courageous in sickness but unable to endure the sight of an enemy. Alexander the Great’s unrivalled bravery was marred by his irrational and compulsive fear of being betrayed by his own captains. In a drunken rage, he killed his devoted friend and commander, Cleitus the Black, with his own hand. Montaigne holds no illusions about human nature or models of perfection. The notion that every person can develop good habits and embrace virtue for its own sake is a myth. Most of the time, impure motives contradict reason and should be seen for what they are: All we perform is no other than a cento, as a man may say, of several pieces, and we would acquire honour by a false title. Virtue cannot be followed

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but for herself, and if one sometimes borrows her mask to some other purpose, she presently pulls it away again. (Montaigne 1877, 2:1)

Virtue is tricky and fickle. No one can show courage and for good reasons all the time. Ambition and greed can teach valour, temperance, liberality, and justice. Lust can motivate boys raised under the rod of discipline to act boldly. It can also instil male courage in the hearts of virgins who venture out in the dark to meet with their suitors. The same passion may have harmful or positive consequence, depending on the circumstances and the issue at hand. Contradictory inclinations can also mix to produce astonishing effects. Epaminondas embraced a philosophy of goodness and human compassion (Montaigne 1877, 3:2). But he was also capable of the most violent actions and fearlessness in the face of poverty, pain, and death. “Tis a miracle to be able to mix any image of justice with such violent actions: and it was only possible for such a steadfastness of mind as that of Epaminondas therein to mix sweetness and the facility of the gentlest manners and purest innocence” (Montaigne 1877, 3:1). Montaigne is particularly critical of the reasons, precepts, and rules that people advocate and break far more often than they realise. Rules for moderating pleasures are one example. The Greek courtesan Lais of Hycarra had little grasp of men’s talk about literature, wisdom, and philosophy. Nonetheless, she knew that educated men knocked on her door as frequently as anyone else. Artificial recipes for life typically fail because they do not suit strong stomachs that “serve themselves simply with the prescriptions of their own natural appetite” (Montaigne 1877, 3:9). Appeals to reason and virtue to justify one’s conduct are rarely convincing. One example of this is Cicero’s resolve to resign from public life and isolate himself to write his thoughts and achieve immortality through his works. The contradiction is flagrant: writing to secure glory in this world defeats the idea of retiring from it. Montaigne suggests that embracing solitude, suffering, and death in the hope of enjoying the blessings of life in heaven, as promised by God, is more rational. When we think of it, this

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sole end of another happily immortal life is that which really merits that we should abandon the pleasures and conveniences of this; and he who can really and constantly inflame his soul with the ardour of this vivid faith and hope, erects for himself in solitude a more voluptuous and delicious life than any other sort of existence. (Montaigne 1877, 1:38)

Alternatively, one could follow Cato’s lead and prepare to leave this world by studying philosophy for its own sake. The Sophist philosopher Hippias of Elis did the same and learned to subsist on his own, determined that he should not have to rely on others to provide for his needs (Montaigne 1877, 2:38; 3.9). But again, the strategy has limitations. Philosophy is not a panacea that can resolve all problems. It, too, can be taken too far. Montaigne warns his readers against the temptation of immoderate and futile study, which seeks more knowledge than is required and depends too heavily on the arts and sciences. As Seneca puts it, we should not “carry intemperance into the study of literature,” and the strength of philosophy lies not in agitations of language and the mind: “a great courage speaks more calmly and more securely” (Montaigne 1877, 3:12). Plutarch showed us the way in this regard. He was more manly and persuasive than Seneca, who wrote about death and bodily inclinations with too much passion and sweat. Writing about how hard and important it is to resist temptations of the flesh defeats the purpose; they raise anxiety instead of demonstrating conviction. In his Apology for Raimond Sebond, Montaigne disputes Cicero’s assertion that the best method to discover the infinity of things is through the letters of philosophy. To quote the Roman statesman: ‘tis they that have taught us religion, moderation, and the grandeur of courage, and that have rescued our souls from darkness, to make her see all things, high, low, first, last, and middling; ‘tis they that furnish us wherewith to live happily and well, and conduct us to pass over our lives without displeasure, and without offence. (Montaigne 1877, 2:12)

Montaigne thinks otherwise. The leading passion of philosophical wisdom is not the mother of virtue. Instead, it is a plague, a vision that

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grossly overestimates the powers of reasoning and human understanding. The weight of fortune and chance events in our lives provides a second reason to wonder about the powers of reason. This represents a departure from the Stoic belief that uncontrollable events, whether good or evil, are morally neutral. Prudence exerted for a noble cause, regardless of what fate decides, mays be sensible, but it does not cover all facets of ethical conduct. Some blind trust in others and confidence in one’s own fortune may also be necessary. Montaigne criticises those who advise princes to be cautious, to surround themselves with friends, and to distrust any other show of support or goodwill. “This over-circumspect and wary prudence is a mortal enemy to all high and generous exploits” (Montaigne 1877, 1:23). Instead of fearing others, great souls bravely seek reconciliation with their enemies and are willing to take great risks to achieve their goal. This is what the Roman general Scipio did when he sailed to Africa, freely and without a hostage, “under the sole security of the grandeur of his own courage, his good fortune, and the promise of his high hopes.” Instead of erring on the side of caution, he trusted his enemy to reciprocate with goodwill. The Roman general Sulla had the same mindset. He attributed his military prowess to fortune and gave himself the name Faustus, the Lucky. Montaigne uses his story to express cynicism about the merit and efficacy of rational deliberation and planning in times of war. Military decisions are often rushed, arbitrary, and full of risk: When I closely examine the most glorious exploits of war, I perceive, methinks, that those who carry them on make use of counsel and debate only for custom’s sake, and leave the best part of the enterprise to Fortune, and relying upon her aid, transgress, at every turn, the bounds of military conduct and the rules of war. There happen, sometimes, fortuitous alacrities and strange furies in their deliberations, that for the most part prompt them to follow the worst grounded counsels, and swell their courage beyond the limits of reason. (Montaigne 1877, 1:23)

Masters of the art of war do not command everything. History keeps reminding them of the uncertainty that comes from random events and

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difficulties encountered during military campaigns. However wise and experienced they may be, the human mind is so short-sighted that generals must often take rash decisions based on an omen, guesswork, or sudden inspiration. Even Caesar and Alexander the Great owed their glory and fame to chance events. Fortune dictates the outcome of even the smallest battles, including duels by sword. However brave or skilled the fencer may be, it is a turn of fortune to make our enemy stumble, or to dazzle him with the light of the sun … [He] who, dying, yet darts at his enemy a fierce and disdainful look, is overcome not by us, but by fortune; he is killed, not conquered; the most valiant are sometimes the most unfortunate. There are defeats more triumphant than victories. (Montaigne 1877, 1:30)

Many men also end up facing the hazards of everyday life with blind courage. They may not be among the ranks of generals commanding armies or men about to be executed in their presence. But they can still show bravery with no one to witness their stroke of good or bad fortune (Montaigne 1877, 2:16). In lieu of debating every appropriate course of action, Montaigne suggests that having faith in one’s fortune is the ideal approach for achieving great things (Montaigne 1877, 2:34). Philosophers place too much emphasis on thinking, learning, putting on “grave airs,” and debating subtle questions through an “eternal babble of the tongue.” All of this softens men’s courage instead of fortifying it. It jeopardises the success of all endeavours, including military ones. “Rome was more valiant before it grew so learned” (Montaigne 1877, 1:24; see 3:3). The most warlike nations are usually the most ignorant. The Goths who overran Greece are a good example of this. They believed that libraries rendered men lazy and averse to military training. Thirdly, our emotions and senses are powerful forces that drive us beyond reason. There are situations where our senses make it difficult for our intellect to untangle the true from the false (Montaigne 1877, 2:12). Virtue and wisdom do not control the body. This is true of great courage, which, like extreme fear, can loosen the bowels and make a person shake (Montaigne 1877, 1:54). No amount of philosophical knowledge can

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alleviate a man’s phobia of stepping on a beam put between two towers of Notre Dame. Our emotions are so strong that they may outweigh our ability to think rationally and act accordingly. On this matter, Montaigne mentions how easy it is for leaders to dupe their followers. To muster their courage, they incite weak minds to give in to passion and adopt foolish opinions (Montaigne 1877, 3:10). But on some occasions, and for no one’s fault, emotions are just normal and uncontrollable. Too many deaths and misfortunes, for example, can overwhelm a man’s spirit with grief and undermine his courage and ability to persist (Montaigne 1877, 1:2). While some advise that we tightly regulate our emotions, Montaigne suggests that we not try to repress feelings that may be impossible to control. Rather, we should “permit the ordinary ways of expressing grief by sighs, sobs, palpitations, and turning pale,” provided that “the courage be undaunted, and the tones not expressive of despair” (Montaigne 1877, 2:37). Wise thoughts can influence our emotions, but a soul seeking to know itself should express what it feels and not strive to suppress all sentiments of being stirred or “heated.” Guidance from the intellect is often an exercise in wishful thinking. For instance, wisdom recommends that we remember pleasant things above all, if only to alleviate our current pain and sorrow. But, once again, the control we exert over our thoughts and feelings is very limited. Moreover, the art of forgetting is beyond our reach and defeats its purpose: remembering to forget past or present misfortunes is by far the best way to remember them. Even worse, the precept is an invitation to cowardice: How does philosophy, that should arm me to contend with fortune, and steel my courage to trample all human adversities under foot, arrive to this degree of cowardice to make me hide my head at this rate, and save myself by these pitiful and ridiculous shifts? For the memory represents to us not what we choose, but what she pleases; nay, there is nothing that so much imprints any thing in our memory as a desire to forget it. (Montaigne 1877, 2:12)

Despise what philosophers may say, fear, desire, and hope all naturally incline us to worry about what life has in store for us. The danger is that

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“we are never present with, but always beyond ourselves” (Montaigne 1877, 1:3). This “folly of gaping after future things” is the source of illusion and deception. An example of this is the power that subjects bestow on their king even after his death. Instead of reflecting on his flaws, people turn his remains into relics that bring good fortune and strengthen the soul, at the expense of public justice and the study of history. Our senses and our passions can deceive us. But they can also be a positive force, even when they are at odds with the wisdom of philosophy. This brings us to the contribution that emotions can make to expressions of courage, at the expense of reason, prudence, and moderation. Instead of resisting them, humans may sometimes rely on intense emotions to invigorate their souls. Epicurus used to play with the pain he suffered due to a stone blockage in his urinary tract, hoping to put his own worth and courage to the test. For him, battling a severe illness was as glorious as fighting in a real war. Rejoicing in the virtue of suffering may appear insane, but why should reason rule over everything? Montaigne quotes Aristotle as saying that “no excellent soul is exempt from a mixture of madness; and he has reason to call all transports, how commendable soever, that surpass our own judgment and understanding, madness” (Montaigne 1877, 2:2). Likewise, Plato portrayed the ability to prophesy as being “out of ourselves.” By letting prudence go to sleep or fall ill, we allow the soul to “be lifted from her place by some celestial rapture.” Caesar and Alexander were lovers of extreme pleasures, which helped sharpen their minds in normal times. The pleasures they sought and found were just as impressive as what they accomplished intellectually and militarily (Montaigne 1877, 2:7, 12). Cheerfulness is another emotion that should be carried to the extreme, especially when it comes to educating children. It soothes troubled souls and teaches those suffering from famine and fever to laugh and sing. Contrary to what the schoolmen claim, people who have the wisdom and courage of virtue are not standing on a rocky, insurmountable cliff. Rather, they are descending from heaven on their way to a rich plain that bears abundant fruit. Instead of concern, grief, dread, and restraint, the journey is filled with immense beauty, pleasure, and good fortune. It takes a weak imagination to create “this ridiculous, this sorrowful, querulous, despiteful, threatening, terrible image” of moral goodness. Too

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many philosophers have put virtue “upon a rock apart, amongst thorns and brambles, and made of it a hobgoblin to affright people” (Montaigne 1877, 1:25). Discovering what is good in life is the source of great joy. Education founded on this principle calls for a strong imagination, not strict discipline. Montaigne laments the fact that Italian fathers dress up “their daughters’ looks in bashfulness and fear,” in contrast to French women, who are taught to develop self-confidence. While he advocates feminine modesty and discretion, the essayist praises ladies who give their maids some liberty by leaving “a great deal of their conduct to their own discretion … no discipline can curb them throughout” (Montaigne 1877, 3:5). A maid gains self-confidence when she attends the school of liberty. Another powerful emotion is the compassion we feel for people who offend us, seek our forgiveness, and act boldly. Montaigne recognises in himself “a marvellous propensity to mercy and mildness, and to such a degree that I fancy of the two I should sooner surrender my anger to compassion than to esteem” (Montaigne 1877, 1:1). He is aware that Stoics regard pity as a vice. That is, man should not let himself be overly affected by anyone’s suffering, especially his own; allowing compassion to tame one’s heart is an easy solution and a sign of effeminacy and overtenderness. The French Renaissance philosopher holds a different view. He has nothing but admiration for Cato, who let entire armies go free after defeating them; the Roman senator showed confidence and a “grandeur of courage” (Montaigne 1877, 2:33). He praises the compassion that conquerors feel when they see ordinary people who show, in the face of terrible suffering, “a strong and inflexible soul enamoured of and honouring masculine and obstinate courage.” In his mind, killing without pity is an act of mistrust and fear, not bravery and courage (Montaigne 1877, 2:27). Montaigne is an advocate of non-martial courage, the kind that dispenses with weapons of steel. He dips his pen in ink, not in blood (Montaigne 1877, 3:2). He recoils at the idea that a man should follow orders and carry out any crime, including murdering his friend or father, in the name of his prince or what passes for justice and the common good.

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 he Courage of Conscience T and Self-awareness Montaigne takes an ambivalent approach to Stoicism. Many of his comments on suffering and the intrinsic merit of courage echo the teachings of the Stoa. He has nonetheless serious reservations about people’s capacity to strengthen their souls and moderate their passions through rational thinking and the wisdom of virtue. The courage they like to exhibit hides internal contradictions and is tainted with greed, ambition, lust, or pride (Montaigne 1877, 2:45). No matter how wise and brave he may be, man often acts on emotions he cannot control. Unbearable pain “overthrows all those fine Stoical resolutions, and compels him to cry out of his belly” (Montaigne 1877, 2:12). People remain powerless in the face of the upheaval caused by uncertainty in their lives. They may try to reassure themselves by following artificial rules and showing constant prudence, as when preparing for war. In truth, brave souls benefit more from embracing uncertainty, taking risks, trusting others, being compassionate, and relying on their own valour and good fortune to achieve great things, including victories at war. Most of all, they trust Nature and let it run its course, even if it means breaking the rule of reason. In lieu of moderating their passions and aiming for excellence in all things, men should acknowledge their humanity, develop a healthy dose of complexity and madness, and cultivate emotions and pleasures that help fortify the soul. Some emotions, like cheerfulness, are even worth pushing to the limit. Montaigne does not adhere to “a certain image of scholastic probity, a slave to precepts, and fettered with hope and fear” (Montaigne 1877, 3:12). He enjoys studying, but he does not wish to constrain and regulate his learning through rational thinking. Philosophers err in relying on reason and its universal laws as the best guides for acquiring knowledge and behaving courageously. To this critique of mainstream moral thinking, he adds another important consideration: the diversity of views that people hold on the nature of good and evil. Not everyone shares the idea that death is the most terrifying thing, for instance. There are people who believe that death is the best cure for all evils and the only safe haven from

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a stormy life. Instead of being tormented by death, some view it as a state worth exploring and a source of courageous learning. Julius Canus, the philosopher sentenced to death by Caligula, simulated short moments of death to see what he could learn from the experience and share his learning with others. “This man philosophises not unto death only, but in death itself.” “What a strange assurance was this, and what bravery of courage, to desire his death should be a lesson to him” (Montaigne 1877, 2:6). Everyone can adopt the same attitude by using sleep to reflect on death on a regular basis. Sleep helps us lose our self-awareness and accept Nature’s call to stop and rest. Some people accept death as a given and may not need “boastful courage” to reach their final destination (Montaigne 1877, 1:40). Most philosophers anticipated or hastened their own deaths, and many ordinary people went to the gallows with natural simplicity and even humour, as Socrates did. One man told his hangman he was ticklish and asked him not to touch his neck for fear of making him laugh. People’s reasoning on less dramatic concerns can also vary significantly, with no one point of view being more compelling than another. Ancient commanders such as Brutus and Caesar felt that if their soldiers were dressed in full military regalia and accompanied by their wives and concubine, they would fight with greater courage. The idea is that warriors are braver when defending their precious possessions. Lycurgus, on the other hand, believed that poverty and frugality should be the rule. He worried that displaying too much wealth on the battlefield would motivate foes drawn to the spoils of war to fight with greater zeal (Montaigne 1877, 1:47). Another area of divergence concerns the way that a captain should dress when fighting with his troops on the battlefield. He dresses with some pomp to reassure his troops with his presence, or he wears modest clothes so that he may hide, remain alive, and lead his army to victory. Do soldiers feel more courage when they rush into battle and charge the enemy with furious shouting, drums beating, and horns blaring? Or does a steady posture and an orderly march against the enemy boost their vigour? When seen through the lenses of reason, each contentious issue is like “a pot with two ears that a man may take by the right or left” (Montaigne 1877, 2:12).

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Most people believe they possess good judgement and are wiser than others. If, perchance, they agree with others, it is because they have reached the same conclusions on their own (Montaigne 1877, 2:17). This is “an untoward disease, that a man should be so riveted to his own belief as to fancy that others cannot believe otherwise than as he does” (Montaigne 1877, 1:56). Claims to knowledge that deprive others of the courage to reach a judgement by themselves reveal the extent of a person’s arrogance and self-conceit. Being obstinate and refusing to learn from others and from one’s errors betray a “want of wit” (Montaigne 1877, 3:11, 13). Montaigne thus condemns those who presume to be always correct and take it personally when others contradict them. Like Socrates, they should be bold enough to spell out and defend their views, correct others when appropriate, and accept being corrected and proven wrong (Montaigne 1877, 3:8, 13). They should also confess their own ignorance in certain areas, which is a form of knowledge on its own, attesting to the person’s generosity and strength. People will defend their positions and listen to opposing arguments if they have the courage and freedom to follow their conscience. This principle, that everyone has the right and obligation to live according to their conscience, has far-reaching implications. It raises questions of justice in the contexts of war, religion, and politics. In times of war, soldiers who engage in treachery and malice should face harsh punishment. But sentencing to death those who lose courage and surrender to the enemy is wrong. Using the voice of moral conscience to make them feel ashamed is more appropriate. Charondas, the lawgiver of Catania in Sicily, humiliated those who fled the battlefield by making them wear women’s attire in public for three days; “rather bring the blood into a man’s cheek than let it out of his body,” he thought. The same applies to matters of faith. People should be brought to justice only for those actions that violate their conscience (Montaigne 1877, 1:15). This means that heretics and disbelievers should not face the death penalty or corporeal punishment. But the right to follow one’s conscience comes with certain obligations. People should not let religious devotion override their conscience, for instance (Montaigne 1877, 3:12). Nor should they profess and practise a religion that contradicts their beliefs solely to protect their status or employment. Embracing a religion to

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alleviate one’s fear of death and future suffering is likewise unethical and shows cowardice (Montaigne 1877, 1:56; 2:12). When applied to politics, conscience-based morality means that people should not be coerced to confess things that contradict what they believe to be true. The invention of the rack is evil in that it forces the innocent to lie and admit faults for fear of suffering unbearable pain (Montaigne 1877, 1:5). Instead, people should be encouraged to speak their minds and be brave enough to offer honest advice, even to kings (Montaigne 1877, 3:13). Accordingly, when Montaigne enters a debate, he takes care not to succumb to other people’s views without being truthful: For want of prudence, men fall into want of courage, which is still more intolerable. Most accommodations of the quarrels of these days of ours are shameful and false; we only seek to save appearances, and in the meantime betray and disavow our true intentions; we salve over the fact. We know very well how we said the thing, and in what sense we spoke it, and the company know it, and our friends whom we have wished to make sensible of our advantage, understand it well enough too: ‘tis at the expense of our frankness and of the honour of our courage, that we disown our thoughts, and seek refuge in falsities, to make matters up. (Montaigne 1877, 3:10)

Speaking and acting according to conscience is a duty that may put brave souls at risk. But it is also an asset. According to Montaigne, he “who speaks what he thinks, strikes much more home than he who only feigns” (Montaigne 1877, 2:31). Cicero spoke convincingly about his love of liberty because he was willing to die for it. His fear of death, on the other hand, was manufactured and inspired less courage than Seneca’s writing on the subject. In both circumstances, authors who offer advice on virtue and action can be trusted if and only if they set a good example in their own lives, as Plutarch did. The Greek philosopher and essayist warned against saying things that others wanted to hear. Those who get into this habit tend to break their words. Montaigne makes a point of speaking his mind, which makes it difficult for him to keep any secret, including about himself. The failure to

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conceal what he knows about himself, on the other hand, is a strength. (Montaigne 1877, 3:5). The inability to speak roundly of a man’s self implies some want of courage; a man of solid and lofty judgment, who judges soundly and surely, makes use of his own example upon all occasions, as well as those of others; and gives evidence as freely of himself as of a third person. (Montaigne 1877, 3:8)

Truth and liberty take precedence over the common rules of civility. In his essays, Montaigne does not hesitate to confide in his readers about personal issues, not out of vanity or self-love, but rather to reflect on himself. The exercise involves standing back from oneself, as though staring at a neighbour or a tree. It is “a fault not to discern how far a man’s worth extends, and to say more than a man discovers in himself ” (Montaigne 1877, 3:8). When he applies the rule to himself, he discovers a man endowed with a lower-than-average stature, a defect that borders on deformity and makes it difficult for him to command respect (Montaigne 1877, 1:17). He is prone to despair and carelessness when facing extreme hardship. He is better equipped to learn from his good fortune than from his misfortune; while favour makes him bend, fear stiffens him (Montaigne 1877, 3:9). He values novel things above what he has, which leads him to covet other people’s fortune rather than their wisdom. Overall, he struggles to resist his passions and repress his desires. People mistake his sense of judgement for courage and patience. If he practises virtue, it is only casually or naturally, without much effort. If he has few vices, it is without merit; he is like a man fortunate enough not to have many moles on his body (Montaigne 1877, 2:11). Interestingly, this exercise in self-awareness and criticism has its critics. Stern religious philosophers such as Blaise Pascal (1623–1662) would later say of Montaigne that his pagan meditations on topics like death would have been less cowardly and effeminate if he had spoken less of trifles and himself (Pascal 1910, 65). He wrongly thought that killing himself was a sign of courage and joined those who “would willingly be cowards in order to acquire the reputation of being brave” (Pascal 1910, 147).

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Montaigne admits that his moral views and conduct say more about him than “a long practice of philosophical precepts” that others will approve and follow (Montaigne 1877, 2:11). He acknowledges the diversity of moral views that people hold in good conscience and the necessity to debate them. If Montaigne is right on this point, the question of courage is not about to be resolved. Philosophers will be hard-pressed to come up with a definitive concept or theory that puts an end to all the debates on the subject. Since morals vary from one person to another, the idea of capturing the essence of courage in a few words or a powerful symbol should be abandoned. The metaphors of the lion, the owl, the lamb, the dove, and the fox from the previous chapters may be helpful, but they are bound to oversimplify the matter. Each competing symbol leaves little room for pluralism of the mind, one might say. But there is an alternative to this admission of defeat. It entails coming up with a suitable metaphor for what seems like a jungle of standards of courage. If so, consideration should be given to the hare. This is a good choice, if only because it is so arbitrary: it shows “how flexible our reason is to all sorts of images,” as Montaigne puts it. To make his point, he tells the story of a young Turkish lord who explained how a hare inspired him to become a courageous warrior. One day, as he was hunting, he saw a hare, shot forty arrows in its direction, and then sent his dogs after the animal, all in vain. The hare sat still and never budged. Neither darts nor swords could wound it “without the permission of fate, which we can neither haste nor defer” (Montaigne 1877, 2:29). Montaigne wonders if this was not simply the hare’s lucky day. Be it as it may, the story goes to show that one symbol is as good as any, provided we imagine the right reason for the choice we make. In the next chapter, I examine the ethics of courage as outlined by John Locke and Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Their ideas are still focused on the self, but they have more to say about the conventions of language, the voice of self-consciousness, the benefits of self-possession, and the importance of childhood education.

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References Montaigne, Michel de. 1877. Essays of Montaigne. In Three Volumes. Trans. C. Cotton. London: Reeves and Turner. ———. 1889. The Complete Works of Michel de Montaigne. Trans. C. Cotton. New York: Worthington. Pascal, Blaise. 1910. Thoughts. Trans. W.F. Trotter. New York: Collier.

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Born in the same year as Spinoza, John Locke (1632–1734) is one of the most influential thinkers in the history of social contract theory and liberalism. Building on the century-old legacy of Montaigne, he draws attention to the shortcomings of abstract philosophy, the diversity of views that people hold on what is good and evil, and the inward dimension of courage, as distinct from the outward sense of duty and preservation of self and country. He probes more deeply into the question of consciousness and how moral certainties are formed and passed on through verbal statements and well-established conventions that match complex ideas about what can and ought to exist in real life. His approach to early learning experiences is also key to understanding his idea of the “self ” defined as that conscious thinking thing “which is sensible, or conscious of pleasure and pain, capable of happiness or misery, and so is concerned for itself, as far as that consciousness extends” (Locke 1823a, II 27:17). The role of human passions is where Locke’s outlook differs markedly from Montaigne’s thinking. By and large, his stance on self-discipline is more consistent with the Stoic pursuit of happiness and mental activity freed from the shackles of passion, the body, and the material world. Also, people search for happiness outside of politics and societal norms. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_8

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In contrast to most philosophers discussed in earlier chapters, the English philosopher devotes little attention to how courage ties in with the requirements and sentiments of social living. In the second part of the chapter, I examine the views advanced by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, which echo those of Locke in many respects but not all. The Genevan philosopher distinguishes himself by holding up republican valour and patriotic duty as examples of man’s inner strength. Also, God and his teachings remain the ultimate arbiters of good and evil. Finally, Rousseau extols the virtues of human compassion and living close to Nature and the land, away from the ravages of money, private property, and city life.

 ords, Education, and the Quiet Possession W of Self: John Locke In Book IV of An Essay on Human Understanding, Locke shifts the discussion from the inherent nature and social functions of courage to how people talk and think about the subject. His approach starts from the premise that “fortitude” is both an idea and the word that stands for it. While both are signs, the word and the idea are not the same. One sign is verbal and made up of sounds; the other is a mental representation. Whatever we say about courage is a verbal proposition that combines multiple words. It advances or denies certain ideas that, in our minds, work well together or not. Propositions and words play a significant role as carriers of truth and sound reasoning. However, the problem is that we grant too much attention to these elements and products of language, if only because they seem clear, certain, distinct, and thus easy to handle (Locke 1823a, IV 5:4, 10). Meanwhile, the tacit ideas or mental signs formed in our mind without the use of words remain mostly imperfect and confused. The idea of fortitude is a good example of this. It is a complex sign in that it brings together a number of simple ideas that come from experience but may not be obvious. Understanding the exact way in which these mental signs are actively combined and represented in our heads requires time

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and attention. The task is made difficult by people’s habit of focusing on the words they use rather than clarifying their thinking and reasoning about the corresponding subject. Knowing what fortitude means is not as straightforward as it may seem, and using the right collection of words to reflect on it is a challenge. How do we know if what we say and think about fortitude, or any other subject, is true? The question is: What exactly is truth? In response, Locke distinguishes three kinds of truth. “Real truth” is making sure we use the right words to express simple ideas that match things or beings as they really exist (Locke 1823a, IV 5:8; 30:5). Words, when adequately combined, capture complex ideas designed to represent entities that exist independently of ourselves, such as built objects, plants, animals, humans, or God (Locke 1823a, IV 31:3). This type of knowledge is based on reflection and experience, not just words. However imperfect and probabilistic it may be, “real truth” is the exact opposite of “unreal ideas,” also called “chimerical” or “fantastical.” An unreal idea is a collection of simple ideas that contradict each other, do not create any known pattern, and have never been or will ever be joined in the real world. The idea of a rational creature with the head of a horse and the body of a man is a chimaera, something that only exists in our minds and is useless in the pursuit of knowledge and truth (Locke 1823a, IV 5:7). Unlike real and unreal truth, verbal propositions and knowledge involve matching words with complex ideas. Positive connections join verbal signs, whereas negative connections separate them. Both produce propositions that mirror a web of concepts in one’s head (Locke 1823a, IV 30:5). For instance, we may form statements about “fortitude” that are consistent with one’s thoughts. This does not mean that true fortitude is “no more than the conformity of words to the chimaeras of men’s brains.” “Who knows not what odd notions many men’s heads are filled with, and what strange ideas all men’s brains are capable of?” (Locke 1823a, IV 5:7). Our knowledge of fortitude is not whatever we say and imagine to be true. To avoid this fallacy, Locke argues that a true proposition or knowledge about fortitude is “real” if it involves a coherent set of ideas that may possibly exist in the real world; whether the pattern of features exists or not is another matter (Locke 1823a, IV 5:8–9; 30:4). We know from experience and reflection that fortitude is a moral truth

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that can become real. It entails propositions that speak of “things according to the persuasion of our own minds, though the proposition we speak agree not to the reality of things” (Locke 1823a, IV 5:11). What does it take for the idea of courage and related propositions to become real? Locke responds by describing “courage” as the appropriate word to signify and promote the “mixed mode” or complex idea of the action of a man undisturbed in danger, thoughtfully considering what he must do, and executing it with steadiness. These properties and their relationships form an archetype, and “there is nothing more required to this kind of ideas to make them real, but that they be so framed, that there be a possibility of existing conformable to them” (Locke 1823a, IV 30:4). When we speak and think of courage, these are the features that the mind must bring together to represent the corresponding virtue, reminiscent of the Stoic tradition. Calmness, for instance, is only one aspect of what is meant by the idea of courage. We could speak of or imagine a person performing the same action calmly but without much reasoning or consistent effort. This is a real possibility, one that simply refers to itself. Unlike fortitude, there is no name for it. It stands on its own, and the idea cannot be deformed or misnamed. Nor can it be true or false, either verbally or mentally. But, in the absence of any external referent other than what we imagine, how can we know that the meaning we assign to any word is correct? The answer lies in the conventions of language and moral convictions that are akin to mathematical principles. Locke argues that the meaning of what we say and think is true if and only if it conforms to “the ordinary signification of the name that is given them” (Locke 1823a, IV 30:4). The idea of fortitude thus comes from “the good liking and will of him that first made this combination” (Locke 1823a, IV 31:3). The word is committed to the memory of the first person who used it and others after him. Once settled, it acts as a standard to measure and describe the corresponding actions, imagined and potentially real. Mental and verbal propositions are true provided the words are formed according to usage, that is, in the same way that the first person came up with the idea and the words to express it. Propositions that do not meet the criterion of current usage are untrue. When talking about courage, people might have in mind a complex idea that is faulty just as easily as they can

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mispronounce a word. What they say about fortitude falls short of containing all its essential properties, which are apt to be united in the real world. Locke approaches the question of courage as a composite idea that brings together simple ideas and the right words to express them. This “mental mode” forms a pattern that does not exist by itself in the real world, independently of men’s thinking and moral ideals. In Some Thoughts Concerning Education, the philosopher expands on what this complex idea means in real life, with a focus on how to teach virtue to children. While addressing practical concerns in some detail, the advice he provides aligns with three principles at the heart of his philosophy of knowledge. The first principle is that ideas that are thoughtfully developed matter more than abstract wordsmithing. The second is that ideas such as fortitude are complex and have many implications that require careful analysis. The last principle concerns the close link between learning from experience and the process of thinking: both are key to a child’s successful education and the nurturing of virtue from early on in life. True fortitude, according to Locke, is “the quiet possession of a man’s self, and an undisturb’d doing his duty, whatever evil besets, or danger lies in his way” (Locke 1823c, 115). This is the Stoic ideal of self-possession and calmness in the performance of duty, regardless of the danger involved. It matches the “complex idea” of fortitude advanced in An Essay on Human Understanding, except that the role of duty is now clearer. The concept goes beyond considerations of valour in combat, important as they may be. Death may be the king of terrors, but other sources of fear must be part of the discussion. They include anything that people may fear more than anything else, such as pain, disgrace, and poverty. The question of courage and cowardice is inextricably linked to the fear of danger—a double-edged sword with direct implications in the field of education. On the one hand, fear among children is natural and has its uses. To have no fear at all in the face of real danger is foolish; “where danger is, sense of danger should be” (Locke 1823c, 115). Because we fear evil and dislike it, we stay alert so that we can see danger coming, evaluate it, and act quickly without giving in to excessive daring, anger, or passion. The problem with pride and rage is that they make it difficult for children to calmly consider the danger they face and the consequences

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of their actions. On the other hand, too much fear weakens the spirit, a problem that tends to be prevalent among children. The overall argument is familiar: foolhardiness and not caring about danger are no more reasonable than trembling at every little evil that comes along. Finding the right balance is a challenge, and most men’s efforts fall short because of the poor education they receive: Fortitude is the guard and support of the other virtues; and without courage a man will scarce keep steady to his duty, and fill up the character of a truly worthy man. Courage, that makes us bear up against dangers that we fear and evils that we feel, is of great use in an estate, as ours is in this life, expos’d to assaults on all hands: and therefore it is very advisable to get children into this armour as early as we can. (Locke 1823c, 115)

Some children are more courageous than others by temperament. Without adequate instruction, those with weaker hearts can hardly develop this noble and “manly steadiness.” This does not mean that children should be frightened from the moment they are born. People have difficulty recovering from intense frights experienced at a young age. As they grow up, they may never overcome their fear and behave rationally. Children should not be exposed to things that scare them until they are able to walk, talk, and think for themselves. When frightened, adults should redirect their attention or associate the object of fear with something that is pleasant until it becomes familiar and inoffensive. Gradually learning how to handle a potentially harmful object (e.g., a lighted candle) and avoid pain also helps children master their fear and discover that things are not as dangerous as they appear. Discipline and thinking are also key for developing courage, with adaptations made for individual cases. Locke suggests that circumstances, as well as the child’s temperament and age, be considered while dealing with children that whimper and whine. There are no universal rules to follow, and the parent or tutor must exercise judgement. Nonetheless, he offers his own advice, starting with the importance of discipline: without it, parents and tutors will indulge every whim and “passion” that ought to be subdued. Children must be taught not to complain about minor pains

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or frustrations. This is not to say that they should be punished whenever they cry or become disobedient. Restrictions and beatings have downsides. They will not get recalcitrant children to think for themselves and follow their own reasoning. In fact, punishments are more likely to stiffen their resolve and make them cry even more. “The beating of children is but a passionate tyranny over them; and it is mere cruelty, and not correction, to put their bodies in pain, without doing their minds any good” (Locke 1823c, 112). Chiding and beating should be limited to those situations where nothing else works. They should be kept to a minimum and used as methods of last resort, after reasoning, persuasion, diversion, or laughter have been tried. They should also be administered in the right way, without passion or in the heat of anger, and stopped as soon as the child yields and expresses penitence. Finally, pity should be avoided at all costs. It is normal to feel compassion for infants or children who whimper out of pain or need. Even so, showing pity is not advisable; it softens the minds of children, who need to harden their spirits against all sufferings, especially those of the body. To counter the effeminate spirit of endless crying and moaning, children must develop “brawniness and insensibility of mind,” which is the best protection against the many evils and accidents of life. Rather than feeling pity for them, children who fall and sustain minor injuries should be encouraged to climb again, but with increased caution (Locke 1823c, 112–14). To help youngsters overcome minor fears, gentle methods are preferable. But how will they learn to show courage in the face of real danger and terrible pain, one might ask? The answer is simple: they must be taught to endure suffering from an early age. Locke acknowledges that this advice appears to contradict the notion that punishment should be kept to a minimum. To explain himself, he offers the example of ancient Sparta and the value of exposing youths to pain as an effective means of laying “a foundation for courage and resolution in the future part of their lives” (Locke 1823c, 115). The method is to inflict tolerable pain and rough treatment. But this only works if the child is in good spirits and thinks that the parent or teacher who is hurting him is kind and wants to help him. The child should not feel that he is being punished. Rather, he is encouraged to build a reputation for bravery and stoutness.

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Satisfy a child by a constant course of your care and kindness, that you perfectly love him, and he may by degrees be accustom’d to bear very ­painful and rough usage from you, without flinching or complaining: and this we see children do every day in play one with another. (Locke 1823c, 115)

This should be done gradually, with patience, and preferably while the child is playing, with every opportunity to praise the child for his courage and related efforts. This is how the young soldier is to be trained for the warfare of life, so to speak, towards the rational discharge of his duty, without his body shaking and fleeing danger because he is unfit for action. Without this kind of education, children are more likely to succumb to indiscipline and self-indulgence. “Debauchery sinks the courage of men,” Locke says (Locke 1823c, 70; see 92). Any nation or people known for their honour and valour will cease to be feared as soon as they lose their discipline and give in to vice, violence, and shameless corruption. The English playwright and politician John Addison (1672–1719) admired Locke and popularised his ideas, including the notion that moral views and traditions vary greatly. In Cato, A Tragedy, he remarks that “hardiness in all actions” exists everywhere and in many forms. Black slaves and wild savages, for instance, draw their nobility of soul from their “fierceness, resolution in obstinacy, wisdom in cunning” (Addison 2004, pp. 128, 210). Inspired by the Stoics, he too concurs with Seneca that adversity is not inherently evil and that a man who suffers is more likely to be happy. Working and dealing with disappointment and pain allow men to gather strength and improve their fortitude. God looks favourably on the spectacle of a “brave man superior to his sufferings” (Addison 2004, p. 138). However, for courage to reach its highest level, it must be swayed by both reason and faith. Failing this, people will lie and commit acts of cruelty and vengeance that violate God’s laws and bring disaster to their country. Men of honour, notably sovereign rulers and their heirs, must lead by example, cultivate all virtues, and fulfil their duties in all circumstances. Their fortitude, led by wisdom, enables them to accomplish heroic deeds in the service of justice (Addison 2004, pp.  168, 170, 176). “All else is towering phrensy and distraction,”

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including concerns about one’s reputation, manly pride, and honour (Addison 2004, p. 45). Addison, like Locke, draws attention to consciousness and thoughtfulness in expressions of virtue, implying that external representations of moral goodness are not always possible. For example, good intentions and the joy of making someone happy are grown in private, without noise or show. Action may not even follow. Someone living in poverty may have a generous soul without being able to act on it. Similarly, in a flourishing Christian environment, someone with the patience and fortitude of a martyr may be unable to show what he is capable of. All of these are silent perfections of the soul, which only God can see and understand. He alone knows our intentions and what we would do if the circumstances were different. By way of example, two men may die without fear but with entirely different mindsets. Petronius the Arbiter committed suicide with no fear, owing to his careless and immoral temperament. In contrast, Thomas More showed remarkable courage before his execution, after the example of Socrates, who faced his last hour with “the Consciousness of a well-­ spent Life, and the Prospect of a happy Eternity” (Addison 2004, pp. 158–59). In the end, God “is the only proper judge of our perfections, who does not guess at the sincerity of our intentions from the goodness of our actions; but weighs the goodness of our actions by the sincerity of our intentions” (Addison 2004, p. 150). Locke’s approach to courage is well encapsulated in his usage of the hare symbolism, which differs significantly from Montaigne’s (see Chap. 7). The hare is a burrowing animal that flees danger and hides to stay alive. Montaigne distorts normal animal behaviour in order to argue for the flexibility and complete freedom of the mind in imagining abstract ideas. A hare that does not flee when shot at represents the role of unpredictable behaviour and pure chance in determining one’s fate in this world. At first sight, the metaphor is not particularly edifying. Compared with other animals that populate the annals of moral philosophy, the hare fails to impress. Its physical and intellectual abilities are rather limited and no match for the philosophical wisdom of the Owl of Athena, the fearsome heart of the lion king, the sacrificial offering of the Lamb of God, or the loving spirit of the Christian dove. The rodent-like creature

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does not possess the cleverness of Machiavelli’s fox. It leads a solitary existence, living on its own or in pairs, which makes it a poor candidate for domestication and social learning. Also, in keeping with its humble nature, the hare suggests a simple hunting scene set in the wild. This is a far cry from the gardens that people grew and imagined for themselves and their gods in classical antiquity. Nonetheless, Montaigne’s story succeeds in conveying the message of calm in the face of danger, arbitrariness in the outcome, the limits of reason, and the powers of human creativity. We have seen how Spinoza pushes the hare metaphor in another direction with a completely different mission: his hare is a reminder of how the universe separates animals and humans with mental and physical strength from those who are weaker and flee, regardless of the training or education they may receive. Interestingly, Locke picks up the hare metaphor to represent yet another idea, namely private property, a cornerstone of his liberal doctrine. A lone hare running free in the wild is part of the commons, he says, until a single man applies work and practical skills to hunt it down. Endowed with Stoic patience, the man who captures the animal removes it from its natural state, at which point it becomes his private possession as reason dictates (Locke 1823b, 2:30). In this passage, Locke’s animal metaphor is a convention of language that helps him reflect on a complex association of ideas about what can and ought to exist, as he sees it. Private property and mastery over Nature, achieved through self-­ discipline, form a coherent “moral truth” that ought to exist. It is true of savages and civilised people alike and should be promoted through proper child-­rearing practices. Each philosopher adapts the metaphor to suit his purpose. Nevertheless, despite their differences, all metaphors have one thing in common. They speak to what cannot be subordinated to the laws of Nature and reason, whether it be chance and fate, the creative mind, or “moral truths” that vary and do not always become reality.

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 atural Living, Moral Strictness, N and Republican Courage: Jean-Jacques Rousseau Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–1778) shared the view that a man’s knowledge of science, philosophy, and religious doctrine has limitations. Unlike Locke, he seeks to blend lessons of inner strength and courage with calls for patriotic valour. His work is a reminder that the rift between inward and outward forms of courage is not as deep as it may seem. He is not alone in this. Self-command, industry, caring for others, civic duty, patriotic loyalty, order in society, the laws of Nature, the struggle for liberty, and the pursuit of happiness in life—all are mantras interwoven in the writings of many eighteenth-century philosophers. Rousseau’s thinking on courage in the face of hardship is part of this tradition, except that for him God remains the ultimate arbiter of good and evil. In addition, unlike Locke, he makes a strong case for the virtues of human caring and fellowship and views private property and money as the origins of many ills. Industry is at its best when tied to rural life and the land. Rousseau does not stray from the ancient path of noble and brave patriots fighting against tyranny to defend their freedom and democratic form of government (Rousseau 1920a, p. 59). In its pursuit of peace and prosperity, a republic must help its subjects develop the courage and patriotism necessary to remain independent and deserve their freedom. A nation’s freedom thus hinges on people developing strict morals and the spirit of fortitude. The Corsicans and the ancient Romans met these requirements as they refused to obey any foreign master and fought against the yoke of slavery (Rousseau 1920b, p. 159). Rousseau is inspired by their fortitude and willingness to face great danger since, like them, he was “born the citizen of a republic, of a father whose ruling passion was a love of his country” (Rousseau 2015a, p. 4). But the ability to bear suffering other than danger and death on the battlefield is also a sign of courage. In his view, Madame de Vercellis, the employer of the young Rousseau, faced illness and death without showing an instant of weakness. While maintaining her feminine demeanour, she displayed the composure and fortitude of a powerful and enlightened

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soul (Rousseau 2015a, p. 45). This type of courage must be instilled in children from an early age through direct experience. In Emile, Rousseau encourages parents and tutors to treat children as their equals and avoid pitying or comforting them when they sustain minor injuries or experience fear in the dark or at night. Instead of shielding them from anything that could harm or scare them, parents must let their children face and overcome their fear and learn their first lessons in courage on their own. Being aware of danger is an important step in a child’s journey to becoming truly courageous. Suffering strengthens the soul and makes it less vulnerable; to the extent that he thought himself invincible, Achilles could not claim to be brave (Rousseau 2015b, p. 21). “A child serves his apprenticeship in courage and endurance as well as in other virtues; but you cannot teach children these virtues by name alone; they must learn them unconsciously through experience” (Rousseau 2015b, p.  92). Overprotected children grow overly sensitive to pain, believe danger is greater than it is, and become slaves to pain, illness, life’s risks, and death. To grow as a moral being, Emile must gradually learn to be industrious, temperate, patient, steadfast, and full of courage (Rousseau 2015b, p. 163: see pp. 92, 286). When he reaches puberty, he must train his will to resist sensual pleasures and develop a taste for chastity. In this way, he can safeguard his male health and courage while living a life of virtue and love (Rousseau 2015b, p. 276). The etymology of the word “virtue” is proof of this: My son, there is no happiness without courage, nor virtue without a struggle. The word virtue is derived from a word signifying strength, and strength is the foundation of all virtue. Virtue is the heritage of a creature weak by nature but strong by will; that is the whole merit of the righteous man; and though we call God good we do not call Him virtuous, because He does good without effort. I waited to explain the meaning of this word, so often profaned, until you were ready to understand me. As long as virtue is quite easy to practise, there is little need to know it. This need arises with the awakening of the passions; your time has come. (Rousseau 2015b, p. 388)

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The same moral expectations apply to adult men and women. A married woman must gather the strength to regulate her husband’s pleasure and restrain her own sexual desires. Being chaste without being too cold is the best way to gain authority over the heart of the man she must love and obey, as Nature prescribes. “You will long rule him by love if you make your favours scarce and precious, if you know how to use them aright.” “If you want to have your husband always in your power, keep him at a distance” (Rousseau 2015b, p. 421). Fortitude is not always heroic and the source of public admiration. It can also form part of a virtuous life comprised of minor duties that bring honour, happiness, and the esteem of one’s family, acquaintances, and friends (Rousseau 2015a, p. 51). In contrast, vice is the cause of every form of misery, including slavery. People who are free do not mistake licence for liberty, as the Romans did (Rousseau 1920b, p. 159). To grow as a moral being in accordance with the laws of God and Nature, men must summon the courage and strength to subdue their natural inclinations, refusing to submit to the yoke of moral laxity (Rousseau 1783, p. 209). They must also eliminate greed from their lives. Monetary gains and luxury are vain and ephemeral. Politicians cannot use them to buy the morals and enduring virtues that make a people truly great and noble (Rousseau 1920c, p. 143). Money will never replace courage, fidelity, and virtue. If anything, it turns people into thieves and traitors and puts “freedom and the public good upon the auction block” (Rousseau 2017b, Ch. 11). The history of Corsica shows that fortitude alone can accomplish what the pursuit of wealth can never do, which is to sustain the republican spirit and the unwavering love of liberty (Rousseau 2015a, p. 4; 2017a). The courage to fight for one’s country, endure suffering, and resist moral looseness and the lure of money is central to Rousseau’s moral philosophy. But it does not exhaust the subject of virtue. In his writings, he also discusses the virtues of gentleness, gratitude, scientific and literary knowledge, and peaceful living. Rousseau admits that these dispositions come more naturally to him than courage. In his Confessions, the philosopher draws a sharp contrast between himself and Anet, Françoise Louise de Warens’ prior lover. The text highlights Anet’s superior fortitude and strength of character over Rousseau’s impassioned yet feeble nature, which consists of softer qualities:

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More insinuating and enlightened than Anet, I possessed neither his coolness, fortitude, nor commanding strength of character, which I must have had in order to succeed. Neither did the young man possess those qualities which Anet found in me; such as gentleness, gratitude, and above all, the knowledge of a want of his instructions, and an ardent desire to render them useful. (Rousseau 2015a, p. 152)

Rousseau likens himself to the Countess d’Houdetot, whose “sweetness of mind” contains every virtue other than prudence and fortitude (Rousseau 2015a, p. 260). He attributes his many faults to his preference for a peaceful life and related virtues, which keep him away from the paths of great virtue and “fortitude which alone can do honor to adversity” (Rousseau 2015a, p. 158). He portrays himself as at once haughty and tender, a character effeminate, yet invincible; which, fluctuating between weakness and courage, luxury and virtue, has ever set me in contradiction to myself; causing abstinence and enjoyment, pleasure and prudence, equally to shun me. (Rousseau 2015a, p. 6)

The Genevan philosopher confesses that his behaviour and taste for the soft life contradict his own maxims based on sentiments of wisdom and honour. He may have the courage to meet death with serenity, yet he does so without having suffered any great hardship, mental or physical (Rousseau 2015a, pp. 140, 150). Rousseau may have a good understanding of science and literature, which is commendable. But knowledge has its limitations. For one thing, it does not always improve a people’s morals and teach them to lay down their lives for the good of their country. If it did, in addition to being wise, the Chinese would be free and invincible. Likewise, by giving priority to the achievements of Greek culture, ancient Rome was filled with philosophers and orators, military discipline was neglected, agriculture was held in contempt, men formed sects, and forgot their country. To the sacred names of liberty, disinterestedness and obedience to law, succeeded those of Epicurus, Zeno and Arcesilaus. It was even a saying among their own philosophers that since learned men appeared among them, honest men had been in eclipse. (Rousseau 1920c, p. 135)

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When the Goths ravaged Greece, they thought it better not to burn their enemies’ impressive libraries. Books were thought to distract Greek men and deprive the country of brave men fighting for their liberty. The same critique can be levelled against the reputed valour of all the modern warriors who are so scientifically trained. I hear much of their bravery in a day’s battle; but I am told nothing of how they support excessive fatigue, how they stand the severity of the seasons and the inclemency of the weather. A little sunshine or snow, or the want of a few superfluities, is enough to cripple and destroy one of our finest armies in a few days. (Rousseau 1920c, pp. 145–46)

Developing strength and vigour is more useful than displaying audacity on rare occasions. Rousseau goes on to lament the fact that systems of education instruct youth in everything except their duty. Students waste their time learning dead languages, developing specious arguments, and composing verses they hardly understand. Patriotism and learning the meaning of courage, temperance, equity, magnanimity, and humanity should take precedence over these pursuits. Peaceful living is always desirable, yet the best way to keep the peace is to prepare for war, as the proverb goes. For a nation to be wise and peaceful, it must not fear others but rather be feared by them. In Considerations on the Government of Poland, Rousseau advises the Poles to preserve and revive among your people simple customs and wholesome tastes, and a warlike spirit devoid of ambition; you must create courageous and unselfish souls; devote your people to agriculture and to the most necessary arts and crafts; you must make money contemptible and, if possible, useless, seeking and finding more powerful and reliable motives for the accomplishment of great deeds. (Rousseau 2017b, Ch. 11)

This is not the path to great fame, but it is the wellspring of genuine prosperity, justice, and liberty. Despite his patriotic and martial vision of courage, Rousseau believes that life in society, urban leisure, and indoor activities away from harsh agricultural labour weaken people and make them effeminate. Life in a

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state of nature provides greater strength and courage than city life. As proof of this, domesticated animals that are well-fed and cared-for have a weakened constitution compared to their forest-dwelling counterparts. The same can be said for man. “As he becomes sociable and a slave, he grows weak, timid and servile; his effeminate way of life totally enervates his strength and courage” (Rousseau 1920b, p. 182). Urban men indulge themselves more than the beasts they tame. Idleness and vice are fraught with perils, causing cities to become the strongholds of tyranny. Unlike rural communities, cities foster inactivity, restlessness, stupid pride, debauchery, and the selfishness of mercenary men, all of which have caused the ruin of Corsica. While they view agricultural people as inferiors and grant them fewer rights, urban dwellers are either slaves or mutineers, but not free men. Major cities are especially hazardous. They attract farmers looking for better jobs, but they must constantly replace them because of their higher suicide rate and the pestilence they breathe. A capital is “an abyss in which virtually the whole nation loses its morals, its laws, its courage and its freedom” (Rousseau 2017a). Manly attributes such as strength and courage are incompatible with sedentary lifestyles and interior jobs such as needlework or tailoring, which render the body delicate and effeminate. “The same hand cannot hold the needle and the sword” (Rousseau 2015b, p. 155). True valour lies in the strength and skills of Homeric heroes and fabled knights battling in tournaments. Superior men command others and never allow themselves to become corrupt and effeminate. They are “not only brave and courageous, but also eager for honour and glory, and ripe for every virtue” (Rousseau 2017b, Ch. 3). But strength and courage can also be found in hard agricultural labour, fighting the forces of Nature while struggling to make a living. Although the young Emile knows little about books and social morality, his encounter with Nature and the outside world helps him develop his senses, draw inferences from them, and grow as a moral being. Physical activity is particularly important. While mental and moral strength are not the same as physical strength, good health and a steady flow of blood aid in the development of virtue, giving “strength and elasticity to all the springs of the machinery” (Rousseau 2015b, p. 185). Farm activity is thus ideal for developing moral ideals. To

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undertake arduous labour in anticipation of what it will bring requires remarkable courage and foresight, qualities that many adventurers and great discoverers may lack (Rousseau 1920b, p. 215). The admiration that Rousseau has for patriotic heroes does not prevent him from glorifying the lives of hardworking rural dwellers living close to Nature. The underlying thread linking these different expressions of fortitude is man’s attachment to his land and the social order that governs it. This brings us to another theme that runs through Rousseau’s work: the courage that men and nations show in promoting civic duty and the laws of the republic. They lay the foundations of man’s moral actions and his love of virtue. Were man to live his entire life in the forest, he might be able to follow his natural instincts, enjoy greater freedom, and find happiness without effort. But if he did, there would be no merit or virtue to his conduct. The history of the Swiss illustrates what happens when people are content with being poor but not needy. They used to be self-­ sufficient, hardworking, and united in their brave struggle to defend their land and independence against Europe’s most ferocious army. They had no masters and practically no laws. However, since they led simple and easy lives, they had no vices to overcome, and hence no virtue or merit in doing what was beneficial for them (Rousseau 2017a). Virtue requires a demonstration of courage in the face of adversity. But it also assumes man’s dedication to the public good and the social order, even if it goes against his natural inclinations. His love of social order means that the public good, which to others is a mere pretext, is a real motive for him. He learns to fight against himself and to prevail, to sacrifice his own interest to the common wealth. It is not true that he gains nothing from the laws; they give him courage to be just, even in the midst of the wicked. It is not true that they have failed to make him free; they have taught him to rule himself. (Rousseau 2015b, p. 416)

Despite his criticism of life in society and the softer qualities of gentleness and peaceful living, Rousseau stresses the importance of social virtues such as caring for the impoverished, loving humanity, and performing good deeds. Moral life in society also entails showing firmness and

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courage in seeking justice for the oppressed, protecting the innocent, and pleading the cause of the wretched before the great, the magistrates, and the king himself. When he becomes an adult and is admitted into public life, Emile acts like a knight-errant, a heroic paladin, and a redresser of wrongs. As in Roman times, he exhibits courage in doing good and boldness in speaking the truth (Rousseau 2015b, p. 202). Social life calls for demonstrations of civic courage and the pursuit of justice. Rome was built on brave actions at war and “that love of fellow-­ citizens one for another, and that respect for the Roman name, which raised the courage and inspired the virtue of every one who had the honour to bear it” (Rousseau 1920d, p. 266). However, life in society gives rise to a more advanced form of courage: states, free nations, and their commanders, who respect their citizens and protect their freedom and inalienable rights. Brave people and nations distinguish themselves by upholding the dignity of man; the ancient Romans thus regarded the life of a citizen as sacred. States that adhere to the republican spirit never permit themselves to be governed by scoundrels. They do not promote lax morals or create laws that force everyone to heed their masters or that exist solely to protect their property and keep “hands out of other people’s pockets” (Rousseau 2017b, Ch. 2). Nor do they instruct their citizens on how to be courageous, which would be of little use. Instead, they urge citizens to emulate the noble magistrates and combatants who sacrifice their lives for their nation (Rousseau 1920d, p. 269; 2015b, p. 199). As in ancient times, institutions promote unselfish courage and the love of liberty, igniting men’s spirits with “true heroic ardour” (Rousseau 2017b, Ch. 9). Far from being a quality that is merely personal, true courage translates into laws that uphold principles of justice and republican freedom for the benefit of all. The Corsicans are vulnerable in this regard. They showed courage in struggling for their liberty. They added prudence to courage by learning to obey their equals and cultivating moral virtues. But they accomplished it all without passing legislation. In the absence of external danger, factionalism has been revived and resulted in dissension, making them turbulent and hard to govern, even by their own leaders. As with any nation, “good laws and a new constitution are needed to re-establish

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that concord the very desire for which has hitherto been destroyed by tyranny” (Rousseau 2017a). Rousseau’s views about courage are well reflected in the French Encyclopédie, written from June 1751 to December 1766 under the editors Denis Diderot and Jean le Rond d’Alembert. In a lengthy article authored by Jean-Edme Romilly, the encyclopaedia addresses the question of courage under the entry for the word “virtue” (Romilly 2005). The general approach of the article is a mix of virtue-based rationalism, moral sentimentalism, intentionalism, republicanism, and Christian morals from the eighteenth century. On the abstract level, virtues designate “all the duties of man, all that falls under the scope of morality.” They enhance each other and cannot exist separately from each other; they are like sisters. However, readers who wish to probe deeper into the matter are advised to avoid systematic thinking, philosophical investigation, and formal reasoning. Citing Montaigne, Romilly argues that ordinary people and peasants have a better grasp of real moral issues than philosophers. This is because virtue is essentially a feeling, which means that its definition lies in one’s heart; “feeling can be known only by feeling.” To understand what virtue is about, people must look at their inner selves and their understanding of humanity. Since people develop arbitrary feelings and assumptions about good and evil, they must judge actions based on their motives and moral instinct or conscience; the latter should not be confused with other passions, which must be kept in check. “The purer the intention, the more real the virtue.” Romilly’s article also addresses the connection between virtue and courage. Etymologically speaking, virtue refers to the force and courage of those who are otherwise weak by nature. As Voltaire writes in the Encyclopédie, the word “force” used in the moral sense “is the courage to sustain adversity and to undertake virtuous and difficult things, animi fortitude.” The habit of “doing well” gives pleasure that “inflames our courage” to serve the greatest good of humanity. The strength gained helps people conquer their weaknesses and subordinate their desires to the rule of reason, in conformity with the God-given laws of Nature. Natural law, moral duty, the exercise of reason, and obedience to the Almighty all converge towards achieving one objective: living a life of virtue. Humans may dispute obscure points of positive law, err in their

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reasoning, and choose the wrong course of action. But they must not let crime and inhumanity define them. Gentleness, goodness, gratitude, justice, and honesty are self-evident virtues or principles that govern all forms of social life and can be found among all nations of the world. Pity is natural to both savages and civilised nations alike, for instance. The feeling is at the root of all social virtues, for “it is nothing other than our identification with those like us, and virtue consists above all of repressing base interests and putting oneself in the place of others.” In his critique of “the dark system” advanced by Hobbes, Romilly insists that moral duties and feelings of pity and sympathy should not be confounded with the principle of utility or happiness based on the rule of self-interest. Nor do they lend themselves to the rule of law that serves the interests of the few, protected by the sovereign and a governing constitution. People will obey laws only if they do so willingly because they find them admirable and just. The implication here is that virtuous morals and their underlying principles take precedence over man-made laws and must be reflected in legislation and politics. A state is on the verge of collapse when citizens fear the rule of might and the strictness of the law above all. Atheism and the pagan love of virtue for its own sake also undermine the moral fabric of society. However well-intentioned they may be, unbelievers inevitably succumb to one temptation or another. They cannot count on a legislating, judging, and rewarding God to help them overcome the many obstacles on the path of righteous living. Rousseau and Romilly praise the humanity and cordial nature of ordinary people and humble peasants. Their relationship to each other, to Nature, and to animals presents a stark contrast to the conduct of the wealthy and greedy of this world. According to Rousseau, humans living in a primitive state used to pursue their private and immediate interests above all. They could not anticipate the long-term advantages of life in society. Some mutual assistance existed in everyday life, as when hunting band members took different positions in the forest in the hopes of tracking down and killing deer for food. No hunter, however, would have felt guilty about leaving his position to pursue a hare, causing others to miss their prey (Rousseau 1920b, p. 210). This is also what Locke’s lone hunter would do, in pursuit of an animal that would become his own property. The instinct of self-preservation comes first.

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The connection between hare hunting and the primacy of self-interest comes up again in The Creed of a Savoyard Priest where Rousseau offers a scathing critique of how rural society is corrupted by the privileges of the rich and their monopoly over large estates and abundant game. The pleasure and hard work involved in hunting hare are ruined by sportsmen riding horses and using twenty guns to run down their pet hares and boars “without skill, without glory, and almost without exercise” (Rousseau 2015b, p.  304). Blinded by their own selfishness, wealthy estate owners have no qualms about throwing poachers into prison and letting hares and boars destroy the corn and bean harvests of the poor. In the end, their predatory behaviour causes as much harm as the thieving animals they chase. Rousseau’s contribution to the development of moral psychology makes room for political and religious concerns. Locke emphasises epistemic considerations, with a focus on how the mind interacts with language and experiential learning. As the following chapter explains, his idea of courage is more in line with that of Nicolas Malebanche, Adam Smith, and Immanuel Kant, all of whom give pride of place to the inward search for truth.

References Addison, John. 2004. Cato: A Tragedy and Selected Essays [1710]. Ed. C. Dunn Henderson and M.E. Yellin. Indianapolis: Liberty Funds. Locke, John. 1823a. An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. In The Works of John Locke, in Ten Volumes, Vols. 1–3. London: T. Tegg. ———. 1823b. Two Treatises on Government. In The Works of John Locke, in Ten Volumes, Vol. 5. London: T. Tegg. ———. 1823c. Some Thoughts Concerning Education. In The Works of John Locke, in Ten Volumes, Vol. 9. London: T. Tegg. Romilly, Jean-Edme. 2005. Virtue. in The Encyclopedia of Diderot and d’Alembert Collaborative Translation Project, trans. M. McAlpin. Ann Arbor: Michigan Publishing. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. 1783. The Reveries of a Solitary Walker. Anonymous translation. In The Confessions of J.J. Rousseau: with the Reveries of a Solitary Walker. London: J. Brew.

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———. 1920a. The Social Contract, or Principles of Political Right. In The Social Contract, Etc., trans. G.D.H. Cole. London: J.M. Dent. ———. 1920b. A Discourse on The Origin of Inequality. In The Social Contract, Etc., trans. G.D.H. Cole. London: J.M. Dent. ———. 1920c. Discourse on the Arts and Sciences. In The Social Contract, Etc., trans. G.D.H. Cole. London: J.M. Dent. ———. 1920d. Discourse on Political Economy. In The Social Contract, Etc., trans. G.D.H. Cole. London: J.M. Dent. ———. 2015a. The Confessions of Jean Jacques Rousseau. Trans. S. W. Orson. Cavalier Classics. ———. 2015b. Émile, or On Education. Trans. B. Foxley. Cavalier Classics. ———. 2017a. Constitutional Project for Corsica. Anonymous trans. In The Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. ———. 2017b. Considerations on the Government of Poland. Anonymous trans. In The Collected Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics.

9 Reasons Examined in Good Conscience

In the early modern period, Descartes and Montesquieu provide explanations of courage based on observable aspects of human physiology and climate. Their simple lines of causation fall short in the face of theories that emphasise the larger and more complex laws of physis and polis. Discussions that consider both the body and the body politic provide insights into the confrontations and balancing of interests between sovereign rulers and their subjects. Positions on these issues cover the whole spectrum of political theory, from Mandeville and La Boétie’s critique of all forms of tyranny to Hobbes’ vision of a strong sovereign authority that overcomes the war of all against all. Moral sentiment theorists take a more optimistic stance on life in society, where the pursuit of individual and collective self-interest follows the natural laws of utility and builds on feelings of social sympathy and humanity. Adding another layer of complexity, many social philosophers incorporate the legacies of Greek rationalism and post-mediaeval Christianity. Thus, the ethics of courage and valour intertwine various theoretical strands with different patterns of thought. They include epistemic rulings based on either the use of reason, which is a cornerstone of natural right theory, or the scholastic teachings of reasoned faith. For those who take this multi-layered approach to courage, the relative value of principles of sociability and freedom against © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_9

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animosity and fate may vary significantly. The path taken reflects each philosopher’s perspective on the role of war and God in shaping human behaviour and social history. Chapters 7 and 8 shifted attention from outward- to inward-looking perspectives on the ethics of courage. The focus was on investigations of moral psychology, which take precedence over politics and draw on Christian faith and virtue-based wisdom from classical antiquity. Nonetheless, efforts to reframe previous ideas advanced thinking by emphasising the significance of social life as well as the limitations of philosophical and religious doctrines. Fortitude comes to the rescue of an intellect riddled with many flaws and a wide range of emotions and social learning experiences. Developments in moral psychology do not exhaust all forms of inner strength explored in early modern times. Some philosophers take a different inward path, one where rational thinking regains its leading position and moves further away from earlier theories of faith and universal logic. In keeping with the spirit of the times, moral injunctions are increasingly derived from the authority of one’s own thinking and insights into issues of good and evil. The canons of philosophy, theology, and science are no substitutes for the judgements and powers of the self-conscious mind. This chapter examines how Nicolas Malebranche, Adam Smith, and Immanuel Kant restore the rule of reason and epistemic wisdom, adapting it to a new age centred on the voice of moral conscience. Human fellowship is at the heart of our existence, and courage lies in the strength of man’s mind searching for truth and freely obeying the laws implanted in him. The chapter concludes with a focus on the few voices that challenge men’s moral superiority over women using these principles.

 he Strength of Mind and the Love of Order: T Nicolas Malebranche Nicolas Malebranche (1638–1715) shares the post-mediaeval sensitivity to the physical, sentimental, and social foundations of courage. In his writing, the connections between the body, human emotions, life in

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society, and Christian morals are explored at some length. At the physical level, he views courage as a feeling or sentiment grounded in the human body and its perception of reality. Things that we perceive with our senses produce traces in our brain that shape the ideas we form about the matching objects or sensations. As a sentiment, courage is not dissimilar to the tree or mountain we are gazing at, or the fear that we may see on a man’s face. It, too, generates visible signs perceived by the senses and imprinted in the mind. Traces stored in the body take the form of “animal spirits” living and moving in a person’s nerves, brain, and muscles, as Descartes imagined them. Their size and level of agitation vary from one individual to another and determine each person’s natural character or temperament. Courage and fear are nonetheless universal sentiments and ideas, as in classical antiquity. The only difference is that they must be probed from within, via a thought process that calls for mental courage and obedience to one’s own “commands” rather than the opinions of external authorities. Some people are better equipped in this regard. Despite a few exceptions, men have greater mental strength than women, for instance (Malebranche 1842, p. 142). But these distinctions do not alter the fact that fear and courageous thinking are universal and form part of God’s preordained natural order and related duties (Malebranche 1842, p. 110). Human desires grounded in the body take many forms, ranging from hope to fearful anticipation of the future, with indecisiveness somewhere in the middle. While fear is at the root of cowardice and jealousy, feelings of courage, daring, and emulation are expressions of hope. But sentiments of courage have a social dimension as well. The brain works in such a way that the body automatically assumes an air of respect for individuals held in high esteem, whether they be friends or men in positions of power. This is natural and beneficial to everyone and society as a whole. As social beings, we tend to agree with those who have influence over us, and we believe they have reason on their side. We wish to be loved and avoid disrespecting others, especially if they have high social standing. We take care not to alienate friends or make enemies by insulting them when they lack courage and are good at hiding it. Nor do we badmouth professors and physicians for the ignorance they display (Malebranche 1993, II 13:5).

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These sentiments are normal and healthy. However, when left unchecked, the games that people play have dire consequences. The danger is that they fool themselves into believing false things without ever realising it. In the company of friends, some become gullible and pay no attention to their inner truth. Opinions and factional interests shape their feelings and behaviours. “It is our machine which is playing its game.” “Now, the body speaks only for the body, of which fact we can never be too aware” (Malebranche 1993, II 7:9). Malebranche blames the errors and disorders afflicting the Christian world on the pressure of opinion—outwardly formed truths bred of mere sentiments and the “contagion of imagination.” The only way out is to seek the wisdom that lies within us. By using the voice of reason, we avoid inflating the courage and temerity of friends and men of standing who consider themselves infallible and say or do whatever comes to their mind. Our duty is to correct them, with prudence and charity, to be sure, but without any form of flattery. Sentiments of friendship and esteem should follow the rule of reason and be challenged when necessary. Otherwise, courage turns into vanity and leads to violence and cruelty. But reason on its own cannot settle all matters of friendship and moral goodness. Malebranche, who endorses Christian teachings on charity and humility, condemns the Stoic tendency to conflate courage with sentiments of fearlessness, self-confidence, infallibility, and superiority. Stoics delude themselves into thinking they are so powerful and free of passion that they can stay wise and cheerful even when in excruciating pain. The pleasure they derive from exhibiting their strength of mind and imagined virtues is fleeting and vain (Malebranche 1842, pp. 379, 399). The story of Cato the Younger illustrates his point. If this Stoic role model was able to bear so much suffering and never become angry at his enemy, it was mostly due to his exaggerated self-esteem and contempt for all those inferior to him. The Roman senator sought an illusory revenge by lifting his spirit above the men he despised, who were all unworthy of his anger and admission of pain. Cato, unlike Christ and his followers, was incapable of showing humility and forgiveness to his offenders. His wisdom lapsed into foolishness and arrogance (Malebranche 1842, pp.185–86).

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The desire for greatness and the esteem of others motivates men to serve their country and show courage in war. But greatness passing for virtue can tear a society apart (Malebranche 1842, pp.  367–68). Like philosophers, many princes are thus in the habit of treating their vices as virtues. Some consider their audacity and cruelty to be evidence of courage, yet they are incapable of promoting peace and the spirit of friendship (Malebranche 1842, pp. 187–88). Heretics and philosophers make the same mistake when they strive to acquire true knowledge on their own, through philosophical reasoning alone, without the support of Christian faith and tradition. The arguments they use to back up their sentiments and strong opinions, all fueled by their vivid imagination, give them a false sense of courage, making them impervious to criticism and doubt. Their ability to impress others further blinds them to the limitations of the human mind (Malebranche 1842, pp. 227, 329, 423–24). Their reputation as learned men goes to their heads, corrupts their souls, and causes them to contradict everyone, including themselves. Their attitude towards the search for truth becomes reckless. “Pride, ignorance, and blindness always go together.” “Strong minds, or rather spirits that are vain and conceited, do not want to be disciples of truth; they enter within themselves only to gaze at themselves, with admiration” (Malebranche 1842, p. 420, my translation). Stoic courage and philosophical confidence are false virtues. They express natural sentiments and desires rooted in the physical world and the human imagination. To be a true virtue, courage must reach a higher level, where people embrace the full implications and hard work of genuine learning. According to Malebranche, every desire or sentiment, whether courage, compassion, or fear, may or may not serve a higher aim consisting of the “love of order.” To uphold this principle, three conditions must be met. First and foremost, thinking must precede action. When considering a course of action, we must make every effort to carefully examine the circumstances and situation at hand. This takes courage and strength of mind. The second condition is freedom of the mind. When reflecting on what we must do, we must resist the urge to act and then freely and willingly consent to it once the examination is complete, or things should not suffer further delays. “Submissiveness of the mind” is the last condition. The final action should follow a rational plan with

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step-by-step instructions executed promptly. This also involves courage, the kind that men demonstrate when they stand firm against the temptation of sin. If we are to show our love of the order created by God, we must ensure that every action we take is guided by the strength, freedom, and submissiveness of our mind (Malebranche 1993, I 8:13; II 1:4). All of this is not for lazy minds. Malebranche remarks that some doctors and chemists lack the courage and patience required to look beyond the observable effects of Nature and the body (Malebranche 1842, pp. 175–76). Others may support the pursuit of higher learning, but they do it for the wrong reasons. Positive sentiments that inspire people to reflect on their actions include the desire to find the truth, seek direction, and assist others. Some people pursue tedious studies for less noble reasons, such as the desire to show off what they know, achieve fame, obtain a position, or elevate themselves above others, as the Stoics do. These are weak and misguided sentiments that expose people to boredom and disappointment. “Vanity triumphs over their natural laziness, but laziness in turn triumphs over their love of truth” (Malebranche 1842, pp. 462–63, my translation). These lower sentiments explain the fact that no one meditates, and that those who do undertake the search for Truth often lack the strength and courage to reach the place where Truth dwells. Fatigued and repulsed, most people try to be content with what they have, or perhaps take consolation in scornfully ridiculing themselves, or in despair blamed on cowardice and baseness of spirit. If they are deceived, they become deceivers; and if they are tired, they inspire sloth and idleness. (Malebranche 1993, I 6:7)

Even those who strive for knowledge and truth may succumb to feebleness and cowardice. For want of courage and strength of mind, they avoid contradicting the opinions held by men in positions of power. The weak of mind renounce their freedom “to honor and love the true power, conform themselves to the divine law, and render their inward and spiritual duties to God” (Malebranche 1993, II 6:15). They let their own feelings dictate their assessment of reality, with no regard for the exercise of reason and the love of truth, as revealed by God. This justifies whatever it is they are doing or thinking; ignorance and sin become inextricably

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linked. As they see it, pleasure and wants exist on their own, independently of the mind (Malebranche 1842, pp. 442, 449). Man’s strength of mind lies in exercising rational thinking while remaining humble and performing his duty towards God. The basic emotions and various manifestations of desire, joy, and sadness can contribute to this noble goal. Desires are then ignited by love, strengthened by hope, enhanced by joy, pursued with courage, and revived by frustration, fear, or anger. All these sentiments are good as long as they serve the twin principles of reason and faith, which find common ground in the love of order (Malebranche 1842, p. 236; 1993, II 6:15). Man is then capable of knowing the true good and loving it. With the help of God, he can achieve felicity by making good use of his freedom and by the strength of his courage, conforms himself to the law, the immutable Order, in spite of the forces of concupiscence, all the while enduring pains, scorning pleasures and rendering to Reason the honor of believing His Word and being consoled by His promise. (Malebranche 1993, I 1:18)

Unlike Stoic happiness, true joy comes from rational thinking, the love of Christ, and adherence to the laws of the Gospel (Malebranche 1842, p. 399).

 elf-command, Sympathy, and the Impartial S Spectator: Adam Smith The Scottish philosopher and economist Adam Smith (1723–1790) holds similar views, notably on the question of life in society, but with a marked preference for Aristotelian ethics over Stoic teachings. Also, he downplays the role of God and shifts the burden of judging man’s moral behaviour to a well-informed and “impartial spectator,” i.e., an inner conscience capable of judging what is right and wrong in each situation. Smith is a firm believer in the Greek wisdom of courage, understood as self-command, a superior virtue that enhances all other virtues, including justice, prudence, and beneficence (Smith 1811a, p.  377). In The

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Theory of Moral Sentiments (1759), he describes self-command as a process of calm deliberation under difficult and perilous circumstances. A man in control of himself remains cheerful even when facing disaster and undertaking thankless deeds. Thus behaved the Roman senator Cato before he took his life into his own hands, refusing to yield to his enemies. Instead of taking solace from his friends’ tears, he armed himself with fortitude and calmly gave orders to ensure their safety (Smith 1811a, p.  77). The man deserves our greatest admiration, not because he was insensitive to his own misfortune, but rather because of the effort he put into mastering his emotions. Smith goes on to qualify his praise of Cato’s Stoicism by noting that a man who does not feel the natural fear of torture or death has no merit for showing indifference in the presence of great danger. The man of perfect virtue who feels pain and fear and conquers both is more deserving. In a sense, he is superior to God, who is exempted from all suffering (Smith 1811a, p. 265). Self-command builds on two contrary sentiments, those of anger and fear. Both are noble as long as extremes are avoided, namely “extravagant fear” or cowardice, on the one hand, and furious anger or “presumptuous rashness,” on the other (Smith 1811a, pp.  419, 480). To achieve the Aristotelian middle ground, fear must have the proper motivation and reflect a sense of decency and dignity that would meet with the approval of others (Smith 1811a, p. 424). Likewise, an angry man should not use his valour to commit an act of injustice, treachery, or vengeance. A man of virtue and heroic daring is worthy of everyone’s admiration if he masters all passions and cultivates “the consciousness of superior propriety” in himself and others. He is esteemed because he rises above all possible situations. If it is pleasure, he has temperance to refrain from it; if it is pain, he has constancy to bear it; if it is danger or death, he has magnanimity and fortitude to despise it. The events of human life can never find him unprepared, or at a loss how to maintain that propriety of sentiment and conduct which, in his own apprehension, constitutes at once his glory and his happiness. (Smith 1811a, pp. 491–92)

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Smith’s reasoning echoes the scholastic distinction between two kinds of passions, the concupiscible and the irascible. Selfish gratifications such as the love of ease, pleasure, and applause are examples of the concupiscible. While they are easier to restrain, these passions play on men’s weaknesses and incite them to commit shameful acts. From a Stoic perspective, the irascible passions are more noble. They assist us in controlling our weaker inclinations. We get angry at ourselves when our drive for pleasure causes us do things that are contrary to reason. Fear and anger are nonetheless hard to hold back, even for a little while. This means we must develop habits of fortitude, manhood, and strength of mind if we are to seek what is honourable despite the risks involved. From a Stoic perspective, the latter habits take precedence over the softer qualities of ethical conduct. Teachings of the Stoa seem chiefly to recommend the great, the awful, and the respectable virtues, the virtues of self-government and self-command; fortitude, magnanimity, independency upon fortune, the contempt of all outward accidents, of pain, poverty, exile, and death. It is in these great exertions that the noblest propriety of conduct is displayed. The soft, the amiable, the gentle virtues, all the virtues of indulgent humanity are, in comparison, but little insisted upon, and seem, on the contrary, by the Stoics in particular, to have been often regarded as mere weaknesses which it behoved a wise man not to harbour in his breast. (Smith 1811a, p. 543)

Smith is not convinced by this manly approach to moral goodness. In his mind, all philosophical systems that promote virtue have something to contribute, including those that value the softer qualities of kindness and beneficence. Fortitude and magnanimity are necessary for upholding proper conduct, but so are kindness and affection for our loved ones. While Epicurus developed an imperfect system, he taught us “how much the practice of both the amiable and respectable virtues is conducive to our own interest, to our own ease and safety and quiet even in this life” (Smith 1811a, p.  544). He showed how all virtues are necessary for achieving security, peace of mind, and happiness in life. This nuanced stance inspired some of his staunchest critics, including Cicero. Smith thus proposes a broader view and understanding of fortitude, i.e., a

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cheerful disposition to endure labour and pain and expose oneself to danger and death in order to defend one’s country, property, and liberty. Prudence, good judgement, and presence of mind all fulfil the same function: they guide us in choosing the lesser evil. The same is true for the habit of justice. It ensures that people abstain from coveting whatever belongs to other people. This keeps everyone safe from violence and gives everyone peace of mind. Men care for others and live according to the laws of civilised countries because it is in their own best interests. Smith adds that the softer virtues of justice and respect for the rights of others are not just reflections of self-love and self-interest. All men have feelings of sympathy for one another. They take natural pleasure in probing the hearts of those who have the courage to communicate their sentiments as they feel them, because they feel them (Smith 1811a, p.  603). When exploring other people’s sentiments, a strong sense of right and wrong is nonetheless in order. But who decides what is “proper” and what is not, one might ask? Does everyone decide on his own? Smith’s answer points to an arbiter of moral conduct known as the “impartial spectator.” This “great inmate of the breast” stands for justice, and thus behaviour that is considered worthy of approval, admiration, and praise (Smith 1811a, p. 227). Each person’s “cool and impartial spectator” upholds justice, gives an object the value or esteem it deserves, and determines the appropriate level of zeal in pursuing it (Smith 1811a, p. 58). Importantly, this inner judge does not condone the rule of self-interest above all else, where each man prefers himself to all mankind. On the contrary, when he views himself in the light in which he is conscious that others will view him, he sees that to them he is but one of the multitude in no respect better than any other in it. If he would act so as that the impartial spectator may enter into the principles of his conduct, which is what of all things he has the greatest desire to do, he must, upon this, as upon all other occasions, humble the arrogance of his self-love, and bring it down to something which other men can go along with. (Smith 1811a, p. 140)

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Unlike many vengeful gods who take sides for their followers in battles with their enemies, this “real, revered, and impartial spectator” rises above the violence and anger of opposing parties who cannot control themselves and get into fanatical fights (Smith 1811a, p. 264). Individuals and nations who lack “propriety of conduct” and refuse to listen to the impartial spectator run the risk of developing corrupt sentiments. This is more likely to happen when people let the spirit of commerce control them, which “sinks the courage of mankind, and tends to extinguish martial spirit” (Smith 1896, pp.  257–58). In commercial countries, many trades are developed, the division of labour is practically infinite, and learning the military arts is of little use to most people. As a result, most people no longer hold military courage in high esteem. “By having their minds constantly employed on the arts of luxury, they grow effeminate and dastardly.” Many go to battle and demonstrate fortitude for motives other than honour and love of country; instead, they fear their officers and punishment under martial law (Smith 1896, p. 262). War may evoke noble ideas of honour, courage, and victory, all of which are well reflected in military gear. Men, on the other hand, see it for what it is: a violent conflict that causes much anguish and a lack of compassion for the suffering of the enemy (Smith 1811a, p. 54). Given the weaknesses of human nature, the basic emotions of self-love, fear, and anger may override the just and proper recommendations of self-command, sympathy, and social gratitude provided by the “impartial spectator.” Men born with rank or distinction are particularly susceptible to breaches of moral duty and courage. They often aim for things that are easily achieved and never look at their inferiors as fellow human beings. As a result, they fail to summon the courage required to defend their country and win the admiration of mankind. They will take minor risks at best and campaign for something that happens to be in vogue. But they recoil “with horror at the thought of any situation which demands the continual and long exertion of patience, industry, fortitude, and application of thought” (Smith 1811a, p. 92). Fortunately, men from the middle and lower ranks of society occupy most of the highest offices and positions in government. Those born into higher classes envy their hard work and skills.

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On a final note, Smith offers his own interpretation of the scene of humans and dogs running down the same hare. His focus is on three moral principles: self-command, the laws of exclusive wealth, and the necessary exchange of goods and sympathies between men. When it comes to self-command, Smith presents the hare as a counterexample of virtue. The creature is naturally timid, fearful, and cowardly, which is why its sense of hearing is so well developed (Smith 1811b, p. 399). As for the laws of material possession, Smith agrees with Locke. He too sees why a man who starts hunting down a hare should be granted an exclusive privilege over the animal (Smith 1896, p. 7). But his most telling observation is on the absence of cooperation between the hunting dogs chasing the hare, a point of little interest to Locke. Unlike humans, who help each other in providing for their material sustenance and security, greyhounds act alone and ignore the virtues of social interaction and division of labour. “Nobody ever saw a dog make a fair and deliberate exchange of one bone for another with another dog.” “Nobody ever saw one animal, by its gestures and natural cries signify to another, this is mine, that yours; I am willing to give this for that” (Smith 1812, p. 20). Dogs and fearful hares point to the absence of what matters most in human history: order and mutual help in society.

 ractical Reason and Imperatives of the Mind: P Immanuel Kant Nicolas Malebranche, Adam Smith, and Immanuel Kant (1724–1804) are kindred spirits in several important respects. For them, courage resides in our inner quest for truth and the mind’s willing submission to laws implanted in us. Passions must be kept in check, and human fellowship is at the heart of our being. Kant nonetheless traces his own path: he stands alone in his attempt to ground moral thinking in the workings of “pure practical reason.” For him, courage of the mind owes nothing to the authority of God, the workings of the body, natural sentiments, or the benefits of life in society. If courage is to be praised, it is on the following condition: it must contribute to the discharge of duty and

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obedience to the moral law that lies within us, discoverable through the insights of pure practical reason. Humans can be of pure and good will provided they freely resist the impulses of Nature and obey the categorical imperative dictated by pure reason, a command that is morally necessary on its own. This “unconditional ought” is universal and cannot be tied to any particular situation. It has intrinsic value and must be pursued non-­instrumentally, irrespective of the gains and the good life that may follow. In essence, it involves the exercise of free will based on rational action. This is the path that humans must always take, no matter how difficult it may be. Nothing should be done to put obstacles on this path. Thwarting the power of self-governing reason is what people do when they treat themselves or others as objects. The formula that captures this understanding of what Kant calls the “categorical imperative” is well-known: “Act as to treat humanity, whether in thine own person or in that of any other, in every case as an end withal, never as means only” (Kant 1949, p. 46). In the kingdom of ends, as he coins it, rational beings come freely together and sovereignly decide to accept this universal law. They govern themselves according to all the rules that follow, including the clearly defined duties of right (e.g., don’t steal) and the more flexible duties of ethics and virtue (e.g., helping others as much as you can). Humans are moral insofar as they obey the categorical imperative and can justify all duties based on their a priori understanding of it. The latter is like a ghostly idea that no one can logically prove or justify through a confession of faith. The freedom to choose according to reason exists as an assumption with no evidence or belief system to back it up. Whenever we act on the rational choices we make, we simply take it for granted that we can freely commit to what reason dictates or decide otherwise. The “unconditional ought” guides men as rational beings. Failing this, they become weak and “unholy enough to be seduced by pleasure to the transgression of the moral law, although they themselves recognize its authority” (Kant 2022, 1). Given the imperfection of human beings, this is to be expected. Obeying the Moral Law is not for the weak of mind or soul. Natural impulses mislead man into pursuing bad ends. To behave morally, man must judge himself capable of conquering these through reason, not in some distant future but in the present moment of

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thinking. “He must judge that he can do what the law unconditionally commands that he ought” (Kant 2022, 5). This takes courage, understood as the freedom, power, and resolve to resist lower desires inherent in man’s imperfect character. To possess virtue, rational men must devote their strength of mind to the battle against vice. Only a god or someone endowed with superhuman talents may possess all virtue without having to fight for it. Fortitude is the moral strength that humans bring to all acts of virtue. The degree of strength that is required for someone to act morally varies and should be proportional to “the magnitude of the hindrances which man creates for himself, by his inclinations.” “Vices, the brood of unlawful dispositions, are the monsters that he has to combat” (Kant 2022, 175). Moral fortitude, however, is not a distinct virtue. For Kant, the plurality of virtues comes from the fact that virtue may be applied to a wide range of moral objects. While the objects may differ, all virtues imply moral strength of the will in the performance of duty. They express so many ways that fortitude can be used to reach rational and moral goals. Kant goes on to say that this moral strength or fortitude represents the greatest and only true martial glory of man. Fortitudo is true practical wisdom because it makes the existence of man as a moral being its own end. The notion is so broad that it becomes synonymous with virtue itself, which is the use of one’s free will to choose, follow reason, and battle evil such as to achieve “an objectively necessary end, i.e., as duty for all men” (Kant 2022, 10). Kant’s understanding of virtue and moral fortitude does not hinge on empirical observations of humans—descriptions of what they are, have been, or will most likely be. Nor does it reflect behaviour that exists and can be observed in the state of nature. Natural courage, determination, and perseverance are qualities of temperament. They are good in the same way that intelligence and other mental talents are desirable. But the notion that they are always morally good is at odds with the many instances where courage and intelligence serve immoral purposes. The same can be said about good fortune, namely power, wealth, honour, health, and general well-being: people can use them to do evil and foster vanity and misplaced pride. If they are to have moral value, qualities, talents, and gifts of fortune must serve the right end, in accordance with

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the categorical imperative. This may not make men happy, but it does make life worthy of happiness, which is the greatest joy (Kant 1949, p. 11). Moral courage expressed in the fulfilment of duty “makes man free, healthy, rich, a king, etc., nor either chance or fate deprive him of this, since he possesses himself, and the virtuous cannot lose his virtue” (Kant 2022, 175). However, while virtue may bring many benefits, it is also its own reward. The same is not true of man’s natural inclination to defend his life, protect his pride and honour, wage war to conquer new territory, or risk peril to gain public admiration and the devotion of family and friends. Acts of courage performed for the sake of self-preservation are instrumental in achieving natural ends, which is desirable. Still, they have no intrinsic worth. Fortitude takes on a dimension of moral goodness only if people choose to stay alive out of duty, even when they prefer to die. The rule applies equally to men’s natural feelings of sympathy for their family, friends, and fellow men and the pleasure they take in protecting them and serving their country with honour. These actions should certainly be encouraged, but they are not necessarily worthy of our esteem. For Kant, any call for action based on people’s need for self-­ preservation or the sympathy and admiration they want to offer or receive lacks an essential element: “the moral import, namely, that such actions be done from duty, not from inclination” (Kant 1949, p. 16). Kant’s discussion of the courage shown on the battlefield illustrates his understanding of how rational man rises above the state of nature through moral conduct. In his view, war is Nature’s means of populating the whole earth (Kant 1914, p. 91). Men and philosophers tend to glorify martial courage as though war was inherently noble. After all, men go to battle for the love of glory and to display their noble character, without regard to personal interests. The truth, however, is that war breeds evil and corrupts people. It is motivated by selfish and irrational goals, much like real politics. Warmongers give in to evils instead of boldly confronting them. True courage does not consist in setting an external goal, acting with resolve, and making the necessary sacrifices along the way. It is more about “facing and overcoming the wiles of the far more dangerous, lying, treacherous, yet sophistical principle of evil in ourselves, which holds up the weakness of human nature as a justification of every transgression of right” (Kant 1914, p. 117).

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Men gifted with a brave temperament and a high sense of honour deserve our admiration. Their fearlessness in the face of terrible danger astounds and frightens. However, this will not necessarily earn them the respect of others. The mind shows respect only to those who set an example of virtue and, despite their personal imperfections, make the moral law visible through their conduct (Kant 1927, p. 169). Soldiers can avail themselves of the right to go to war and act as models, provided they act out of duty. Even in the most highly civilised state this peculiar veneration for the soldier remains, though only under the condition that he exhibit all the virtues of peace, gentleness, compassion, and even a becoming care for his own person; because even by these it is recognised that his mind is unsubdued by danger. (Kant 2000, 28)

Soldiers deserve to be admired as long as they maintain discipline and a fundamental regard for citizens’ rights. The brave disposition of soldiers who expose themselves to many dangers is even more sublime. Going to war for the right reasons awakens in us a lofty power that consists in seeing the things we naturally desire, whether they be goods, health, or life itself, as insignificant in the end. Unfortunately, the noble motives that drive us to fulfil our duty in times of war disappear in times of peace and commercial growth, giving way to selfishness, cowardice, and effeminacy. They are also absent from the practice of dueling, a vestige of societies that are still living in the state of nature. A soldier who fights in a duel for the subjective purpose of regaining his honour may show courage, but not the kind that meets the objective standards of moral law. The principle of “honour among the people” is morally reproachable, and civil states should execute anyone found guilty of murdering a fellow soldier in a duel (Kant 1887, p. 204). Unlike dueling, a war conducted with courage out of duty is “dynamically sublime.” While the force employed may appear daunting and all-­ powerful, it does not overwhelm the soldier with feelings of terror and powerlessness. Paradoxically, war creates fear without people dreading it. Going to war is like facing God or a violent hurricane: even though it

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reminds us how small we are in the presence of mightier forces, we do not flee from it. Instead, we take joy in confronting and evading danger. But only individuals with moral strength are drawn to the forces they fear. They raise the energies of their souls to remarkable heights. They reveal the courage they have in measuring themselves against Nature and its powers of destruction. When at war, moral men find strength in their faculty of independent rational judgement, “a different, non-sensuous standard, which has that infinity itself under it as a unit, and in comparison with which everything in nature is small” (Kant 2000, 28). They discover an energy in their minds greater than the whole world, the kind of power that makes people less eager to join in the atrocities of war. The courage of wisdom frees people from fear and allows them to appreciate and preserve the sublime in Nature as well as in their own moral being. Kant’s view of courage is an exercise in moral metaphysics based on a priori knowledge and rational thought that remains independent of all experience. His understanding of the categorical imperative is open to interpretation, but not to the point where it can be whatever we want it to be. If we were to find an animal metaphor for this soaring concept, it would certainly not be the fugitive hare, a terrestrial species with little courage and even less wisdom in the face of danger. In Kant’s writings, the hare has no teaching value, not even when reflecting on the use of animals as private property, exchangeable commodities, or means of transportation and livelihood. The horse would have more relevance in this regard. But the harmless and guileless dove that flies freely, well above the earth, high in the sky, captures the spirit of Kant’s moral metaphysics better (Kant 1914, p. 108). His description of a dove’s heavenly flight in thin air conjures up not the Holy Spirit of the scholastic era but rather the scientific spirit of mathematical thinking—i.e., “a brilliant example, how far, independently of all experience, we may carry our a priori knowledge” (Kant 1878, p. 5). Nonetheless, Kant provides a warning: the dove should not imagine that if there was no air resistance, it would move with more freedom and speed. Plato attempted to achieve this by thinking in an airless space. Rejecting the limitations of sense in his search for knowledge, the Greek philosopher ventured

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upon the wings of ideas beyond it, into the void space of pure intellect. He did not reflect that he made no real progress by all his efforts; for he met with no resistance which might serve him for a support, as it were, whereon to rest, and on which he might apply his powers, in order to let the intellect acquire momentum for its progress. (Kant 1878, p. 6)

Kant criticises rational thinkers for rushing the process of speculative thinking. They lose the ability to think critically and invent all sorts of justifications for flimsy conclusions that do not follow from categorical imperatives of the mind. If philosophers wish to fly high, they must undergo a long process of introspection and elucidate “that which (though in a confused manner) was already thought in our conceptions” (Kant 1878, p. 6). A priori knowledge can only be grasped through the power of intellectual “disinvolvement.” This entails disentangling ideas that imply each other and uncovering them through sustained efforts of the intellect searching for truth. For Kant, doves flying against the wind that resists and carries them evoke the dynamic flight, brave effort, and lofty power of pure practical reason. This is the intellect working its way through the foundations of moral philosophy.

Women’s Voices and Strength of Mind Many early modern philosophers address issues of social life and the imperatives of our shared humanity. For all that, they do not advocate the absolute equality of all people. In his discussion of human evolution, Rousseau remarks how the struggle to survive incited men to develop the arts of hunting and war and assert their superiority over animals and other humans in the process. Thus, “by looking upon his species as of the highest order, he prepared the way for assuming pre-eminence as an individual” (Rousseau 1920, p. 209). Admittedly, women are the first casualties of men achieving power and taking pride in their conquests. Rousseau may question class inequalities and related views of moral strength, but he also extols military valour and dismisses femininity and women’s ability to set examples of courage. The same analysis applies to Kant. In his view, moral judgements and behaviour are founded on freedom and

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strength of mind, regardless of the natural conditions and other circumstances of people’s lives. Still, his discussion of the dynamically sublime nature of heroism in combat is clearly slanted towards the manly and soldierly performance of duty. This narrow framing of courage parallels a long tradition of misogyny and “national egoism” in theories of virtue. Like Rousseau, most advocates of republican ideals fail to question long-standing clichés about the subordination of women to men. Gender disparity is self-evident to someone like John Adams, the second president of the United States (1797–1801). In a letter to Thomas Jefferson (Oct. 10, 1817), he portrays France and England as “great, rich, old, corrupted commercial nations.” Their liberty and free government, he explains, are perpetually torn between the masculine principles of courage and self-confidence and the feminine principles of timidity and servitude. Using a fable from Plato, Adams likens their mode of government to that of Love, the son of the god of riches and the goddess of poverty. The fabled son inherits from his father the intrepidity of his courage, the enthusiasm of his thoughts, his generosity, his prodigality, his confidence in himself, the opinion of his own merit, the impatience to have always the preference; but he derives from his mother that indigence which makes him always a beggar; that importunity with which he demands everything; that timidity which sometimes hinders him from daring to ask anything; that disposition which he has to servitude, and that dread of being despised, which he can never overcome. (Jefferson 2014)

Thomas Jefferson is also a strong advocate of democracy. He contends with Adams that new nations will inevitably succumb to greed and effeminacy as they advance and become affluent. The source of evil and moral weakness does not lie in the pursuit of wealth. Nor does the fertility of the land “effeminise” its inhabitants, as Montesquieu claims. Human passions are, in fact, natural and universal. Agricultural people seek their interests no less than commercial nations, and all display strength and courage in their endeavours to increase their means of enjoyment. Mankind declines and becomes effeminate only when one part “has been accustomed to resign itself to oppression, and another part to

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abuse its power” (Jefferson 1817, pp. 162–63). Corruption through the habit of power allows one percent of the nation to amass vast wealth while “the rest are debarred by oppression, and devoured by misery.” Jefferson’s condemnation of injustice and oppression is commendable, but the misogynistic language he uses to describe their impact, such as the cowardice of the weak, is a worn-out refrain. Voices that challenge male-centred views of courage, if only timidly, are few and far between. The well-known French philosopher and mathematician Nicolas de Condorcet (1743–1794) is one of them. He advocates the primacy of reason over faith in public affairs and promotes equal rights for women and people of all races. He denounces the religious bigotry that plagues all Christian sects and applauds the “superior courage” of free thinkers who regard religion as a human invention worthy of outward respect but support the rule of reason above all (Condorcet 1795, p.  195). All the same, he too equates effeminacy with vice and moral weakness. This is clear from his discussion of the origin and natural circumstances of courage. Condorcet argues that men living in countries with fertile soils are no less courageous or fit for war than men living on barren lands. He then rejects Montesquieu’s notion that land fertility is crucial in developing a “certain love of life” that is not conducive to battles for liberty. However, this leads him to argue, as Jefferson does, that inequality, misery, and the effeminate spirit of servility and slavery that follows are characteristics of wealthier nations. In his words, “when mention is made of effeminacy and corruption, inequality is to be understood thereby” (Condorcet 1811, pp. 197–98). On the rights of women to citizenship, Condorcet nonetheless lists Elizabeth of England, Maria Theresa, and the two Catherines of Russia as examples of women endowed with courage and strength of mind. Their example shows that all women deserve to exercise their natural rights (Condorcet 1912). Similar views are expressed in the Declaration of the Rights of Woman and of the Female Citizen (1791). The declaration, signed by the French revolutionary activist and feminist Marie-Olympe de Gouges, recognises women’s superiority not only in beauty but also in courage, as evidenced by their ability to endure labour pains. The declaration calls on women to

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courageously oppose the force of reason to the empty pretentions of superiority; unite yourselves beneath the standards of philosophy; deploy all the energy of your character, and you will soon see these haughty men, not groveling at your feet as servile adorers, but proud to share with you the treasures of the Supreme Being. Regardless of what barriers confront you, it is in your power to free yourselves; you have only to want to. (Gouges 1979)

Mercy Otis Warren’s comprehensive study of the American Revolution, extending from 1765 up to the ratification of the Constitution in 1788–1789, is also worthy of mention. The author lauds the native courage of the Americans. She portrays this newborn nation as driven by the love of freedom (Warren 1994, I p.  99; II p.  204). Led by Divine Providence, her people were “emancipated by the uncommon vigor, valor, fortitude, and patriotism of her soldiers and statesmen.” They showed the whole world how millions could be “freed from the bondage of a foreign yoke, by that spirit of freedom, virtue, and perseverance, which they had generally displayed from their first emigrations to the wilderness, to the present day” (Warren 1994, II p. 199). Warren praises the American sense of self-denial and ability to endure patient suffering, such as starvation and famine (Warren 1994, I pp. 180, 230; II pp. 8–9, 132, 158, 257). Their fortitude is unparalleled. They also display a wide range of virtues, including sobriety, industry, magnanimity, honor, and humanity (Warren 1994, I p. 102; II pp. 63, 204). Lastly, the American are wise and possess the ability to control their emotions through the exercise of sound judgement, a quality that is essential in situations where panic typically sets in (Warren 1994, I p. 163; II p. 13). Women’s courage was also severely tested by the American Revolution (Warren 1994, I p. 197). While men stood firm in the face of adversity, there are many instances of women who exhibited the same resolve and gave a glorious example of female fortitude. They submitted patiently to inconveniences never before felt, to hardships they had never expected; and wept in secret the miseries of their country, and their separation from their tenderest connexions, with whom they were forbidden all intercourse, and were not permitted the soft alleviation of the exchange of letters. With becoming dignity, they had secluded themselves from the gaieties of the

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city; and refused on all occasions, to partake of any amusements in company with British officers; while with a charitable hand, they visited and soothed, whenever possible, the miserable victims crowded on board prison ships, and thrust into jails. (Warren 1994, II p. 54)

Mary Wollstonecraft (1759–1797) is no less critical of gender stereotypes. In A Vindication of the Rights of Men (1790), she debunks the myth that littleness, sweetness, and weakness form the very essence of femininity, ordained by God. Virtues that command respect—fortitude, justice, wisdom, and truth—allegedly interfere with the pleasing feelings that women are expected to inspire (Wollstonecraft 1790, pp. 33–34). In her mind, however, the notion that women must neglect reason and morals to secure beauty is offensive. It suggests that half of the human species do not possess immortal souls. Another problem with this conventional view is that contradictory feelings cannot coexist. Pain and virtue cannot mix with pleasure and sex, and admiration should never disturb the tenderness of love. If this is the case, she questions how God’s love can inspire such reverence and respect for the Almighty. The argument against “giving a sex to virtue and the mind” and pitting reason against passion becomes even more incisive in A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792). Echoing the tenets of moral sentimentalism, Wollstonecraft observes that men have superior judgement and more fortitude than women. This is not because they exercise better control over their passions but quite the opposite: “They give a freer scope to the grand passions” (Wollstonecraft 1792, p. 90). To assert their superiority, they belittle women’s passions by reducing them to silliness. The artificial weakness and infantile airs that men expect of women explain the female propensity to adopt conniving and domineering behaviours rather than developing admired qualities such as strength and fortitude (Wollstonecraft 1792, p. 13). Wollstonecraft is particularly critical of Rousseau’s view of woman as a coquettish slave to man, a fairer sex obliged to become “a more alluring object of desire, a sweeter companion to man, whenever he chooses to relax himself ” (Wollstonecraft 1792, pp.  25–26). If she cultivates wisdom and fortitude, the cornerstones of all human virtue, she must do so with moderation, knowing that obedience is her most important duty.

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For Rousseau, a woman leaving the nursery to join a military camp, the school of heroic virtue, is simply unthinkable. In rebuttal, Wollstonecraft explains that military training has little to do with virtue. If anything, camps encourage “freaks of ambition” and “finesses and effeminacy,” the opposite of male fortitude (Wollstonecraft 1792, p. 120). Armies are not made up of resolute, robust men acting under the influence of strong passions and vigorous faculties. In truth, officers are mainly concerned with their appearance. They are particularly fond of dancing, crowded rooms, adventures, and ridicule. Like the fair sex, the business of their lives is gallantry.—They were taught to please, and they only live to please. Yet they do not lose their rank in the distinction of sexes, for they are still reckoned superior to women, though in what their superiority consists, beyond what I have just mentioned, it is difficult to discover. (Wollstonecraft 1792, p. 24)

Wollstonecraft is adamant about offering women the same fundamental rights and education as men. This means providing them opportunities to exercise both their bodies and their minds, integrating steady behaviour with mental training. Women must be allowed to develop “the patient fortitude of reason,” knowing that fortitude presupposes “forbearance” and strength of mind rather than obeying out of fear (Wollstonecraft 1792, p. 146). By making them rational creatures and free citizens, women stand a better chance of becoming good wives and mothers, she adds. The comment is fraught with ambiguity. It suggests that women should not strive to be equal to men in every way; both are moral creatures, but men are bound to surpass women in the achievements of virtue. As Wollstonecraft puts it, “should experience prove that they cannot attain the same degree of strength of mind, perseverance, and fortitude, let their virtues be the same in kind, though they may vainly struggle for the same degree” (Wollstonecraft 1792, p. 33). In an ideal society, men still prove themselves to be superior, and the existing order remains unchanged. In An Historical and Moral View of the Origin and Progress of the French Revolution and the Effect it Has Produced in Europe (1795), Wollstonecraft reaffirms her commitment to the social moral order. She holds on to an

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age-old definition of courage, understood as the absence of fear in the presence of danger and threats to freedom, combined with people’s subordination to the ruling order, all guided by reason and prudence. In her own words, wisdom, precision, and courage, are the permanent supports of authority—the durable pillars of every just government, and they only require to be, as it were, the porticos of the structure, to obtain for it, at once, both the admiration and obedience of the people. To maintain subordination in a state by any other means is not merely difficult, but, for any length of time, impossible. (Wollstonecraft 1795, p. 159)

Both men and women should never relinquish their rights and become degenerate slaves. They must not lose noble qualities of the heart and show servility and littleness of mind, eager as they are to receive honours and ascend to positions of authority at any cost (Wollstonecraft 1795, p. 179). Despite their limitations, early modern claims about men’s and women’s equal courage were and continue to be inspiring. Questioning two thousand years of misogyny in the field of ethics is a daring move by all standards. It anticipates views of courage that are universal and inclusive, applicable to people from all nations and walks of life. But these developments in moral philosophy must await radical transformations in modern culture and society. Until then, brave encounters between self and others continue to fall short of the mark; much remains to be done in building the dialogical foundations of our shared humanity. Entertaining the idea that Nature and life forms other than humans might enter Kant’s “kingdom of ends” rather than serve their masters as “means only” is also left for another time.

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References Condorcet, Nicolas de. 1795. Outlines of an Historical View of the Progress of the Human Mind. Trans. Anonymous. London: J. Johnson. ———. 1811. A Commentary and Review of Montesquieu’s ‘Spirit of Laws.’ Trans. Anonymous. Philadelphia: P. Duane. ———. 1912. The First Essay on the Political Rights of Women. Trans. A. Drysdale Vickery. Letchworth: Garden City Press. Gouges, Olympe de. 1979. The Rights of Women. In From Women in Revolutionary Paris. 1789–1795, ed. D. Gay Levy, H. Bronson Applewhite, and M.  Durham Johnson, 89–96. Champaign, Illinois: University of Illinois Press. Jefferson, Thomas. 1817. A Treatise on Political Economy. Trans. Count Destutt de Tracy. Georgetown: J. Milligan. ———. 2014. The Papers of Thomas Jefferson. 1 September 1817 to 21 April 1818. Retirement Series, Vol. 12, ed. J. Jefferson Looney, 81–83. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Kant, Immanuel. 1878. The Critique of Pure Reason. Trans. J.M.D. Meiklejohn. London: G. Bell. ———. 1887. Philosophy of Law. Trans. W. Hastie. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. ———. 1914. Eternal Peace and Other International Essays. Trans. W. Hastie. Boston: World Peace Foundation. ———. 1927. Kant’s Critique of Practical Reason and Other Works on the Theory of Ethics. Trans. T.K. Abbott. New York: Longmans. ———. 1949. Fundamental Principles of The Metaphysic of Morals. Trans. T.K. Abbott. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill. ———. 2000. The Critique of Judgement. Trans. J.H. Bernard. Amherst, NY: Prometheus. ———. 2022. The Metaphysical Elements of Ethics. Trans. T.K.  Abbott. Good Press. Malebranche, Nicolas. 1842. De la recherche de la vérité. In Œuvres de Malebranche. Paris: Charpentier. ———. 1993. Treatise on Ethics. Trans. and Intro. C.  Walton. Springer, International Archives of the History of Ideas. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. 1920. A Discourse on The Origin of Inequality. In The Social Contract, Etc., trans. G.D.H. Cole. London: J.M. Dent.

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Smith, Adam. 1811a. The Theory of Moral Sentiments (1759). In The Works of Adam Smith, Vol. 1. London: T. Cadell. ———. 1811b. Of the Nature of that Imitation which Takes Place in what Are Called the Imitative Arts. In The Works of Adam Smith, Vol. 5. London: T. Cadell. ———. 1812. The Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations. In The Works of Adam Smith, Vol. 2. London: T. Cadell. ———. 1896. Lectures on Justice, Police, Revenue and Arms. Oxford: Clarendon. Warren, Mercy Otis. 1994. History of the Rise, Progress, and Termination of the American Revolution Interspersed with Biographical, Political and Moral Observations. In Two Volumes. Indianapolis: Liberty Fund. Wollstonecraft, Mary. 1790. A Vindication of the Rights of Men. London: J. Johnson. ———. 1792. A Vindication of the Rights of Woman with Strictures on Political and Moral Subjects. London: J. Johnson. ———. 1795. An Historical and Moral View of the Origin and Progress of the French Revolution and the Effect it Has Produced in Europe. London: J. Johnson.

10 The Evolution of Mind, Species, and Society

 unning with the Hare and Hunting R with the Hounds Learning from experience, the hand of fate, the voice of conscience, the expression of free will, the power of self-command, and the sentiments and categorical imperatives of life in society—these are major themes that shape inward-looking contributions to the ethics of courage in early modernity. Issues of knowledge are particularly important in this literature. By and large, the rule of practical reason is of paramount importance, but with a series of caveats that are long overdue. Philosophers introduce uncertainties, unknown quantities, and elements of arbitrariness into the workings of the mind. This softer approach to knowledge is well captured by Montaigne’s parable of a hare that chooses, against all logic, not to hide or flee when hunted and still hopes to survive. The tale suggests that the laws of Nature and reason can be broken. Also, humans can learn from experience and change their habits, much like hounds that stop chasing when fed good food, to borrow Turnbull’s analogy. Ready-made precepts and absolutes are no substitutes for the school of life and the teachings of freedom. Accordingly, statements of right and wrong must pass the test of one’s © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_10

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own conscience and the exercise of judgement, which may contradict established opinions and the canons of religion, philosophy, or science. Thinking subjects fly on their own, as high as Kant’s dove. They fly on the wings of ideas into the space of pure intellect, well above terrestrial animals like the hare. These advances in theories of knowledge open new avenues for future discussions about courage and other moral issues. But they also come at a cost: the rift that develops between individual assessments of good and evil and moral directions stemming from others, authoritative bodies, or society as a whole. How can people follow their consciences without raising the suspicion of subjectivism and relativism, one might ask? Interestingly, the question raises another riddle: how can intellectuals speak authoritatively about the limitations of any authority other than one’s own conscience? Ironically, the credibility of theories of courage still depends on the wisdom of philosophy and its monopoly on truth, with universal statements about the myriad ways people can approach the subject. To solve the riddle, the philosophers of today should embrace the concept and practice of genuine dialectics—engaging in ongoing discussions and debates about the nature of courage and moral goodness in all aspects of life. Kant’s argument that we should all act only on principles that we can will to become universal laws is fundamental in this regard (Kant 1949, p. 38). It invites the whole of humanity to develop a common response to the question that forever haunts us: What moral laws do we wish to establish for ourselves, hoping they can take root in the present world and continue to evolve for the good of all? But this is not what Kant had in mind. His categorical imperatives emanate from the authority of pure practical reason, not from exchanges of views and arguments among all souls and minds. Theories of courage that rely on dialogue and deliberation to achieve global wisdom while recognising different world views and mindsets will have to wait for another time. On questions of polity, the contribution of early modernity revolves around the moral implications of social life and human fellowship. Feelings of sympathy, love, kindness, benevolence, mercy, and pity are celebrated. As Smith points out, men are social beings capable of compassion and generosity; they are not like dogs that never exchange anything,

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let alone cooperate when hunting hares. With a few exceptions, notably John Locke, most early modern philosophers rally around this principle. Rousseau is critical of wealthy estate-owners and hares that pillage the forest and destroy the livelihood of rural people; they ignore what it means to care for others in this world. Leading thinkers also agree on the importance of free will in demonstrations of courage, notably when exercising freedom of conscience. Spinoza stands alone in thinking that humans cannot learn or choose to be anything other than what they are. Men are men, and hounds are fated to remain as they are, forever running after hares. Freedom and togetherness are the twin pillars of the Age of Reason. For all that, inequalities and differences in wealth and power are not condemned; far from it. “Cordial sentiments” do not translate into a clear celebration of the equal courage of men and women in all nations and corners of society. While critical of social inequalities, Rousseau’s thinking about gender differences falls well within the prejudices of his age. Just as hares are hares, women are weak by nature. Men are men, with the expectation that they will be brave. What is more, principles of human fellowship and social living will not stop men from chasing wealth and power. According to Locke and Smith, any hard-working man who hunts or removes a hare from the commons can demand respect for the rights of private property. Spinoza uses the same hare metaphor to underscore the weight of a Universe that divides those animals and humans with mental and physical strength from those who are weaker and flee. Inequalities between individuals and nations reflect the will of God and Nature. The Universe ordains that those who are naturally strong in body and mind will succeed where others fail. In short, sociability and inequality are not incompatible. Pre-modern philosophers believe that men can run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. As in other eras, early modern discussions of fortitude raise existential concerns about happiness and well-being in life. Except for Kant and Locke, leading intellectuals tone down the sternness of Stoic virtue and make allowances for the richness of our learning experiences, the emotions we feel for others, and all things that make life worthwhile. In the writings of Rousseau, natural living, hard work, and attachment to the land also help build up the character of brave men. As he sees it, courage

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involves real heartbeats and heartfelt emotions experienced in settings that conform to the laws of Nature and human sociability. This enlightened vision of harmony with Nature and within society reverberates to this day. Even so, the vision has flaws. One drawback is that humans are still cut off from the world as we know it. As in previous traditions, people have no moral debt to the natural world and the Earth they share. Their only debt is to the natural order that dwells in them. The beginnings of humanism, however inspiring, are tinged with moral egoism at the species level. In his own way, Kant is also committed to a view of the natural world that consists of mere objects to be exploited as means of livelihood, the mirror image of thinking subjects that should never be treated as means only. Most philosophers see no difficulty with reducing the myriad objects and life forms dwelling in Nature to private property and national wealth. The superiority of humans, some more than others, is self-evident. In the modern era, philosophy and science expand on this world view, with a focus on the principles of dynamic evolution in time. Moral courage derives energy from the powers of the mind, battles for freedom, and the benefits of social living, all of which develop in accordance with the laws of Nature and social history. These are themes well explored in the monumental works of Hegel and Darwin, to which we now turn.

 he Owl at Dusk: Georg Wilhelm T Friedrich Hegel The writings of Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770–1831) herald the dawn of new perspectives on moral life and the meaning of courage. The German philosopher shows no hesitation or ambivalence with respect to the role of abstract thought and reason in the realm of ethics. The essence of human courage resides in universal ideals that cannot be grasped by the senses or dictated by the clergy. The idea of courage stems from the Spirit of Reason, which progressively unfolds over time and achieves full realisation in the civilised world through the hard-won accomplishments of organised labour, modern industry, oversea trade, the sovereign state,

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and advances in its military capabilities. For Hegel, those who restrict the ideals of courage to battles for individual excellence or the wellness and preservation of life aim too low. They fail to see where successive ages are taking the “ideal spirit” of courage—towards its most energetic manifestation in history. In a Hegelian perspective, expressions of courage evolve inevitably towards the most elevated form of social existence: the “living mind” of a civilised world where free citizens bravely defend the highest standards of moral duty in the service of the State and the “whole organic framework of civil society.” Modernity makes full use of man’s vitality and vigour to replace inferior stages and everything they stand for: fear of Nature, a focus on personal character and sentiments, and a propensity to indulge in feminine idleness and sensuality. Hegel’s philosophy of the mind is key to understanding his stance on the ethics of courage. To begin with, the philosopher acknowledges that anger and courage are emotions or mental states that manifest physically, i.e., in the breast, the blood, and the “irritable system” of the body. Likewise, thinking is felt in the head (Hegel 1894, p. 24). But this is not to say that courage is in the blood and anger in the gallbladder. In truth, when it comes to a man’s vital being—a life of feelings, inclinations, ideas, and imagination—the animal body plays a lesser role compared to the spirit. While the “ideal spirit” of courage and other mental states dwell and manifest themselves in the human body, they have no natural existence of their own. In The Philosophy of Fine Art, the University of Berlin professor explains that sculptures of the human body represent “the natural and sensuous existence of Spirit.” Accordingly, physical shapes are far more exalted than what the animal body permits (Hegel 1920, III p. 128). Classical Greek sculptures depict the body in its uniqueness while also expressing the ideal side of Spirit. The feeling soul takes on an external form that is material and visible in space, with an emphasis on impressive bodily frames and strength, for instance. But while individual features and forms are stressed, no attention is given to the body acting on its own or surface expressions of anger, such as trembling hands or moving lips (Hegel 1920, III pp. 128, 164). Likewise, human and animal forms are combined to capture an idealised version of the world.

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The horse, for example, receives attention because of its close association with heroic courage, bravery, dexterity, and beauty. The lion and the wild boar serve rather as prey for heroic deeds (Hegel 1920, III p. 179). Other arts, such as military music, are also apt to trigger feelings of courage; the pipes of the Highlanders and the Marseillaise have undeniable effects. The true source of martial enthusiasm, however, is the idea behind it. It resides in the true interest of the Spirit with which a nation is steeped, and which can be exalted to a more direct and living feeling when the notes of music, the rhythm and the melody carry along whoever may give himself up to them. (Hegel 1920, III p. 366)

When it comes to confronting death and defeating the enemy, military music alone makes no difference. At war, courage does not come from the sound of trumpets and the pounding of drums. More to the point, it is born of “ideas, cannon, and the genius of generals” (Hegel 1920, III p. 367). Almost all nations, including the most barbaric, are capable of bravery and possess traits such as magnanimity, self-denial, and self-sacrifice, qualities that some people hold in the highest regard. The observation suggests that social virtue is not the prerogative of civilised Christian states. Mankind is not progressing towards higher principles and ideals of life, one might conclude. In The Philosophy of History, Hegel emphatically rejects this view, arguing that morality should not be defined solely in subjective terms, independent of universal truths (Hegel 1956, p.  66). Men ought to be courageous, whatever the context may be. But not all forms of courage or bravery reflect the highest standards of moral life. The animal, the thief, the man of honour, and the gallant knight all demonstrate bravery, but of different types. Courage among civilised people is clearly the highest form, essentially because it is impersonal and devoted to a universal cause, a true absolute and ultimate end, which lies in the sovereignty of the State. Robbers, murderers, and adventurers seem brave when they commit crimes without fear, even if it means risking their own lives. However, the modern world elevates bravery to another level by

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making it “mechanical in its expression, being the act not of a particular person, but of a member of the whole” (Hegel 1896, p. 335). Bravery is directed against a hostile whole in support of another, thus becoming more abstract. It is also backed up by the invention of the gun, which makes the act of killing less concrete and less personal. In the words of Hegel, true courage is a “readiness to offer up oneself in the service of the State, so that the individual counts only as one amongst many” (Hegel 1896, p.  334). Given this stance, the military represents the “universal grounding of courage” more than any other class. Their duty consists in defending and bringing into existence the ideals, or “ideality,” of the State, and sacrificing themselves in the process. As in the writings of Plato, their anger embraces reason as it defends the wisdom of the State. By turning individual freedom against itself, it achieves a higher level of freedom, securing order through civic society and State-life (Hegel 1892, II p. 106; 1920, II p. 373). Military heroism thus promotes manly vigour and the “calm courage of order.” This is the best defence against conquest and effeminacy, which “makes men the slaves of enervated sensuality” (Hegel 1956, p. 188). Black slaves fighting for their freedom, aided by their remarkable physical strength, set an example in this regard. Although offensive, the history of slavery teaches that true freedom is achieved by men who make abstractions of their individual interests. Slaves fought for their own freedom and respect from others by acting bravely and not caring about their own lives (Hegel 1956, p. 96). Hegel’s discussion of bravery does not stop here. In his view, soldiers are not the only ones who bravely contribute to the general good and freedom of modern state life. Industry also raises courage to a higher level. In the course of history, the Phoenicians built magnificent ships and braved the perils of the sea, risking their lives and property for the sake of gain. Courageous sailors used cunning to conquer the most treacherous and unreliable force of Nature, the sea, leaving behind nations that subsisted solely on the spoils of Nature and its bounty (Hegel 1956, p.  90). Oversea trade combined intelligence with daring and intense human activity.

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Here everything depends on Man’s activity, his courage, his intelligence; while the objects aimed at are also pursued in the interest of Man. … In Industry Man is an object to himself, and treats Nature as something ­subject to him, on which he impresses the seal of his activity. Intelligence is the valor needed here, and ingenuity is better than mere natural courage. At this point we see the nations freed from the fear of Nature and its slavish bondage. (Hegel 1956, p. 192)

Hegel’s thinking on the courage of industry is well reflected in a passage borrowed from Thucydides. He quotes the Athenian historian’s use of Pericles’ funeral speech, praising the kind of philosophy that boldly embraces practical activity and conscious engagement in public affairs, the opposite of effeminacy and inactivity. This courageous energy, one that never shrinks from perilous situations, is essential to achieving the common good in the interests of “Man’s Spirit and Life,” as Hegel puts it (Hegel 1956, p. 161). Courage grows with the advancement of industry. In civilised nations, every worker takes part in the overall division of labour as well as the myriad trades and business activities of the State. They are part of an organic whole that does not depend on any single person’s accomplishments, virtues, or prowess. The same evolution applies to the army and the justice system. Modern-day generals may show courage, determination, and intelligence, yet these personal characteristics matter less compared to the arsenal at their disposal, over which they have little control (Hegel 1920, I pp. 247, 260). This was also true of the Roman armies; while they secured their victories through courage and discipline, their “articulated organisation” played a decisive role (Hegel 1956, I p. 304). As for the administration of justice in modern states, it is no longer a matter of personal heroism displayed by the few. Instead, everything is organised, coordinated, and enforced according to a complex set of general principles, regulations, and norms. Various people and a hierarchy of officials all contribute to the systematic effort of investigating a crime, issuing a judicial sentence, and carrying it out. The Dutch come the closest to presenting a model of civilised bravery. They showed vitality in reforming their church, overcoming religious despotism, and defeating Spain as a world power. Urban-dwelling

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citizens, businessmen, and well-to-do burghers all stood up with courage and audacity to defend their religious and civic independence. They preserved “the freedom of their hardly-won liberties and the particular privileges of their provinces, cities, and guilds” (Hegel 1920, III p. 304; see II p. 382). Their spirit of industry, bravery, thrift, and self-attained liberty account for their prosperity, rectitude, as well as the “superabundant joys of ordinary existence” well depicted in Dutch art. Paintings of the Italian Renaissance also convey a view of courage that serves an ideal civil life, which contrasts sharply with mediaeval representations of intimate piety. The gladsome, forceful self-reliance of the citizen in the midst of his professional career, the business and the craft that was bound up with such qualities, the freedom, the manly courage and patriotism, in one word, his weal in the vital activities of the Present, all this newly-awakened sense of human delight in the virtues of civil life and its cheer and humour, this harmonized sympathy with what was actual in both its aspects of ideal life and the external framework of the same, all this it was which entered now into his artistic conceptions and modes of presenting such and was made valid therein. (Hegel 1920, III p. 326)

Hegel is critical of premodern forms of heroism, which centre on the primacy of individual habits and sentiments. His views on the subject transpire in his discussion of Christian martyrdom and the successive ages of art and philosophy. Teachings and representations of Christian martyrdom glorify an overly inward form of courage where guardians of the Divine keep waging war against the material world. To maintain their personal faith and the spiritual beauty of love, martyrs must suffer great pain and face death in exchange for afterlife blessings. They cannot cultivate healthy bodies and minds due to expectations of steadfastness and perseverance (Hegel 1920, II p.  317). The actual courage, faith, and actions of these exceptional individuals are divorced from social reality and the material world. Manliness becomes an attribute of singular humans without reference to “the universal type” that completes them via the progressive unfolding of history (Hegel 1920, III p. 308). Hegel follows the same line of thinking in his portrayal of the heroic age and literature of antiquity. In the Homeric tradition, external objects

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or places that heroes encounter attest to the physical energy, skills, and sense of cunning that manifest their courage and bravery. Lifeless things embody the energy and vital consciousness of the hero’s own worth (Hegel 1920, I p. 352). This is true of the epic genre in general, where individual courage takes centre stage. The hero’s self-conscious qualities and natural temperament contribute to national exploits and shape the outcomes of war. Ethical considerations based on conscious deliberations of the will have no place here. Also, the bare events are mere external circumstances. They are of interest only inasmuch as they relate to the aims and pursuits of individual heroes. In the end, what drives the narrative is the spiritual nature of man’s heroic character colliding with the objects of war (Hegel 1920, IV pp. 129–30). These views prevail in an age where no state can guarantee the security of man’s external environment and possessions. Instead, the protection of life and property “depends on the isolated energy and courage of each individual by himself ” (Hegel 1920, I p. 249). Courage in the Middle Ages is problematic for another reason. It promotes physical health but cannot reconcile it with the soundness of the mind. Bravery is rather the outcome of the secret wealth of the soul, its honour and chivalry, and is in the main a creation of the phantasy, which undertakes adventures that have their origin in individual caprice and the chance intricacies of external circumstance or the impulses of mystical piety, and we may add generally the personal attitude of the individual. (Hegel 1920, II p. 331)

The age of romantic love emphasises the active, courageous, and disinterested union of two persons. There is no universal quality to feelings of love, which remain essentially private and personal. Lofty sentiments lack any tangible commitment to the “actual content of organic human life” and related considerations of family life, country, profession, status, freedom, and religion (Hegel 1920, II p. 343). Men who show remarkable courage in defending their reputation or the honour of a lady do so out of caprice and without any sound justification based on an independent system of law. Bravery is “relegated to the entirely haphazard criteria of individual judgment” (Hegel 1920, II p. 372).

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Hegel is equally critical of the egotistical brand of morality and honour that prevails in contemporary Germany, the kind that is driven by narrow personal and class interests. It lacks the soul breadth, consistency, sharpness, and ruthless courage required to overthrow the rule of hierarchy in religion and law. The Germans have yet to develop a higher form of courage, the kind that can stand up against a regime governed by a few powerful priests and a ruling caste that claims to possess “the knowledge of what is eternal, divine, true, and right, and by whom other men should be commanded and directed” (Hegel 1892, III pp.  390–91). To reach true bravery, Germany must be steadfast in defending the principles of free speech, reason, and will. Hegel has great admiration for Goethe, a contemporary statesman and writer whom he praises for his tireless scientific pursuits, his ethical maxims, and the courage of his youth. He also eulogises “the well-organized force and ideal beauty of his manhood, and the wisdom and genius of his old age” (Hegel 1920, IV p. 217). However, he reproaches him for his inclination to rebel against the “whole organic framework of civil society” and the loss of self-sufficiency in modern times. Goethe errs in pitting the heroic sentiments of the Middle Ages, such as personal courage and a private sense of right, against the legalised fabric of modern society. He wrongly extols the hero who breaks the law on his way to becoming the champion of right and self-proclaimed avenger of wrong, injustice, and oppression. In reality, private revenge can only foment criminal activity (Hegel 1920, I pp. 261–62). Hegel also objects to Goethe’s self-torturing reflections and tendency to dwell on emotions while missing a fundamental feature of all genuine character: “It carries within itself both the courage and the strength to do and to will some actual thing” (Hegel 1920, I p. 323). Real actions matter. In The Phenomenology of Spirit, Hegel rejects the idea that moral life rests on man’s subjective awareness of personal duty, to be discharged freely regardless of its objective implications. The problem with subjective morality is that it is abstract and has no reliable content. “As the abstraction called ‘duty’ is capable of every content, it is quite equal to that of cowardice” (Hegel 2009, p. 294). Ethical systems that are formally empty can justify the use of violence and wrongdoing to protect one’s life or independence from others. This is not to argue that

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moral conduct and courage should be based on universal principles alone. Hegel is critical of Plato in this regard. Plato defines courage as “a firm opinion about what may justly and lawfully be considered an object of fear, courage which, in its strength of purpose, remains unshaken either by desires or pleasures” (Hegel 1892, II p.  102). According to Hegel, what is missing here is the subjective freedom of a man’s personal conviction; he is not free to organise himself and integrate his moral qualities and individuality into the overall organisation of the State. Individual particularities should not be dissolved in the universal, where “all men simply rank as man in general” (Hegel 1892, II p. 109). The German philosopher introduces the same nuance in his approach to the ideal of art. It too must remove the hard line that lies between human individuality and the universal, letting the latter find its way into “living forms of the world of objects” (Hegel 1920, I p. 249). In civilised nations, the sentiment of courage is impersonal, as it ought to be, but in a way that resolves many antagonisms. The courageous citizen is admired for his sense of self-sacrifice, self-control, and obedience. Nonetheless, his life of service allows him to achieve greater individual freedom and experience a strong sense of personal resolve and high spirit. Similarly, his personal animosity and hostility towards criminals is mixed with a healthy dose of indifference and even kindness towards them as individuals (Hegel 1896, p. 334). Bravery is both his own and the expression of a universal ideal. Hegel’s idealistic mindset makes it difficult to find an animal that can stand for his ideal of courage. The hare is clearly not a good candidate for that role. For Hegel, the long-eared mammal evokes the nonsense of Greek and Roman omens and related superstitions, with momentary hints of the divine (Hegel 1892, II p. 298; 1920, II pp. 192–93). The lamb and the dove fall short of the mark as well. A universal community of Christian kindness led by humble and loving souls is far too heavenly and otherworldly for Hegel’s taste. Souls that are perfectly gentle and melancholic indulge in superficial emotions (Hegel 1892, III p. 21; 1920, I pp. 322–23). They will never form the great body of a nation, any more than the

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lice or parasitic plants could exist for themselves, or otherwise than on an organic body. If such men were to constitute a nation, there would have to be an end of this lamb-like gentleness, this vanity which occupies itself exclusively with its own individual self, which pets and pampers itself, and ever has the image and consciousness of its own excellence before its eyes. For life in the universal and for the universal demands, not that lame and cowardly gentleness, but gentleness combined with a like measure of energy, and which is not occupied with itself and its own sins, but with the universal and what is to be done for it. (Hegel 1892, II p. 94)

Foxes are more edifying in that they possess the power of cunning. But their cuteness disqualifies them from becoming models of courage (Hegel 1920, II p. 120). Evocations of the ancient lion come closer to Hegel’s idea of bravery. In the history of art, the king of beasts carries the abstract attributes of magnanimity, strength, courage, and heroism (Hegel 1892, I p. 137; 1920, I pp. 103, 252). The problem with lions, however, is that they often serve as foils for men’s heroic deeds (Hegel 1920, III pp. 164, 180). Also, they are wild and not suited to evoke the advancement of industry, organised labour, and military discipline in modern civilisation, themes that are central to Hegel’s understanding of the human spirit and the unfolding of history. Battalion and draught horses are better candidates in this regard. Together with iron, horses are the chief instruments of conquest and progress in America (Hegel 1956, p. 82). They anciently drew the chariots of kings and were mounted by glorious knights and courageous Arabs reputed for their “more stubborn independence of personal character” (Hegel 1920, II p. 173). Because of their “fiery animation,” horses are “generally in a close relation to the courage, bravery, and dexterity of human heroism and heroic beauty” (Hegel 1920, III p. 180). When it comes to showing strength and courage, the mighty horse has much to offer. All the same, for all its sublime evocations, the comparison is flawed, essentially because of the debt it owes to animal life. Hegel argues that the only being that can do justice to the abstract ideals of moral life is the figure of man himself, freed from all animal representations. True art is found in paintings, sculptures, and poems that capture the spirit of human and divine freedom in purely human forms.

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Interestingly, one animal may perhaps convey the latter idea, if only as a passing metaphor: the Owl of Minerva. The bird stands for the state of Athens as well as science and the wisdom of reason and philosophy. At the end of his Preface to The Philosophy of Right, Hegel explains that the task of philosophy is to apprehend its time in thoughts, not to rejuvenate it. He portrays his own era as revolving around the idea or essence of the State and its actual reality. At long last, “what is rational is real; and what is real is rational” (Hegel 1896, p. xxvii). Through the State, the spirit of reason has become conscious of itself and its present reality. Greek philosophers made the mistake of idly removing themselves from the business of the state and creating a kingdom of thought in opposition to the real world (Hegel 1892, I p. 52). Instead of trying to build up reality as it ought to be, Hegelian philosophy reconciles itself with the living history and full realisation of the spirit of reason. The science of the State achieves this mission, which consists in freeing the mind and letting it find itself in the present world. True philosophical wisdom, however, comes only at the end of a long formative history, or late in the day, as it were. It makes its appearance like the owl of Minerva, which “takes its flight only when the shades of night are gathering.” For Hegel, history teaches that only in the maturity of reality does the ideal appear as counterpart to the real, apprehends the real world in its substance, and shapes it into an intellectual kingdom. When philosophy paints its grey in grey, one form of life has become old, and by means of grey it cannot be rejuvenated, but only known. (Hegel 1896, p. xxx)

Grey is the colour of old age, wisdom, the end of the day, the dimness of the past, and the shapes of life that have reached maturity and are fully known. It is the colour of abstract scientific principles that are ripe fruits of knowledge just waiting to be plucked (Hegel 2009, p. 163). In hindsight, the notion that humanity has reached such wisdom is dubious, if not laughable. Given the history of modernity and the present state of the world, it is not surprising that Hegelianism has aged rather badly and now takes on the hue of a bygone age of philosophy. It has the melancholy mist of a civilised world struggling to assert the superiority of the

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intellect over the body, reason over emotion, manly vigour over feminine sensuality, industry over the love and fear of Nature, the sovereign State over living individuals, and civilised nations over the entire world. Sadly, the courageous building of solidarity that humanity requires in this global age is still in its infancy.

 he Law of Inheritance, Natural Selection, T and Social Sympathy: Charles Darwin Like Hegel, Auguste Comte (1798–1857) is a firm believer in the great achievements and forward march of the civilised world towards higher forms of intelligence, courage, and freedom. However, the founder of positivism places less confidence in the teachings of philosophy and more in the advancement of positive science and human biology, notably phrenology. His passing remarks on courage are tainted by his theory concerning the general evolution of society and knowledge, which proceeds through three successive stages: fictitious theology, abstract metaphysics, and positive science. From a scientific perspective, courage is a basic disposition to brave danger, best illustrated by primitive hunters and soldiers fighting in battle. Martyrs and scientists may display the same kind of courage. But they do so under the influence of higher faculties of the brain and mind, as studies of the conformations of human skulls suggest (Comte 1880, p. 396). Hunting and war also evolve towards the use of greater prudence and cunning under the leadership of older chiefs known for their superior experience and wisdom (Comte 1880, p. 573). Progress in science and mastery of Nature, when paired with higher ideals, particularly those of the French Revolution, encourages men to forsake foolish beliefs in supernatural forces and divine Providence that protect human beings from all hardships and tribulations in life, real or imagined (Comte 1880, pp. 526–27, 751). While he admired Comte, the English naturalist Charles Darwin (1809–1882) has more to say on the biological foundations of courage and its stages in natural and social evolution. In his view, these questions are best studied through directed observation rather than logical

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speculation. In The Descent of Man, he defines courage as an emotion, an instinctive impulse, or a mental quality that is shared by animals and men alike (Darwin 1874, pp.  69, 110). In the animal kingdom, courage is generally inherited by members of the same family. Qualities of the parents are usually passed on to offspring of the same sex (Darwin 1874, pp. 28, 240, 516). The laws of natural inheritance are nonetheless complex and subject to many variations. Some animals are more courageous than others; the game-notorious rooster fighting its rival to the bitter end is a good example (Darwin 1874, p. 363). Also, different members of the same species have different levels of courage. For instance, not all dogs and horses are mean (Darwin 1874, p. 69). Variations within the species play a crucial role in the transmission of courage and other natural qualities, notably among males. They give rise to a process of sexual selection and the corresponding laws of battle and competition that serve the general welfare of the species. Briefly, sexual selection depends “on the ardour in love, the courage, and the rivalry of the males, as well as on the powers of perception, the taste, and will of the female” (Darwin 1874, p. 240). On the male side, animals with better means of offence and defence, as well as greater courage and fighting instincts, among other qualities, are more successful at driving away their weaker rivals. They are well equipped to attract, possess, and protect the more vigorous females, which are the first to breed. As a result, they have more progeny and transmit to their offspring the advantage they have over less successful males. Over time, this twofold process of sexual selection and inheritance improves the weapons or enhances the size, strength, and courage of dominant males (Darwin 1874, pp. 210–11, 214, 404–5, 501, 515, 552–53). But the work of natural evolution does not stop here. To understand the origins of courage, one must investigate all laws of natural selection, including the advantages of living in society. According to Darwin, social and maternal instincts and feelings of sympathy within a family or species drive some animals to behave heroically and protect others against enemies endowed with greater strength (Darwin 1874, pp. 103, 110). The ape-like ancestors of man became social by developing the instinctive feelings that drive animals to “live in a body.” Ever since, man’s commitment to life in society has been highly rewarded. A loyal man who serves

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his community by demonstrating courage in difficult times is universally honoured and admired. He possesses a quality that is ranked above all other virtues, including prudence. His high standing originates from his ability to maintain self-control, endurance, and little concern for his own life. But a more lasting reward comes from the social and moral faculties of sympathy, fidelity, and courage: namely people’s collective ability to survive in greater numbers, based on the laws of natural selection (Darwin 1874, pp. 107, 118). When two tribes of primeval man, living in the same country, came into competition, if (other circumstances being equal) the one tribe included a great number of courageous, sympathetic and faithful members, who were always ready to warn each other of danger, to aid and defend each other, this tribe would succeed better and conquer the other. Let it be borne in mind how all-important in the never-ceasing wars of savages, fidelity and courage must be. The advantage which disciplined soldiers have over undisciplined hordes follows chiefly from the confidence which each man feels in his comrades. (Darwin 1874, p. 130)

One community gains an advantage over another by raising moral standards and thus the number of men who show feelings of patriotism, fidelity, obedience, courage, and sympathy. Even if not every member of society may benefit from these traits, they are good for society as a whole and improve natural selection in the general population (Darwin 1874, p. 132). Communities with superior social and moral values defeat selfish communities that cannot govern themselves. They also slowly diffuse their qualities throughout the world. Darwin thus claims that the advancement of civilisation hinges on some nations prevailing over others as they produce “during a lengthened period the greatest number of highly intellectual, energetic, brave, patriotic, and benevolent men” (Darwin 1874, p.  142). By way of example, the remarkable success of the English in North America is a demonstration of the law of natural selection in the moral sphere. Their audacity and persistent energy account for their ascendency over colonists of French extraction. Similarly, natural

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selection explains the remarkable progress of the United States and the character of its people. As evidence of this, Darwin observes that “the more energetic, restless, and courageous men from all parts of Europe have emigrated during the last ten or twelve generations to that great country, and have there succeeded best” (Darwin 1874, p. 142). Biology and the laws of natural selection also explain gender-based inequalities. In earlier stages, men and women worked equally hard to provide for their own subsistence and that of their families. They were equal in this regard. Still, man is taller by nature and is stronger and more courageous, combative, and energetic. These qualities are in part the legacy of half-human animal ancestors and many generations of savagery. The laws of sexual selection, which are based on the “success of the strongest and boldest men, both in the general struggle for life and in their contests for wives,” govern their history (Darwin 1874, p. 563). The fight between younger and older males for “the possessions of the females” lasted for many generations and was decided by physical strength and stature, but only when combined with courage, perseverance, and “determined energy.” However, when it comes to natural selection, intelligence is equally important. Here again, men have the edge over women in that they have more “inventive genius” (Darwin 1874, p. 557). Throughout the ages, stronger men have been able to better defend their females and children against enemies, hunt for their joint subsistence, and fashion weapons to attain their goals. All of this requires the support of higher mental faculties, namely observation, reason, invention, or imagination. These various faculties will thus have been continually put to the test and selected during manhood; they will, moreover, have been strengthened by use during this same period of life. Consequently in accordance with the principle often alluded to, we might expect that they would at least tend to be transmitted chiefly to the male offspring at the corresponding period of manhood. (Darwin 1874, p. 564)

Darwin adds that courage gives a greater advantage than intelligence. If a man competes with a woman or another man and the two rivals are

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of equal intelligence, the one who has more energy, courage, and perseverance will gain the upper hand. He concedes that with civilised people, the battle for the possession of women has ceased. All the same, the men continue to have greater strength, if only because the general rule has not changed: they must work harder than women for their joint subsistence. According to Hegel, an ideal humanity can only emerge from itself and the Spirit of Reason as it progresses through successive stages of history. Courage, which is an essential component of this ideal, is fully realised in the civilised world, in the “whole organic framework of civil society,” and in the State organised as the living mind. It follows that only man can bring the concept of courage to life. In contrast, Darwin sees courage through the lens of natural science. Man descends from ape-like ancestors endowed with human-like attributes and complex emotions such as love, anger, and courage. In the long run, the laws of sexual selection and biological inheritance explain why people with better social, intellectual, and moral traits, which tend to be more developed in males, end up conquering those who are weaker and less committed to collective goals and battles for the common good. In hindsight, no one should feel shame in discovering that he descends “from that heroic little monkey, who braved his dreaded enemy in order to save the life of his keeper, or from that old baboon, who descending from the mountains, carried away his young comrade from a crowd of astonished dogs” (Darwin 1874, p. 564). Darwin’s approach to morality repudiates a long tradition of theological and philosophical debates concerning the ethics of courage. The shift speaks to humanity’s long-awaited reconciliation with the natural world and life on Earth. Nevertheless, many of the social generalisations presented in The Descent of Man should be recognised for what they are: old ideas sanctioned under the garb of natural science. For one thing, the idea that feelings of social sympathy and bravery bring many individual and social advantages is a direct legacy of early modern philosophy. But more worrying is the simplistic, lingering association of courage with physical strength, energy, and perseverance. This line of thought leads Darwin to develop a theory of social evolution littered with misogynistic and racialised stereotypes that have plagued discussions of courage since Greek antiquity. His description of the Fuegians he met in 1832 illustrates the point. He portrays them in

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the likeness of man’s barbarian ancestor, “a savage who delights to torture his enemies, offers up bloody sacrifices, practices infanticide without remorse, treats his wives like slaves, knows no decency, and is haunted by the grossest superstitions” (Darwin 1874, p.  619). Sadly enough, this kind of argument is now part of the legacy of social Darwinism and a long tradition of European imperialism and ethnocentrism. Evolutionism may have narrowed the gap between humans and Nature, but it has also created the perfect mindset for countless forms of oppression across the globe and the bloodiest events in recorded history. Hegelian philosophy and Darwinian science lay the foundations for modern perspectives on the progressive development of mental and biological life. But they do not settle the matter of courage once and for all, let alone the issue of humanity’s future and well-being on a global scale. As with all other approaches to concerns of goodness and social life, moral evolutionism based on epistemic foundations or the laws of Nature rooted in physis lends itself to profound transformations and theoretical adaptations of all kinds. In Chap. 11, I discuss the many ways in which evolutionary conceptions of courage have evolved over time, and not always for the better.

References Comte, Auguste. 1880. Positive Philosophy. In Two Volumes. Trans. H. Martineau. Chicago: Belford, Clarke. Darwin, Charles. 1874. The Descent of Man, and Selection in Relation to Sex. London: Murray. Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich. 1892. Lectures on the Philosophy of History. In Three Volumes. Trans. S. Haldane. London: Kegan Paul. ———. 1894. Hegel’s Philosophy of Mind. Trans. W. Wallace. Oxford: Clarendon. ———. 1896. The Philosophy of Right. Trans. S.W. Dyde. London: G. Bell. ———. 1920. The Philosophy of Fine Art. Trans. F. P. B. Osmaston. London: Bell. ———. 1956. The Philosophy of History. Trans. J. Sibree. Toronto: Dover. ———. 2009. The Phenomenology of Spirit. Trans. J. B. Baillie. Lawrence, Kan.: Digireads.com. Kant, Immanuel. 1949. Fundamental Principles of The Metaphysic of Morals. Trans. T.K. Abbott. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill.

11 Variations in Evolutionary Ethics

Hegel lays the groundwork for a leitmotiv of the nineteenth century: the idea of active and energetic courage, an approach that endorses the ethics of rational thinking, freedom of the will, bravery in battle, and evolutionary progress. While embracing the same ethos, Charles Darwin abandons the abstract idealism, universalism, and state-centric views of Hegelian philosophy. He shifts the discussion from speculative philosophy to observational studies of positive science and biology, with a lasting impact on studies of evolution and moral issues in social history. In his seminal work, the laws of natural inheritance and selection explain the dominance of individuals and communities with superior mental faculties. They also give an advantage to those who have higher levels of energetic strength, self-control, endurance, as well as bravery inspired by feelings of loyalty and sympathy within the group. This chapter examines the contributions of philosophers and scientists who apply and adapt these principles to their own understanding of courage and life in society. Herbert Spencer and Leslie Stephen expand on the evolutionary competitiveness of complex social organisations that nurture the growth of manly vitality along with rational thought and the ideals of civilised society. These and other adepts of social Darwinism accommodate whatever ideals are deemed beneficial to the forward march © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_11

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of humanity. Different stances on the nature and evolution of courage range from the Christian idealism of John Fiske and Samuel Alexander to the moral egoism of Paul Rée, the scientific and cultural relativism of Edward Westermarck, the egalitarianism of Peter Kropotkin and Charlotte Gilman, and Arthur de Gobineau’s racism masquerading as science.

L evels of Social Complexity and Vitality: Herbert Spencer and Leslie Stephen History remembers Herbert Spencer (1820–1903) for his polemical views on what he called the “survival of the fittest,” which he illustrated with a troop of monkeys braving danger to save one of their own or to defend females with young fleeing an enemy (Spencer 1893, II p. 23). In line with Darwinism, the social and natural history student argues that human courage has no intrinsic value. Like other cardinal virtues, its usefulness lies rather in the natural pursuit of happiness (Spencer 1893, I p. 36). Far from being a product of rational thinking, the value of courage comes from the sight of smiling faces and the pleasure they procure. Inversely, cowardice is associated with frowning faces and other marks of enmity. In aboriginal societies, experience teaches people to equate courage with happiness. The attribute evokes everything that is good and its opposite, everything that is bad. People cultivate moral feelings without having to provide reasons for their utility to the tribe or even to themselves. Nor do they have to understand the relationship between existing rules against cowardice and their actual benefits (Spencer 1891, I p. 343). In primitive societies, special strength, courage, skill, and cunning enable a man to become a leader in battle. These qualities allow the ruler to control his followers and inspire fear among them, reducing their readiness to injure or offend him (Spencer 1893, I p.  115; II p.  314). Demonstrations of skill and courage command respect and provide security against robbery and the invasion of property (Spencer 1893, I p. 356, II pp. 202–203). Might is right. However, virtues are many and compete with one another, which means that a man’s worth may not necessarily

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reflect his courage or show of strength and anger. Also, priorities change over time. As humans evolve, the relative importance of each virtue shifts. Male courage is critical in primitive societies that depend on war and hunting for their survival. The courage deployed in predatory activities is highly valued by the tribe and brings honour to the ones who possess it. Activities of the weaker sex, such as gathering wild fruit and shellfish, have less value and may even be despised (Spencer 1893, I pp.  366, 422–23). From a Darwinian perspective, special courage enhances someone’s chance of survival and is likely to be passed down to future generations. Since war reduces the population of weaker groups or tribes, the stronger end up populating the Earth and furthering the “interests of the race.” Spencer, on the other hand, maintains that there is no reason to expect that courage will increase through natural selection in subsequent generations (Spencer 1893, I p. 406). The primacy of strength and courage, in fact, applies only during the early stages of evolution. Over time, as larger societies develop and attain higher levels of social organisation, the struggle for existence and the survival of the fittest depend less on the use of violence. Strength, courage, and cunning cease to be the chief virtues and offensive wars no longer serve the best interests of humanity (Spencer 1893, II pp. 202–203). Instead, powers of the mind propel human progress. The value of education increases, but not at the expense of physical training (Spencer 1911, p. 152). Leaders in advanced societies, which are complex and relatively peaceful, must have “not a love of conquest but a desire for the general happiness; not undying hate of enemies but a calm dispassionate equity; not artful manœuvring but philosophic insight” (Spencer 1891, p.  314). Races fitted for higher forms of social life prevail and develop ethical ideas and sentiments that condemn aggression and permit the use of military force solely for defensive purposes. Modern nations honour men who defend themselves or their country only when attacked. A soldier’s bravery is “a manifestation of that indirect egoism which makes it the interest of every citizen to prevent national subjugation” (Spencer 1893, II p. 363). Civilised morals go even farther, instilling feelings of sympathy and benevolence towards the innocent victims of violence. Men of

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true courage are willing to risk their own safety to fight the stronger, who use violence to harm others physically and emotionally. But the courage which prompts the succoring of one who is ill used, and which, against odds of superior strength, risks the bearing of injury that the weaker may not be injured, is courage of the first order—a courage backed, not as in many cases by base emotions, but backed by emotions of the highest kind. (Spencer 1893, II p. 363)

Spencer criticises self-proclaimed Christian teachers for not setting a good example, especially when it comes to educating the young. He questions the ethics of public schools run by the clergy, which allow for the ill-treatment of the young and the weak. Instead, they should condemn bullying and promote courage in attacking difficulties and persevering through trial and error (Spencer 1911, p. 81). More importantly, schools should teach the ethics of evolution—showing kindness by standing up for the weak, even if it means facing harm or criticism from others. The most advanced type of man and society “cannot exist without a strength of sympathy which prompts such self-sacrificing beneficence” (Spencer 1893, II p.  364; see II p.  401; 1911, p.  236). Superior men believe in justice and take offence when personal rights are violated or the social order is attacked. They have little in common with men who are hired to conquer small and weak nations or tribes, fearsome as they may be. The courage of mercenaries “is to be admired about as much as is the courage of a brute which runs down and masters its relatively feeble prey” (Spencer 1893, II p. 362). Spencer describes how some men grow in courage and intelligence as they respond to threats posed by others or the forces of Nature. Men who repeatedly fail to overcome such threats become averse to taking risks and feel justified in being cautious and timid. Those who are more successful because of their physical, mental, or emotional superiority, on the other hand, develop more courage. Over time, they might come to enjoy acting bravely, even to the point of miscalculating the consequences of their action and behaving foolishly rather than bravely. While courage should be admired, it is critical not to go above and beyond what is reasonable under the circumstances. Factors that people should consider when

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facing danger include what is the right thing to do and their ability to act bravely, given their age, state of health, and personal traits. Variations in this “personal equation” determine the level of risk they should take. The central question to ask is what proportion “should be maintained between the degree of danger and the ability to meet the danger” (Spencer 1893, II pp. 365–66). Too many men pass as courageous when they are simply stupid and reckless, unable to understand the implications of their actions. Whatever their motivation, they should keep in mind that prudence is the better part of valour. English scholar and historian Leslie Stephen (1832–1904) outlines his own version of social Darwinism in The Science of Ethics, emphasising the use of practical reason and the rule of prudence, or “hare morality,” as he calls it. “Be strong, and therefore courageous” is still the general law of nature that applies to all stages of social history. The more people there are who prove to be strong, brave, disciplined, energetic, and hard-­ working, the more likely it is that society as a whole will be able to survive adversity and attacks from outside foes (Stephen 1882, pp. 175–77, 206). But the law also accounts for the evolutionary advantage of civilised society, where social vitality is on the rise. In early stages, fighting power is essential to survival. The stronger races, headed by the best warriors, cultivate military qualities, most of all bravery, and exterminate the weak. The advantage of the strong and the brave is passed on to subsequent generations. Thus, the importance of military training and talent for a gentleman in contemporary England is a holdover from the past. Over time, however, society becomes more complex, and military activity and virtues become less critical. Feelings of chivalry grow together with sentiments of sympathy towards enemies who exhibit high levels of courage. Civilised races come to understand the value of courage in battle, a quality that becomes “intrinsically admirable” and is honoured regardless of who possesses it. At the same time, men’s increased intelligence and power of judgement pave the way for a more nuanced understanding of courage and its potential excesses. Men no longer confuse bravery with rashness. Nor do they necessarily condemn a man who flees danger out of caution, using the standard of “hare morality,” so to speak (Stephen 1882, p. 179). Prudence matters and is not synonymous with cowardice. Men do not show courage by engaging in reckless behaviour

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that borders on stupidity. Rather, their actions show how they can “keep their heads” and use reasoning to consider all relevant circumstances, make sound decisions, and act calmly and responsibly. Modern times have made courage a part of a fully formed character that blends the peaceful energy and instincts of rational thought and industrious work with military courage and excellence in combat. Courage is no longer enough to sustain social vitality. It follows that not all members and classes of society need to be brave. While chastity continues to be required of women, cowardice is now acceptable in certain circumstances (Stephen 1882, p. 176). But greater intelligence on its own does not suffice either. Without moral guidance, rational thought can always help people pursue their own selfish interests and generate greater cowardice on average. This represents a disadvantage for the race, providing those who are more stupid and therefore bolder a better chance of survival. According to Stephen, the more intelligent races have an advantage under the following conditions: “The race must not simply become more intelligent, but become more intelligent in such a way that its social qualities improve along with its intellectual” (Stephen 1882, p.  188). This implies that there is more to the higher stages of social life than courage or the power of reasoning. For courage to be part of a higher social type, it needs to be linked to feelings of kindness. A hunter who shows no fear for his life when he meets a tiger deserves praise. Even so, he is no match for the brave man who rescues another from a tiger’s claws, at great risk to his own life (Stephen 1882, p. 181). Courage on its own is admirable. A man is esteemed for his boldness even if he is a failure in other respects. If the same man were a coward in addition to his other flaws, we would hate him without reservation. Nonetheless, the esteem we have for a man who uses his faculties to serve society is on a higher level. We admire the man for discharging his duty intentionally, performing concrete deeds under trying circumstances for the good of others (Stephen 1882, pp. 182–83, 273, 280, 299). Acting as a model of moral courage, he contributes to the growth of social life and related instincts. With the advancement of civilisation, new habits of social thinking and tacit reasoning foster sentiments of chivalry and sympathy that extend well beyond the boundaries of one’s tribe or community. People come to recognise the difference between lower and higher

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forms of courage. They realise that military success depends increasingly on demonstrations of moral courage, discipline, and obedience, all of which are reflected in attributions of merit and rank. The bravery of a soldier on the battlefield (or a hunter confronted with a tiger in the jungle) is not in the same league as the courage of a commander facing great danger and assuming heavy responsibility. Other virtues, such as temperance, also matter. Men become increasingly conscious of the evil consequences of losing control over their instincts. A “moral and prudential law” grows as people realise the pain they inflict on others when they indulge their senses and appetites (Stephen 1882, p. 192). Applying the law of prudence to the pursuit of pleasure thus becomes a prerequisite for courage and moral behaviour in general. Then the individual is stronger and the society is stronger so far as his passions are regulated in a certain way, and including alike the passions which have a direct bearing upon the individual life and those which have a direct bearing upon the social bond; whence the virtues of temperance and chastity. (Stephen 1882, p. 216)

In modern times, society is more complex, and so are men’s definitions of what makes a society vigorous and related standards of conduct and social fitness. Selfish, tyrannical, or hypocritical courage is recognised for what it is: the antithesis of virtue, undermining society’s vitality and potential for survival (Stephen 1882, pp. 181, 184). Although an instinct may seem useful to the individual, it merits approval only when it benefits the whole race and fosters courage for the good of all. Stephen adds, however, that seeing the social usefulness of courage is not enough for men to cultivate it. Efforts to implant moral principles through sheer reasoning and philosophical speculation are futile. Men typically embrace without reflection the norms upheld by their neighbours and fellow members of their race. They are not instinctively brave, like bulldogs, who face danger without fear or conscious thought. But neither are they guided by the summon bonum of philosophers, a “chief good” that holds true in all contexts and stages of development (Stephen 1882, pp.  67, 205). Instead, normal men learn from real life and the teachings of social history (Stephen 1882, p. 328).

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In the early stages of evolution, repeated acts of courage taught men a hard-won lesson: a race owes its survival to military bravery and its natural readiness to confront danger. Over time, “men came to recognise the advantages already obtained by the brave, and the recognition tended to intensify as also to modify the sentiment already implicitly existing” (Stephen 1882, p.  186). Observation and progress in mental faculties help bring out the individual and collective advantages of courage, coolness, and resourcefulness in situations of danger. Observing and assessing the outcomes of brave actions furthers the development of rules of social approval and disapproval. In higher stages of social life, men thus “come to have a wider perception of the bearing of their conduct in every direction, and this perception modifies the actions and instincts; but it must always start from a pre-existing organisation of character and society.” Morality begins with the condemnation of actions deemed harmful to society and then evolves towards a clear recognition of the qualities required to achieve “the highest social type.” The first step in this long evolution is to experience the effects of courage and the social consequences of mixing it with rashness or selfishness. Real-life experiments precede and have primacy over any conscious reasoning or philosophical speculation about the utility of virtue. If the instinct for courage and other expressions of social vitality endure, it is due to their factual utility in a race’s struggle for existence. Learning from history, whether reasoned or not, is key to survival (Stephen 1882, p.  187). Consciousness can nevertheless offer value to the process by thinking beyond the established conventions, standards of behaviour, and attributes reflected in language. A long-standing tradition that shows respect for courage and transmits it through military training is even more compelling if its effective contribution to society’s overall vitality, welfare, and happiness is made explicit. Society comes to understand how, in what ways, and under what conditions or constraints its energy and instincts are critical to its survival and general advancement. Moral courage can emerge from a sudden shift in living conditions, such as when individuals are obliged to go to war and adapt their habits and moral tastes to their new circumstances. Morality proper, however, develops in tandem with the ability to grasp general principles. This is what happens in higher stages of social history. Morality reaches new

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heights through a reasoning process and “the conscious aim at some social ideal implying an accurate perception of the conditions of life” (Stephen 1882, pp. 189–90). The general principle of social utility, or fitness for the conditions of life and general happiness, is extended to everything, including the growth of practical reason, intellectual faculties, and rules of moral conduct. Stephen’s take on social evolution reflects a pragmatic view of knowledge acquired and validated through real-life experience. His science of ethics serves to justify every right action based on the maximum good it produces for the individual and society as a whole. The utilitarian approach he proposes seems attractive and compelling. However, a thorny problem haunts his stance on moral issues, as it does all other formulations of moral scientism: the circular reasoning used to elucidate the relationship between experience and knowledge. Utilitarians claim that something is good if it is truly useful. This begs the question: what brings moral philosophers to decide that something is useful in the first place? This may be known from history and experience, one might reply. The answer has some merit and seems grounded in common sense. It is nonetheless seriously flawed. It assumes that our experiences of life and history are mostly unbiased and objective—unfiltered by how we interpret reality, including where we stand on issues of individual and collective goodness. The idea that moral reasoning is a simple derivation of direct observation of the senses is not self-evident, by any stretch of the philosophical imagination. The argument is also self-defeating and circular. Logically, utilitarianism as a theory should prove its own truth value by providing evidence of its usefulness and goodness in the real world, assuming that this is the best validation criterion available. The argument is based on circular reasoning and leads to a foregone conclusion that can never be proven scientifically. The arbitrariness of it all is amply confirmed by the ideological blind spots that utilitarians share with social Darwinists and peddle as universal truths. In this regard, the alleged superiority of Western morals over all other phases and forms of social life is telling. If the facts of history could speak for themselves, which they never do, they would expose the hypocrisy of all conceptions of courage that serve the interests of the self-­ proclaimed “higher” races of the civilised world. In his discussion of

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women’s rights, Spencer evokes the ancient fable, told by a Greek slave, about the wolf who accuses the lamb and thus finds a good reason to devour it. It is always thus amongst men. No invader ever raised standard, but persuaded himself that he had a just cause. Sacrifices and prayers have preceded every military expedition, from one of Cæsar’s campaigns, down to a border foray. God is on our side, is the universal cry. (Spencer 1851, p. 159)

The message of Aesop’s tale is clear: when it comes to morality, wolves chasing their prey do not inspire much confidence. Using advances in the biological sciences (instead of or along with religious doctrine) to justify the subjugation of inferior nations or races is a parody of science and every noble battle for justice in social history.

Evolving Theories of Evolution Over the course of Western history, definitions of courage have kept changing and continue to create muddles in models of human goodness. This is understandable given the number of intellectuals who have addressed the question, the important nuances they bring to each tradition, and the criss-crossing of streams of thought over the centuries. “True” courage is like a hare that flees in unpredictable directions and turns into something different as soon we approach it. The fearsome lion, the wise owl, the sacrificial lamb, the loving dove, the cunning fox, the battalion horse, and the human spirit all have special qualities that may be evoked to show different sides of courage. They draw attention to virtue, faith, instinct, emotion, interest, practical reason, pure intellect, or some combination of these. The same can be said about monkeys and their brave assistance to their masters and loved ones. The story they tell about the evolution of ethics can take the concept of courage in several new directions, depending on where the theorist’s moral and ideological commitments lie, beyond the narrow framework of “the survival of the fittest.”

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One direction, by far the most objectionable, lies in the racially charged writings of the French aristocrat Arthur de Gobineau (1816–1882). I mention his work only in passing as a reminder of the devastating consequences of xenophobia masquerading as moral thinking. In An Essay on the Inequality of the Human Races, Gobineau concedes that when in peril and facing death, all races may show equal courage and do so with passion. They are, however, unequal in the type of energy they expend when acting bravely. Only the white race is inherently energetic and therefore brave. Gobineau is aware that many supporters of democracy oppose his views. In his own defence, he claims that by emphasising the superiority of North American Anglo-Saxons over other European nations, they contradict themselves. The unparalleled energy of white people is visible to him. He sees it in their strong will, sound judgement, and practical knowledge in times of peace and conflict and in all spheres of material and intellectual activity (Gobineau 1853, II pp.  319–20). They have more practical sense than any other race, notably black people, as well as more physical strength and perseverance in overcoming obstacles. They have an instinct for order and self-preservation, a craving for freedom, and a complete disdain for despotism and formal organisation (Gobineau 1853, p. 353). They also combine vigour with calmness, straight thinking, and cold reasoning that makes no allowance for superstition (Gobineau 1853, II p. 231). The fate of each race depends on how much of this overall “energetic intelligence” they have. To maintain their superior energy, courage, and intelligence, the white race must not mix its blood with that of other races. This is another recurrent theme in Gobineau’s narrow-minded portrayal of mulattoes and different people from around the world, not unrelated to his own fear regarding his maternal ancestry (Gobineau 1853, I, p. 417; II pp. 134, 140, 248). All people must be separated according to race and their role in society. While stronger people produce kings and masters, weaker ones should expect to perform menial work. On this point, Gobineau is of the view that economists err when they praise manual labour and productive activity in the private sphere as the source of all virtue, more so than loyalty, courage, and audacity. Millers and spinners cannot be role models

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for all nations, and they deserve to occupy lower ranks in society (Gobineau 1853, II p. 362). In all fairness to Darwin’s legacy, not all evolutionary views of courage developed in the nineteenth century show as much bigotry in their understanding of inequalities in social life and history. Scholars such as John Fiske and Samuel Alexander tone down the racial interpretations of Darwinism and incorporate the ideals of Greek and Christian virtue into their vision of human civilisation. Fiske (1842–1901) holds that Darwinian biology sheds light on the workings of God and the nature of man. The American historian and philosopher extols the faith and courage of men of science who use common-sense methods to prove man’s consanguinity with dumb beasts (Fiske 1886, pp. 23–24). Natural science, rather than diminishing humanity, as many fear, reveals Nature’s progressive march towards man’s perfection, which is the primary goal of creative activity in the physical universe. But courage is essential in other ways well. Fiske connects it to the gradual rise of great and strong societies, an evolution that proceeds from the rule of warfare to the expansion of industry and the advantages of freedom and flexibility in all spheres of social life, including military activity. English society is a product of this plasticity and civilisation’s shift away from conservatism. Its freedom of thought in science, religion, and education encourages children and men to “interrogate Nature with a courage and an insight that shall grow ever bolder and keener” (Fiske 1883, p. 16). Unlike melancholy, courage can help solve many problems, such as sickness, starvation, poverty, a declining population, military insecurity, and the loss of all hope (Fiske 1876, p. 292). Is this to say that the development of courage is part of the process of natural selection in favour of the fittest? Fiske opposes this application of evolutionary theory, arguing that courage is only one strategy to save one’s life. As Herbert Spencer observes, various individuals of a species may be superior to one another in different ways. They may be more likely to survive if they are superior in some respect, such as speed, sight, smell, hearing, strength, or endurance. But these attributes compete with one another, which means that no single advantage is guaranteed to grow and prevail over time through natural selection (Fiske 1899, p. 50). Even

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though cowardice is a vice, there are many other qualities that will enable men to survive and prosper (Fiske 1886, p. 98). If so, how does courage contribute to human evolution? Fiske’s answer lies in what he views as the inevitable evolution from the lowest to the highest “degrees of completeness of living.” To be more specific, progress serves to maintain the Christian way of life. In Through Nature to God, he points out that inferior animals lack morality and conscience. Morality emerges only later, when a decision can be made to lead a life other than the pursuit of mere pleasure and the avoidance of pain. Understanding the difference between good and evil and being aware of wrongdoing are prerequisites for moving from a bestial to a moral existence. They elevate suffering to a higher level of religious experience. To the mere love of life, which is the conservative force that keeps the whole animal world in existence, there now comes gradually to be superadded the feeling of religious aspiration, which is nothing more nor less than the yearning after the highest possible completeness of spiritual life. (Fiske 1899, p. 53)

Religious sentiments have a long history. However, many stages of social discipline and human suffering must pass before moral law and religious feelings become dominant and capture men’s souls. Courage must evolve over time if it is to become moral and enhance the fullness of life, as among the Puritans and the Huguenots. In Moral Order and Progress, written in 1889, British philosopher Samuel Alexander (1859–1938) develops his own view of Christian idealism. He uses a combination of Darwinian thinking and Platonic philosophy to underline the intrinsic rewards of virtue-based courage, mostly of the patriotic kind, and the benefits it provides in terms of self-­ preservation and social survival. His description of a man bravely protecting himself, his honour, or his country against intrusion illustrates his thesis. As in virtue-based approaches to moral philosophy, a man’s correct conduct provides a sense of ethical fulfilment. His show of courage and “attainments of the will” are the source of “ethical pleasure,” regardless of the negative or positive consequences they may have, such as pain and suffering or the esteem that others may bestow. This non-utilitarian

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argument holds true for all virtues: they all lead to excellent character, which is the highest form of human life (Alexander 1891, pp. 186, 212, 214, 225). Moral goodness is nonetheless instrumental to maintaining and improving life in society. According to Alexander, the organic conception and functions of social life have a direct bearing on human ethics. Every virtue serves a social purpose. Wisdom is man’s insight into what must be done, morally speaking, and the means required to act in accordance with duty, as society commands. Self-control and courage are also social in nature. They are “necessary for the preservation of the society from foreign enemies: every violation of them disturbs the relations of the individual members to one another” (Alexander 1891, p.  120). While the individual exercises his own will, his interactions with others establish “his place and theirs in the order of conduct,” and everything he does is a contribution to the relationships he has with others. “If he is temperate because that is required by his duty of courage, this is saying in other words that as a member of the social system of conduct, his position and functions command this proportion” (Alexander 1891, p. 135). The actual meaning of courage may change from age to age (Alexander 1891, pp. 287–88). Furthermore, courage is a natural gift that is unevenly distributed among men; some are more robust than others and therefore more apt to enter military service. But courage is not merely physical boldness, as when “showing pluck even in a bad cause” (Alexander 1891, pp.  28–29). Rather, courage is a moral quality that delivers its own rewards while also preserving society’s existence and orderly functioning (Alexander 1891, pp.  234–35, 294). It is the “defence of the right act because it is right.” The determination to do what is right against all odds, based on “the self-assertiveness of goodness,” is more treasured than defeating death itself (Alexander 1891, p. 250). Every good man will show persistence, strength, and resolve in defending himself when attacked and, more importantly, in doing the right thing, come what may. However, given the role they play in society, soldiers are expected to act as models of courage. As in Plato’s Republic, different aspects of good conduct mirror different state functions and positions in society. Courage is a soldier’s duty. It manifests itself through heroic acts based on a high degree of humility, self-contained strength,

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and complete trust that “God defends the right.” Martial courage forms part of the four cardinal virtues, and benevolence and sympathy can be added to them as a complement to any good deed. These virtues come to be used as representing the system of duties because they are most prominently emphasised in certain groups of duties: self-­ control in temperance, courage in the soldier, justice in obedience to the law, wisdom in the duties of the administrator. (Alexander 1891, pp. 250–51)

Alexander adds that man’s relationship with society naturally evolves from lower to higher forms, based on the law of “survival of the fittest” (Alexander 1891, p. 14). A moral society is the fittest, and its survival reflects a vitally healthy state system in which all parts function and play their parts as they should (Alexander 1891, pp. 236–37). Taking a different approach, Paul Rée and Edward Westermarck reintroduce the spirit of moral egoism into discussions of courage and Darwinian evolution. Rée (1849–1901), a friend of Nietzsche, grounds his analysis on manly sentiments and displays of courage, honour, and sheer vanity. In his view, a man of courage has no fear of pain or death. If he fears anything, it is losing his honour and living in shame. While he fights for his rightful property, he is also willing to risk everything for others. His genuine altruism makes him a “good person” in the eyes of others and keeps him from becoming a target of public ridicule, which is more painful than anything else. The goodness of his character offers him an advantage when it comes to attracting women, acquiring privileges, and ruling over the world (Rée 2003, pp. 26, 48, 128–30, 139–42). Since courage is more valued than a man’s physical appearance, those who are vain tend to behave more courageously than others. “Man takes particular pleasure in admiration of his courage, his mind, his strength, his prowess, for its own sake: for this reason, man is particularly vain” (Rée 2003, p. 130). Women, on the other hand, take more pride in their physical beauty. Rée adds that vain and proud men transmit their instincts, drives, or habits to their descendants, making them more apt to survive through natural selection and the struggle for existence. Given the laws of natural inheritance and selection, “the race proceeding from

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the vainest men” can be expected to survive (Rée 2003, p. 76). In contrast, those whose weakness and vice cause harm to themselves and others are less apt to rule and survive. Their hypocrisy and ambition instigate envy, rivalry, and hatred, undermining the long-term competitiveness of weaker impulses and eroding people’s trust in one another. Edward Westermarck’s passing remarks on courage in The Origin and Development of the Moral Ideas reinforce the primacy of human biology over morality, with hints of historical relativism and a repudiation of Christian ethics. For this Finnish philosopher and social scientist, public opinion and standards of praise and blame for disinterested courage, pluck, or strength have less to do with morality, virtue, or personal character and more to do with emotions and associated rewards and penalties (Westermarck 1912, pp. 16, 117). In the eyes of others, a man’s overall character may not confer any merit or represent his moral worth. His actions are best understood by examining his motivations and the goals that drive them. This is what the study of the customs of marriage and sex in uncivilised societies shows. Primitive men are naturally inclined to use their superior strength and courage to protect and dominate women. They gain sexual favours by actively chasing them and engaging in combat with rivals. Women enjoy the display of manly force, even when it harms them, and commonly give preference to “the most vigorous, defiant, and mettlesome male” (Westermarck 1912, p. 657). A robber who braves danger openly is typically admired; secrecy and lying, on the other hand, are the weapons of cowardly thieves and the “weak, the woman, and the slave” (Westermarck 1917, p. 113; see pp. 16, 58). A direct implication of this line of reasoning is that a man may be commended for his bravery even if he is not motivated by Christian sentiments of peace and love (Westermarck 1912, p.  148). In human evolution, war and patriotic bravery serve social progress more effectively than feelings of compassion that extend beyond one’s community and country (Westermarck 1912, pp. 368, 373). But expressions of courage fluctuate over time and change from one society to another. Blood feuds continue to give some people an opportunity to display their courage and skill, more so than following rules of fair compensation or reparation. “Vindictiveness, conservatism, the

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desire for fighting, and the estimation in which courage and martial ability are held, are naturally subject to variations, and so are people’s wealth and their willingness to compensate” (Westermarck 1912, pp. 485–86; see pp. 503–4, 509). Some societies limit combat and displays of bravery to duels intended to restore honour. Whatever the case, morals hide deeper instincts and feelings that vary throughout history. The wide range of attitudes and beliefs concerning different aspects of courage proves the point. Among them are methods for bolstering courage (such as eating the flesh of slain enemies), its expected rewards, and its role in situations of suicide and strenuous labour, among others (Westermarck 1917, pp. 261–62, 273, 560–61, 566). Evolutionism takes entirely different directions in the writings of Russian libertarian communist Peter Kropotkin (1842–1921) and feminist humanist Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Kropotkin, combining the views of Darwin with his own advocacy of anarchy and communism, proposes that humans follow the example of ants: the insect is a model of animal courage, pluck, and superior intelligence. These qualities “are the natural outcome of the mutual aid which they practise at every stage of their busy and laborious lives” (Kropotkin 1902, p. 14). To survive, ants must meet the everyday requirements of mutual aid and thus establish confidence, the first condition of courage. They must be capable of taking initiative on their own, which is essential for intellectual growth. These qualities are critical to the ants’ collective struggle for survival during natural evolution. Since they hunt in packs, jackals also show courage when attacking bigger carnivores (Kropotkin 1902, p.  41). Meadowwagtails and lapwings support each other when attacking birds of prey; their bravery in fighting together is commensurate with their numbers (Kropotkin 1902, p. 25). Communities of miners and seamen represent the human counterparts of insect and bird colonies. Their occupation and habits of mutual assistance create feelings of solidarity, and the natural dangers they face sustain their courage and pluck. This is reflected in their traditions and tales of epic battles and heroic deeds. City life destroys much of this. Rural communities morph into urban crowds with no regard for the common good, unable to grasp how heroism may serve the abstract idea

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of the State above everything else. Members of the clergy believe that human nature is inherently evil and that everything good has a supernatural origin. They are also completely indifferent to the plight of the impoverished and slaves. As for the wealthy, their material possessions stifle their manliness and limit their ability to sympathise with others who are not of their own class or superior standing (Kropotkin 1902, pp. 277, 289). Evolutionists have not been shy about justifying social inequalities and imperial, racial, and religious wars as gains in human civilisation and the natural evolution of positive knowledge and social ethics. Sexism is also rampant. But not all intellectuals are duped by bigotry passing for hard science and well-founded social theory. Some choose instead to turn biology against conservative morals, as did the prominent American humanist and feminist Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1860–1935). Her criticism of androcentric ideals and morality, including the much-praised virtues of courage, endurance, and loyalty, is vitriolic. In Our Androcentric Culture, or The Man Made World, Gilman denounces the obsessive association made between courage and the manly instincts of fighting, warmongering, destructive competition, and animal sexuality (Gilman 1911, pp. 92, 218). She makes the case that women’s instincts and sexual drives, such as enduring love, constant service, and the “ingenuity and courage of efficient motherhood,” deserve more attention (Gilman 1911, p. 152). To those who fear women’s influence in education, notably in the field of games and sports, Gilman points out that not all sports need to be violent and fierce, i.e., “modern modifications of the instinct of sex-­ combat” (Gilman 1911, p.  153). Women may not excel at football, a sport that is widely admired despite the fact that some young men are killed and many are maimed. All the same, they are perfectly competent to engage in normal athletic activity, the kind that does not involve pleasure in throwing, hitting, or kicking. More broadly, women have the same potential as men for developing the most important qualities in life, such as courage, which is a human quality and not a sex quality. A woman’s courage is not mere belligerence, as in the male animal world. And yet, it can arouse more fear because it reflects a higher disposition, which is ethical in nature. Male cats will fight fiercely with one another, but they

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will flee a mother cat that defends her kittens with even greater ferocity (Gilman 1911, p. 157). In hindsight, we could say that evolutionary theory is like any living species: sooner or later, it must confront a changing environment and either perish or adapt, with no guarantee of gaining a permanent advantage over its rivals. When it comes to the future and well-being of humanity, the ultimate question is whether humans can summon the courage to support the battle for justice and sustainability against the cowardly aggression and short-sighted gains of the greedy few. Hard-nosed calculations of the long-term utility of one mindset over another would be valuable here. This is what utilitarians propose. As Chap. 12 shows, they rely on sound means–ends logic to weigh the individual and collective benefits of courage against its costs. This leads some to support modern civilisation as we know it, while others expose its fundamental flaws. Ironically, the competitive advantage of one theory of moral utility over another has yet to be settled, for better or for worse.

References Alexander, Samuel. 1891. Moral Order and Progress: An Analysis of Ethical Conceptions. London: Kegan Paul. Fiske, John. 1876. The Unseen World, and Other Essays. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. ———. 1883. The Meaning of Infancy. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. ———. 1886. The Destiny of Man, Viewed in the Light of his Origin. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. ———. 1899. Through Nature to God. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Gilman, Charlotte Perkins. 1911. The Man Made World or, Our Androcentric Culture. New York: Charlton. Gobineau, Arthur de. 1853. Essai sur l’inégalité des races humaines. Tomes I et II. Paris: Didot. Kropotkin, Peter. 1902. Mutual Aid: A Factor in Evolution. New  York: McClure Phillips. Rée, Paul. 2003. Paul Rée. Basic Writings. Trans. R. Small. Chicago: University of Illinois Press, Kindle edition. Spencer, Herbert. 1851. Social Statics: or, The Conditions Essential to Human Happiness Specified, and the First of Them Developed. London: Chapman.

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———. 1891. Essays: Scientific, Political, and Speculative. In Three Volumes. London: Williams and Norgate. ———. 1893. The Principles of Ethics. In Two Volumes. New York: Appleton. ———. 1911. Essays on Education and Kindred Subjects. London: J.M. Dent. Stephen, Leslie. 1882. The Science of Ethic. London: Smith. Westermarck, Edward. 1912. The Origin and Development of the Moral Ideas. Vol. 1. London: Macmillan. ———. 1917. The Origin and Development of the Moral Ideas. Vol. 2. London: Macmillan.

12 Utilitarianism and Relativism with a Bias

Social Darwinism purports to gain a better understanding of human history by investigating how moral standards and sentiments affect people’s potential for happiness and survival. The laws of inheritance and natural selection explain why some norms prevail over others. When the merits of various ethical systems are measured against these laws, superior forms of courage emerge and naturally take precedence over inferior ways of living. But whether people can anticipate the evolutionary utility of their own morals and views on courage is irrelevant. The laws of evolution continue to work even if people are not aware of them. Theoretical claims of this nature fall under a broader utilitarian perspective on ethics: courage proves its worth by helping maximise individual and social well-­ being. Evolutionism and utilitarianism nonetheless have different foundations. Not all utilitarians endorse the extension of evolutionary thinking to questions of morality. Nor do they always downplay the role of conscious utilitarian reasoning in the realm of ethics—the deliberate choosing of appropriate means to achieve moral aims. This chapter addresses nineteenth-century perspectives on the personal and social utility of manly courage and honour, but this time without regard for different stages of social evolution. Jeremy Bentham takes the lead in developing the utilitarian idea of the “calculations of consequent © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_12

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advantage,” using the common good as the basis for the philosopher’s own evaluation of what courage brings to social life. Henry Sidgwick broadens the approach by inviting everyone to methodically assess their actions in the face of peril, using standards of ethical conduct and universal well-being. In this perspective, the development of practical and principled reasoning takes precedence over natural impulses and common-sense judgements. This holds true notably for the civilised world. The chapter then examines passing comments on courage scattered throughout the social scientific literature of the nineteenth century. Theorists, for the most part, acknowledge the diversity of perspectives that societies have on courage. In this literature, anthropological relativism is in good taste. However, the growing acceptance of ethical pluralism does not stop social theorists from advancing their own assessments of modernity. For those who have a bias in favour of the civilised world, courage is an integral part of the teachings of Christian virtue and self-­ examination, as James McCosh and Harriet Martineau propose. Modern courage can also underscore the merits of military valour and bravery in the fight for freedom, survival, and prosperity. This is the position taken by Alexis de Tocqueville and Gaetano Mosca. For Émile Durkheim, Lucien Lévy-Bruhl, and Henry Muirhead, courage is best understood by studying the different levels of differentiation and organic unity in society and moral life. Others take a more progressive or critical stance towards modernity. Courage, according to John Stuart Mill, is the mental vigour or boldness to overcome the tyranny of opinion and make advances in science and good government. Ludwig von Feuerbach stresses the courage and freedom of the mind in confronting itself with experiences of the senses, rather than preaching blind faith in a non-existent God. In keeping with their critique of capitalism, Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels instead praise the courage of English workers, who undergo severe hardships on a daily basis while fighting bourgeois supremacy with the support of labour unions.

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 he Calculations of Consequent Advantage: T Jeremy Bentham and Henry Sidgwick Jeremy Bentham (1748–1832) is the founder of modern utilitarianism, and Henry Sidgwick (1838–1900), a foremost ethical philosopher of the Victorian era. My focus is on two specific aspects of their work: the role of “calculations of consequent advantage” in their discussions of courage, and the extent to which their work reflects other ideological blind spots of their day, aside from utilitarianism. As explained below, Bentham tasks the philosopher with calculating the overall utility of narrowly defined expressions of courage, inspired mostly by the modern codes of manly honour and patriotic duty. Sedgwick, on the other hand, links the duties of courage to everyone’s methodical assessment of their own actions in the face of danger, employing universal norms of well-being and the common good that are appropriate for a given context and historical conditions. A key feature of the civilised world lies in this commitment to utilitarian thinking and the corresponding ethos of “universalistic hedonism.” For Bentham, dueling is the perfect topic for discussions of courage and the philosophical assessment of its benefits and costs to society. Like any other method used to promote justice, the effects of this contentious custom warrant scrutiny. On the positive side of the ledger, rules of private combat based on laws of honour keep offences in check. They remain under men’s control and are as effective as any law in making clear that offences carry serious consequences. Dueling ensures that the aggrieved party’s honour will be restored, even if he is wounded or killed. As a method of punishment, it shores up people’s contempt for cowardice, an effect that is socially useful. Because of the weight of public opinion, more men value their honour and avoid acting cowardly. Equally important, private combat maintains a wider honour-based regime in which brave soldiers defend the state against foreign armies and brave citizens resist the abuses of military power. “In a word, courage is the public soul, the tutelary genius, the sacred palladium, by which alone a people can secure itself from all the miseries of servitude, can retain the condition of

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manhood, and not fall below the brutes themselves” (Bentham 1843, p. 380). Calculations of utility must nonetheless include the disadvantages of dueling, which are many. For one thing, the custom inspires fear and even panic, notably when rich men hire strong and courageous strangers to fight on their behalf (Bentham 1843, p. 168). This practice goes to show that courage is not always a virtue. For instance, those who fight their own duels may be fearless and uncalculatingly brave mostly because they despise hard and honest work and have become immune to pain and the prospect of death (Bentham 1843, p. 450). Another disadvantage of dueling is that it is only for men and the upper classes, a relic of the feudal era. It excludes women, children, the elderly, invalids, and everyone who may be naturally cautious and timorous. Bentham adds that a man without title or rank cannot find justice by dueling the gentleman who insults him; since private combats are only between upper-class equals, the offence will go unpunished. Nor can the system bring justice to those aggrieved parties who are not inclined to seek revenge, whether because of their faith or for some other reason. In the court of public opinion, their reputation becomes an object of scorn. The offence committed against them is worsened rather than corrected, and justice is not served. One last effect is also worth considering: duelists are essentially driven by the rewards of honour and the applause they receive from both men and women. Justice matters little to them. They are quick to fight, regardless of the offence or the danger. “In this respect, the punishment, amalgamated with the reward, loses its true penal character, and in another manner becomes inefficacious” (Bentham 1843, p. 379). Bentham’s account of the pros and cons of dueling fails to reach a clear conclusion. His thinking leans nonetheless towards the positive side of the honour code and its usefulness in regulating private combats among gentlemen. In his mind, the laws of utility go a long way in explaining everyone’s sensibility to reputation and the popular sanction for cowardly conduct. As a method of punishment, dueling is “the most active and faithful servant of the principle of utility, the most powerful and least dangerous ally of the political sanction” (Bentham 1843, p.  380). The custom encourages men to cultivate virtue, protect themselves from vice, avoid insults, and contribute to maintaining public order and safety.

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By endorsing the canons of manly honour and military patriotism, Bentham makes it clear where he stands when it comes to the moral fabric of society. His goal is to explain these canons with a cost–benefit analysis that is theoretically compelling, universally applicable, and independent of people’s circumstances. Bentham is nonetheless aware that questions of honour and the fear of shame are most sensitive in some classes of society, but not all of them. Courage is a requirement for military men, for instance. The virtue is useful to those who need it. He is also open to displays of courage in other domains, such as the battle for truth and justice. As he sees it, men must have courage, enthusiasm, intelligence, and a high level of “energy in the heart” if they are to exercise leadership and introduce innovative legislation for the greater good (Bentham 1843, p.  191). It also takes courage for anyone to seek the truth and attack errors with analytical rigour, despite people’s interests, passions, norms, opinions, and prejudices (Bentham 1843, p.  389). Unfortunately, the truth is sometimes assaulted as if it were the most heinous of crimes. It can also be a source of widespread fear, as when citizens dread the consequences of speaking out against corrupt government officials. Cowardice then passes for prudence. The “universal abasement of courage” among people who choose to ignore corruption comes at a cost: it allows those with more strength and courage to abuse the weak rather than protect them (Bentham 1843, p. 80; see p. 379). Bentham’s thinking on different forms of courage and their calculable effects is nuanced. His focus on the courage of men fighting in duels is nonetheless revealing. Whether positive or negative, courage sparks interest in settings based on social exclusion. As Bentham points out, the code of honour is of paramount importance among the higher classes, with some willing to risk their lives at the slightest provocation (Bentham 1843, p.  51). Dueling is also the preserve of men. He concedes that women are superior to men in terms of sympathy and antipathy, as well as some moral sentiments such as chastity, modesty, and delicacy. However, they have inferior intelligence and mental fortitude. This is why they are more inclined to superstition, i.e., “to observances not dictated by the principle of utility” (Bentham 1843, p. 28). There are exceptions to this rule: some women may be more courageous and less modest than some men (Bentham 1843, p.  34). In general, however, men are

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more concerned with defending their honour, demonstrating courage, and remaining respectable members of society. The notion that personal and social utility define the goodness of one’s conduct begs the question: How do we know that the consequences of existing morals, real or intended, are useful or not? To say that dueling is mostly useful because it discourages cowardly and unpatriotic conduct on the part of men assumes that wartime patriotism is a good thing. But how do we know that? Is it because people’s loyalty to their nation serves a nobler cause, such as ensuring the security and survival of one’s people or nation? Does this higher goal take precedence over all other aims and values, regardless of the circumstances? Logically, this line of questioning about utility can be extended ad infinitum. To settle the matter, utilitarians need rock-bottom principles that are intuitively compelling and require no further justification. This is Sidgwick’s reasoning. Utilitarian thinking must rely on people’s basic insights into right and wrong. It also hinges on the backing of a civilised world that promotes people’s capacity to exercise moral judgement in context, with a focus on the means and ends required to achieve happiness. For Sidgwick, thinking through the consequences and outcomes of people’s courage is not the prerogative of science or philosophy. Rather, it is a fundamental requirement of moral conduct. The development of ethical reasoning and judgement in society has a direct bearing on our understanding of fortitude, which is bearing pain without flinching, and courage, which is facing danger of any kind without shrinking. Both forms of conduct, he argues, can be performed out of pure fighting instinct or out of duty. A man may act heroically on the spur of the moment, out of spontaneous sympathy or plain common sense, without much thought, let alone moral judgement. The one who saves a child from sure death in a house on fire is a hero, regardless of his reasoning or whether he believed he was doing his strict duty and “the right thing” (Sidgwick 1907, pp. 223, 225). Men often respond to imminent danger automatically or semi-voluntarily, and some with more courage than others due to their personal nature (Sidgwick 1907, pp. 332–34). This earns them the admiration of others. Common sense or intuitive morality plays an important role in our lives. It is nonetheless inconsistent, vague, and subject to miscalculation

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and error. Things done on pure impulse and ignorance are beyond the control of man’s will. They can easily go wrong and may involve qualities that are not actually desirable. While courage seems intrinsically good, virtue may fall into excess in situations where there is no specific maxim of duty or broad notion of “goodness” or “well-being” to back it up. For want of insight into their consequences, brave deeds carried out blindly can be foolish. The impulse to act with courage, like all natural dispositions, admits of different degrees and may have all sorts of consequences, including evil ones (Sidgwick 1907, pp. 219–20, 392). This is where rational thought and beliefs in moral duty and virtue intervene, by regulating the degree and the specific outcomes that are willed for oneself and others, beyond strokes of intuition, natural affections, and common sense (Sidgwick 1907, p. 226). Methodical reasoning in the moral domain helps to systematise common-sense knowledge. It entails measuring and assessing the effects of one’s intuition or impulse on oneself and other people. Through the science of ethics, we can determine the right conduct in any situation. We can tell the difference between courage and foolishness by considering “the probable tendency of the daring act to promote the well-­ being of the agent,” hoping to prevent more pain for others or make their lives better (Sidgwick 1907, p. 355). In the latter case, a man acts bravely because he thinks “the chance of additional benefit to be gained for another outweighs the cost and chance of loss to ourselves if we fail” (Sidgwick 1907, p. 333). People develop conscious moral systems so they can organise their natural response to danger for both selfish and social ends, according to the prevailing circumstances. While courage is the same everywhere, its utility is bound to vary. Acts of courage morally prescribed in times of war illustrate the point. It seems clear that the prominence given to this Virtue in historic systems of morality has been due to the great social importance that must always attach to it, so long as communities of men are continually called upon to fight for their existence and well-being: but still the quality of bravery is the same essentially, whether it be exhibited for selfish or social ends. (Sidgwick 1907, p. 313)

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People compelled to fight for their existence rank the duties of courage over other moral obligations. They denounce cowardice with vehemence and punish it with public humiliation. Natural courage is turned into a duty of the highest order. Utilitarian thinking invites people to carefully weigh the probable benefits of building and maintaining the habits of duty in the face of peril against the level of risk present in each situation. Courage is always the same, yet its relative utility fluctuates according to circumstances. This is so because danger varies in degree and kind from one society or profession to another (Sidgwick 1907, p.  45). Aristotle understood why common sense in ancient Greece limited moral courage to dangers in war. This was a period of history when a man’s happiness depended on the welfare of his state, which suffered frequent attacks from hostile forces. Sidgwick adds that soldiers and semi-­barbarous people have more need for instinctive courage than civilians and civilised people. Similarly, courage as a virtue is prominent in “pagan” or modern contexts governed by the ethics of honour (Sidgwick 1907, pp. 332–34). The virtue and ideals of humility, on the other hand, are of paramount importance in Christianity. The same utilitarian reasoning applies to gender differences. While women value chastity above all, men have greater respect for the courage required to face sudden and grave danger. In Sidgwick’s utilitarian ethics, statements of rightness are drawn from conscious perceptions and calculations of consequent advantages for both the individual and society as a whole. The rise of ethical or “universalistic hedonism,” as he calls it, attests to the advancement of reflectiveness in the modern world. The civilised approach to ethics is to cultivate insight into moral excellence, using goodness or well-being as the ultimate standard. Utilitarianism is “the acceptance of common sense” and, with it, abstract universal intuitions and ideas of justice and truth (Sidgwick 1907, pp. 456–57). The Greeks did not necessarily grasp the connection between their moral sentiments and their expected effect on people’s overall happiness. They admired courage and other virtues for their own sake, unreflectively. In the absence of utilitarian thinking or some “rude and vague forecast of the natural bad consequences of non-­ observance,” their laws and customs had to be enforced through threats of divine retribution. Religious morals, in their own menacing way, translated John Stuart Mill’s utilitarian ethics into egocentric reasoning.

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Sidgwick walks a tightrope when weighing the costs and benefits of common-sense intuitions and ordinary thinking about courage. Also difficult, if not impossible, is his attempt to explain significant shifts in social history through a science of ethics that seeks nothing less than universal happiness. One significant disadvantage of his approach is that courage is always the same everywhere, if only at an instinctive level. The argument is not convincing. If this study of morality since antiquity teaches us anything, it is that courage is a highly elusive attribute that has been the subject of countless debates and competing views throughout Western history. Looking for some universally shared intuition about courage is an exercise in anthropological naiveté, to say the least. The same applies to the terms “well-being” and “happiness” (from hap, “chance, fortune”) and their equivalents in all languages, past and present, if they exist. Their interpretations are as varied as they are shifting.

 ociological Relativism, in Support S of Civilisation With some exceptions, notably Kierkegaard and Nietzsche, nineteenth-­ century thinkers gave little attention to abstract moral questions explored on their own. In their efforts to advance the natural and social sciences, Comte, Darwin, Spencer, Bentham, and Sidgwick discuss courage only in passing. The same can be said for most contemporary social theorists. Like all other virtues, courage is one of many themes that may be understood with common sense and a mind open to context-specific meanings and levels of significance. As a result, comments on the subject and its relationship to issues of social organisation are few and far between. They are nonetheless revealing, considering the slant that each theorist puts on one broader theoretical agenda or another. The compulsion to give courage a definite ethical orientation rather than adapting it to infinite possibilities is understandable and predictable. Otherwise, philosophical relativism is a pointless exercise. By putting all moral systems into historical perspective, relativism condemns itself to becoming just another point

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of view, to be understood in its proper context, with no compelling reason to choose it over any other rival theory. The philosophical directions taken in the side comments about courage are many, and they lend support to either mainstream or critical views of current society and the so-called civilised world. On the conservative end of the spectrum, James McCosh and Harriet Martineau associate courage with the ideals of Christian virtue and moral self-examination. Alexis de Tocqueville and Gaetano Mosca, on the other hand, align their comments with the principles of patriotic duty and the pursuit of freedom, survival, and material prosperity. Another approach is to measure courage in relation to levels of differentiation and organic unity in society and moral life; Émile Durkheim, Lucien Lévy-Bruhl, and Henry Muirhead take this path. On the more critical end of the spectrum, John Stuart Mill praises the courage of scientific innovation. Ludwig von Feuerbach stresses instead the courage it takes to deny the existence of a spiritual world that eludes our senses. As for Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, they find courage in the realm of political economy, specifically in the daily battle of the proletariat and the labour movement against the ruling bourgeoisie. Scottish philosopher James McCosh (1811–1894) is a leading figure in the tradition of common-sense philosophy, rooted in a mix of Aristotelian wisdom and Christian doctrine. In his view, top-ranking values vary from one class to another and, when taken too far, have evil consequences. Prudence, decency, frugality, and industry are more tasteful to some than liberality and courage. McCosh explains that nations north of the Alps must have the courage to defend themselves against enemies; hence, they place bravery above all other virtues. However, the value they attach to wartime courage hides another goal, which is to justify their ambition, rapacity, and cruelty (McCosh 1882, pp. 439, 442). The same remarks apply to infidels who “take courage” against Christianity and destroy its temples out of vengeance and hatred (McCosh 1882, p. 51). Not surprisingly, The Method the Divine Government offers positive counterexamples of courage of the patriotic and warlike kind. People and societies make choices that reflect their value systems. In addition, they have the flexibility to assess any action based on the aspect under consideration and the interpretive lens that suits them best. For

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instance, people may praise warlike achievements as deeds of chivalry, romance, and heroic courage. But they may also express concerns about hamlets and cities going up in flames, with people wounded and dying, widows and orphans crying, or friends losing their lives. In the latter scenario, they will judge the actions of wartime leaders differently and attribute them to the vices of hubris, ambition, or jealousy (McCosh 1882, p. 339). Hierarchies of values and ways of judging the merits of courage are malleable and vary widely. One fundamental disposition can nonetheless help us in distinguishing right from wrong: the courage of self-­ examination, essential to achieving an enlightened conscience. Of course, this has its own challenges. Where self-complacency takes over, great courage is needed to examine one’s actions, even those that seem courageous. The better way of forming a true estimate of the moral character of man is to examine ourselves. But then we are afraid to inspect ourselves, lest humbling disclosures should be made. And when we have the courage to examine our hearts, prejudice dims the eyes, vanity distorts the object seen, the treacherous memory brings up only the fair and flattering side of the picture, and the deceived judgment denies the sinful action, explains away the motives, or excuses the deed in the circumstances. (McCosh 1882, p. 362; see p. 350)

People who show unreflective courage and merely follow family or tribal tradition may engage in sin and crime without realising it (McCosh 1882, p. 383). They soothe their conscience by taking pride in their own false courage. This is what the demagogue does when he boasts about bravely challenging the opinion of “the higher and more refined classes of society,” doing so out of pure vanity and addiction to “the applause of the many” (McCosh 1882, p. 419). The principle of self-examination seems to reinforce the idea that people can set and apply their moral standards as they see fit, based on their own sense of critical awareness and judgement. When closely inspected, courage would thus reside firmly in the eye of the beholder. McCosh’s thinking does not extend that far. At the end of its journey, the mind

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should seek kernels of truth in the teachings of moral authorities, notably those of Christ. Jesus is a beacon for all souls striving for the highest form of courage, which the Almighty bestows as part of his works of infinite wisdom. Like him, patriots and martyrs set an example for all future generations (McCosh 1882, pp. 150, 500, 505). British social theorist Harriet Martineau (1802–1876) pursues a similar line of reasoning, but in a Christian feminist voice that calls the male-­ centric ethics of courage into question. She, too, contends that the emphasis placed on different qualities or virtues varies according to the type of society in which people live as well as the moral standards of their age and class. A people’s character comes out clearly and may be further refined through popular culture. Savages, for instance, have songs composed by gifted individuals that exalt feelings of unbreakable courage and fortitude in the face of death and torture. In their own way, these songs contribute to the progress and refinement of “every germ of good feeling that is successively developed during the advancement of society” (Martineau 1838, p. 133). As with popular ballads in civilised nations, romantic tales of bravery and fidelity also elevate the human spirit. Selfishness gives way to generosity, and animal courage is made nobler through feelings of patriotic devotion. When left to their own devices, however, moral intuitions and instincts can have undesirable consequences, such as belittling women’s sense of honour and courage. While an agricultural people will laud domestic virtues, the nobles of a warlike nation will praise their brave sons and chaste daughters. This assumes that men do not have to be pure and that women do not have to be brave. Given that courage is the primary source of honour, women have lower status, and males are more prone to licentious activity, particularly if they are not shielded by birth or fortune. Martineau challenges these androcentric views and suggests that true bravery is moral rather than physical. As with purity of thought and strength in defending the truth, moral courage is not an attribute of sex (Martineau 1838, pp.  108–109, 168). Christianity is proof that there may be “bravery without violence, and fortitude without pride.” “Such bravery and such fortitude were those of Christ and of his Apostles” (Martineau 1833, p. 168).

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Alexis de Tocqueville (1805–1859), a French aristocrat, political philosopher, and historian, has no problem extolling the courage of women, especially those living in the New World. American women assume the toils of marriage with great fortitude. When they are ready, they choose marriage freely and with prudence, knowing what to expect because of their education. Women leave the comforts of large towns at an early age, enduring sickness, solitude, and a tedious life with an inward strength that is hard to match (Tocqueville 1841, II pp. 213, 216). Admittedly, differences in classes persist, and women do not enjoy the same rights as men. They are unable to leave the narrow circle of family life, and they are not thought to have the same kind of courage or intelligence as men. Yet no one questions the soundness of women’s courage and intelligence. Much to their credit, the Americans “have done all they could to raise her morally and intellectually to the level of man; and in this respect they appear to me to have excellently understood the true principle of democratic improvement” (Tocqueville 1841, II p. 227). Nowhere else is the fairer sex held in such esteem, and much of the prosperity and growing strength of the American people may be attributed to the superiority of their women. North American Indians also deserve special praise for their courage. They may be ignorant and poor, but they are equal and free. “The famous republics of antiquity never gave examples of more unshaken courage, more haughty spirits, or more intractable love of independence than were hidden in former times among the wild forests of the New World” (Tocqueville 1841, I pp. 23–24). They lack discipline and rational planning, to be sure, but so does England: its military power has been greatly exaggerated, and the country lacks the talent required to assemble a strong army and wage war (Tocqueville 1872, II p. 91). Tocqueville is sensitive to how courage expresses itself in different contexts, beyond the androcentric and Eurocentric clichés of his time. However, his aristocratic upbringing resurfaces in passages where he laments the impact of modern democracy and France’s seventy-year revolution. Struggles for liberty and equality, he believes, have destroyed people’s courage, hopefulness, self-reliance, and public spirit. They have also weakened the ambitions and passions of the higher classes, save perhaps for their vanity and greed (Tocqueville 1872, II p. 207). In his discussion

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of American Institutions and their Influence, Tocqueville is equally critical of the American people’s loss of respect for authority and “independent beings which were able to cope with tyranny single-handed” (Tocqueville 1854, p. 9). The gap between the rich and the poor has narrowed, but equality has bred more hatred and jealousy among rivals seeking power and pursuing their own interests above everything. The rule of egotism is as blind as the former doctrine. If society is at peace, it is not because of its strength and well-being. Rather, no one has the courage or energy to find a way to address its fundamental flaws. Tocqueville does not conclude from this that traditional courage should be revived. A virtue based primarily on the code of honour at war has limitations. This was the most important virtue among mediaeval nobles, which is not surprising considering that the feudal aristocracy existed solely for the purpose of war. Arms were used to maintain power, and military valour was exalted above all else, at the expense of reason and humanity. Any offence to a man’s honour, no matter how minor, served as an opportunity to kill another man or be killed in order to save one’s honour. Courage in modern America is also the finest virtue. But it has a new meaning. More admired than martial heroism is the bravery of those who confront dangers at sea, loss of fortune, or the hardships and solitude of living in the wilderness. Courage of this kind is essential to the survival and prosperity of American communities. This explains both the respect it inspires and the disgrace it brings to those who lack it (Tocqueville 1841, II p. 252). Charles Bernard Renouvier (1815–1903) concurs that the economic achievements of advanced civilisation are commensurate with the courage of its citizens. He argues that men require strength and courage to wilfully engage in hard work for the benefit of all. Brave men accomplish their duty and resist the natural inclination to rest and remain idle. Their habit of self-possession contributes to self-improvement and social progress (Renouvier 1896, pp. 54–55, 567). In Science de la Morale, Renouvier expands on this political and economic adaptation of Kantian idealism, with an emphasis on duty to oneself and to others, the exercise of reason, and the practice of virtues such as prudence, temperance, and courage. As long as it serves moral purposes, honour also plays a role (Renouvier 1908, I pp. 136, 156). In keeping with these principles, “moral courage”

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is defined as the activity of a rational being taking and maintaining possession of himself. Man struggles against the destructive elements of Nature and his own irrational desires (Renouvier 1908, I pp. 254–55). Demonstrations of military discipline and courage also serve to protect people’s property and lives. But not all wars are justified. Some are, such as when a nation exercises its inherent right to self-defence. Nonetheless, war is a barrier to the advancement of human civilisation. A nation that conquers war and its prevalence in history stands out from inferior races that prefer to kill and steal rather than work for their living. The Celtic and Teutonic traditions of hatred and warmongering are not models to follow (Renouvier 1896, p.  387). Historically, acts of wartime bravery often reflect a destructive fury driven by selfish motives rather than rational thought and virtue. Egoism is also the philosophy that the privileged few embrace when they use force, fraud, and religious submission to manipulate the masses and further their own aims (Renouvier 1876, p. 44). Mary Whiton Calkins (1863–1930), an American psychologist and philosopher, also stresses the importance of courage in society, but with a more positive outlook on human nature and instincts. Taking her cue from Aristotle, she sees courage as a middle ground between instinctive daring that can be reckless and timidity that borders on cowardice (Calkins 1918, pp. 102–103). People become brave by controlling and repressing their natural dispositions, notably their feelings of fear. However, courage is not just a battle of the will against human instincts. To overcome fear, man must rely on “all those instincts which inhibit flight—instincts of curiosity and of acquisitiveness, and, far more effective, the great social tendencies, imitativeness and sympathy, which hold cowardice at bay” (Calkins 1918, p. 104). A man grows in strength and develops his moral self by showing concern for others because “he is vitally a part of the Great Community to which he is loyal” (Calkins 1918, p. 93). The conservative view of men setting examples of courage at war comes out more clearly in the writings of Gaetano Mosca (1858–1940). The Italian political scientist starts by debunking the idea that moral qualities such as power, courage, pride, and energy are innate qualities hardwired into personal or racial differences. Rather, they are the product of cultural and environmental influences, including social status, family traditions, and class habits. It follows that any significant change in a person’s social

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or economic standing will have an impact on their moral character. Since they tend to admire the qualities that they themselves possess, people will pass on their moral character to those who join their ranks (Mosca 1939, p. 435). New recruits become insensitive to specific forms of danger by living in communities that remain calm in the face of such threats. Apprentice mountaineers learn to face the cliff without fear, just as aspiring sailors learn to weather the storm at sea. The same reasoning applies to new army recruits. Whatever their social background, they soon acquire military virtues and develop courage. Daring and endurance are not a monopoly of the upper classes. The contributions of the bourgeoisie and proletariat to republican and imperial wars prove that Nature is “uniformly lavish in her endowments of courage upon all the inhabitants of France” (Mosca 1939, p. 64). It is therefore false to think that military qualities are unequally distributed among individuals and that some are more cowardly than others. Even if this were true, instincts and natural inclinations are not the main factors that contribute to military prestige. During the French Revolution, the individual bravery of soldiers was of far less importance than their instruction in coordinated movements (Mosca 1939, p.  230). Their habits, moral cohesion, and sense of military organisation also weighed heavily on the outcomes of war. Native courage is no substitute for “courage that comes from long habituation to military life” (Mosca 1939, pp. 237–40). Degrees and forms of courage vary according to the forms and stages of social organisation. In feudal and barbaric societies, social authority is weak and individual courage in blood feuds is highly regarded. Likewise, warlike people value bravery more than aptitudes for science or the production of wealth (Mosca 1939, p. 99). Another important consideration is the position that someone holds in society. Bureaucrats who take orders, for instance, do not develop the courage and steadiness of mind and heart required to take bold initiatives (Mosca 1939, p. 319). In contrast, even during times of peace and commerce, rulers may have to display personal courage. They, too, fear death and avoid danger, but most people have the greatest respect for strong-willed leaders who exercise self-control and risk their lives responsibly. When discussing variations of courage in society and history, Mosca reveals his true colours. Despite the compelling case he makes for moral

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relativism, his view is that ruling classes that gain power through wealth are not as courageous and hold power for shorter periods than those with military roots and traditions. “Even today, in western and central Europe, one of the best defences of the ruling class lies in the personal courage that army officers coming from the ruling classes have in general displayed before their soldiers” (Mosca 1939, p. 237). Émile Durkheim (1858–1917), the founder of French sociology, presents a clearer statement of historical relativism and opposition to moral philosophy. He is forthright about the questionable value of philosophical speculations pertaining to the laws of moral goodness. When removed from their historical context, maxims, precepts, and mythical personifications of moral conduct, dating back to Greek antiquity and promoted in the French education system, lose all meaning (Durkheim 2018a, pp. 2645, 2675, 2759; 2018b, p. 3492). In different periods of history, notions of “homeland,” “honour,” “humanity,” “work,” and “courage” all signify entirely different things. They have no meaning on their own. Human qualities such as courage take many forms and serve a variety of purposes that support critical features of social organisation and history. Durkheim’s sporadic comments on courage nonetheless put an evolutionary slant on the subject, with traces of Social Darwinism stripped of its biological and moral egoism (Durkheim 2018c, p.  187; 2018d, pp. 3441–42; 2018e, p. 3643). The sociologist explains that courage is like intelligence, artistic taste, or manual dexterity. It is a natural disposition inherited at birth. As such, it plays an important role in forms of social life characterised by simpler divisions of labour. In “inferior” societies, social functions and the qualities required to fulfil them are so simple and general that they can be passed down through blood ties from one generation to the next. Wachagga and Masai warriors provide good examples of inherited bravery (Durkheim 2018f, p.  3323). Similarly, throughout the Middle Ages, men of noble descent could discharge their duties without having to acquire considerable knowledge or skills. Inborn courage sufficed (Durkheim 2018c, 297; see 2018n, pp.  819–20). Courage, on the other hand, plays a secondary function in more evolved societies with more complex divisions of labour. It is required in some occupations, including soldiers but also miners, surgeons, engineers, and aircraft navigators. However, each person’s natural qualities matter less

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compared to the knowledge and skills acquired through training and experience. Courage and other natural advantages allow for constant adaptations to shifting mindsets and systems of organised labour. Unlike noblemen, who trusted their natural bravery and sense of honour, modern soldiers must learn to master the ever-more complex art and techniques of war (Durkheim 2018c, p.  299). In his critique of Saint-Simon’s socialism, Durkheim adds that armies waging difficult and costly wars rely on the progress of science and the rapid development of arts and trades free of military and religious authority. Breakthroughs in science, sustained economic prosperity, and the expansion of the military industry are all far more important than men’s native courage or strength of character (Durkheim 2018g, p. 2026). The idea that moral ideals and hierarchies of values evolve over time is taken up again in Éducation et Sociologie. In societies with more complex divisions of labour, workers receive a narrower education, and martial courage and training no longer stand above other virtues. Instead, educating people to think becomes the top priority (Durkheim 2018h, p. 1780). The general evolution of life in society determines the position of natural courage in relation to other qualities and achievements in science and industry. It also affects the degree of courage that people are likely to show when confronting life’s challenges. In Le suicide, Durkheim examines the relationship between courage and the social determinants of suicide. Briefly, societies that foment social anomia instead of solidarity are less effective in maintaining the natural drive to remain alive and brave adversity (Durkheim 2018n, pp.  861–62). Social conditions that promote egoism deprive people of a sense of purposeful living and result in higher rates of suicide (Durkheim 2018n, p. 589). Elsewhere, Durkheim observes that intellectuals and politicians who transform the struggle for freedom into individualistic quarrels do society a disservice: they diminish the courage required to share and advance a higher cause for the common good (Durkheim 2018i, p. 3667). Laws that permit divorce by mutual consent are another example of the effect that social anomia has on feelings of courage. Instead of increasing the potential for happiness, laws that loosen the rules and obligations of family life and disrupt its organisation undermine the moral courage

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required to put up with the difficulties of life (Durkheim 2018j, p. 3750). In keeping with this line of reasoning, people who act egoistically because they live in isolation and poverty have a harder time finding the courage to face adversity (Durkheim 2018d, p. 3535). On the other hand, those who uphold the accepted standards of morality and fulfil their obligations can count on others’ sympathy and esteem, just as devout people can rely on the benevolence of their God in heaven. In Les Formes élémentaires de la vie religieuse, Durkheim continues to portray social sentiments as enhancing man’s sense of self-confidence and therefore his courage and boldness in action (Durkheim 2018k, p. 1229). Similarly, putting one’s trust in shared religious beliefs and ritual obligations will reduce anxiety in the face of danger. Examples include the native Australians trusting totemic animals or wearing the sacred Churinga amulet (Durkheim 2018k, pp. 1139, 1176, 1400, 1426; 2018l, p. 4002). All social incentives for acting bravely are based on the same principle. The custom of warriors or knights having to demonstrate their bravery in order to win a woman’s hand in marriage is another example that Durkheim provides (Durkheim 2018m, p. 3044). The message remains the same: while courage is a natural quality, its meaning, relative importance, and overall intensity depend on existing social conditions and the contribution it makes to society. The complex division of labour spearheaded by progress in science is the hallmark of advanced societies and contributes to a higher form of social solidarity. Primitive societies also thrive on expressions of solidarity but rely on pre-logical thinking to strengthen people’s ties with one another and with nature. This line of thought is part of Lucien Lévy-­ Bruhl’s legacy to anthropology. In How Natives Think, the French anthropologist (1857–1939) explains why natives devour tiger, stag, or boar flesh, as well as the hearts, livers, fat, or brains of enemies killed in battle: they do so in the hope of appropriating their strength, courage, boldness, or intelligence (Lévy-Bruhl 1925, p. 296). He also recounts how youths prove their courage through excruciatingly painful initiation ceremonies, thereby establishing a participation between them and the mystic realities which are the very essence of the social group, the totems, the mythic or human ancestors,

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and to give them, by means of this participation, a ‘new soul,’ as it has been termed. Herein we perceive difficulties which appear insurmountable to our logical thought, since they raise the question of the unity or of the multiplicity of the soul, whilst the prelogical mind finds no difficulty in imagining that which we call soul as at the same time one and multiple. (Lévy-Bruhl 1925, p. 352)

For Lévy-Bruhl, the principle of participation has many conceptual implications. Courage, on the other hand, is just a commonplace word, like a finger pointing at something. Most natural and nineteenth-century social scientists held similar views: an observable quality such as courage has a straightforward, uncomplicated meaning. It stands for something that people can easily perceive and interpret literally to signify the same thing for everyone. Variations in how people express it and how much weight they place on it in different contexts are worth looking into, even if only as a sidebar. But, in the end, the properties of courage and its various manifestations are irrelevant. Most scientists just assume that all readers would agree with their usage of the term, which denotes a man’s ability to face danger and endure terrible pain and suffering. It is not a complex idea worthy of moral exploration and debate. Given these assumptions, the rise and growth of the social and natural sciences sound the death knell for one of the oldest questions in Western ethics, namely what courage is and ought to be. Even moral philosophers such as John Henry Muirhead (1855–1940) have relatively little to say about courage. Again, his comments on the subject come with a bias for higher forms and ideals of social life. In The Elements of Ethics, the British founder of the influential Muirhead Library of Philosophy (1890) considers courage and other virtues such as temperance to be intuitively true. The goodness of courage, like any other virtue, cannot be derived from reason or considerations of interest or pleasure. Nor can it be broken down into simpler elements (Muirhead 1892, p. 71). Each virtue, by definition, is a quality of character that “lives in the performance of duty” (Muirhead 1892, p. 177). This is a universal fact of human nature, regardless of differences in races, ages, or classes. Contrary to what Spencer claims, it will endure as long as human beings do (Muirhead 1892, p.  210). However, as with any other faculty,

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Muirhead recognises that courage can grow unevenly; moral priorities vary depending on the situation, the time, and the social class involved. Charity was of paramount importance among early Christians; chivalry reigned supreme in the Middle Ages; and manly courage was the cardinal value among the Greeks and Romans. In the modern age, courage is the most important quality in a soldier, while truthfulness matters more to a clergyman (Muirhead 1892, p. 170). Interestingly, as society moves towards higher forms of organic life, the courage to face pain becomes more differentiated. This is because pain is conceived more broadly. It is no longer strictly physical, as when a soldier faces danger and death in battle. Pains as perceived in modern times may be of short or long duration, and their objects may be physical or mental. The danger to health and life is extended to “the mission field, the city slum, and the fever ward, which makes the foreign missionary, the slum sister, and the hospital nurse as heroic types among ourselves as the citizen soldier was among the Greeks” (Muirhead 1892, p. 208). Courage can also be moral, as when people cope with severe disagreements or misunderstandings with friends or when they put their lives in danger to expose church corruption and social immorality. As society advances, the differentiation of virtues means that more is expected of people. There is also a deeper understanding of how courage affects other virtues, virtue as an organic whole, and human growth in general. We see now, more than ever, how difficult it is to separate courage and temperance, both of which are aspects of self-control and therefore wisdom. We appreciate the fact that a man must be courageous and bear hardships in order to resist the pleasures of the flesh. He must temper his desire for life if he is to show courage (Muirhead 1892, p. 183). The quality is considered in relation to all virtues and the form they must take when moral and physical obstacles stand in the way of achieving the common good (Muirhead 1892, pp. 209–10). The moral differentiation and integration of virtue represent a fully developed notion of human brotherhood, which was unknown to the Greeks and poorly reflected in Plato’s sketchy classification of virtues (Muirhead 1892, p. 177). Muirhead elevates this new outlook on courage to the pinnacle of human civilisation. However, he gives it little thought beyond these passing remarks.

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 ociological Relativism, Against S the Existing Order John Stuart Mill (1806–1873), an English philosopher and political economist by profession, shows little interest in the comparative outlook on morality—the idea that the significance and manifestation of courage differ in civilised society compared to previous forms of social life. Instead, he investigates how the courage and boldness of past and present thought enable history to advance in defiance of prevailing ideas and norms. He defines courage as a virtue in the Greek sense, namely a kind of “mental quality” that requires training. However, the meaning of courage is predicated not on philosophy but rather on tangible facts and observations of the senses (Mill 2017a, pp. 1298–1299, 1317–18). It denotes the overcoming of fear, one of the most powerful emotions in life. Using this term may help in formulating scientific propositions that constitute real laws or tendencies in the exact science of human nature: “It is a scientific proposition, that bodily strength tends to make men courageous,” for instance (Mill 2017a, pp. 2149–50). But while there may be a physical aspect to it, courage does not come naturally. Rather, it is developed and cultivated over time, with varying degrees of success. Some individuals are naturally irascible or enthusiastic to the point of being insensitive to fear on some occasions, but not always. “Consistent courage is always the effect of cultivation” (Mill 2017b, pp. 2404–6). Mill’s commitment to modern science gives a new twist to virtue-based ethics. It is also a critique of virtues practised in the service of existing traditions. Men widely admired for their heroic deeds, in his view, create new customs that help others overcome fear, especially the young. Women may also play an important role in promoting the quality of courage, if only by defining it as the best passport to their hearts and favours. Women’s moral influence and worship are credited with giving birth to chivalry, a tradition that combined the highest standards of warlike valour with the non-military virtues of gentleness, generosity, and self-­abnegation (Mill 2017c, pp. 160–62). In On Liberty, Mill explains how moral courage, genius, mental vigour, and strength of character foster “eccentric” ways of thinking, a boldness

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of the mind that shapes the course of history. Moral and mental courage play a decisive role in challenging the tyranny of opinion, enlarging the minds of men, and promoting “free and daring speculation on the highest subjects” (Mill 2017d, pp. 223–24; see p. 261). Thus, the mission of national education is to nurture courage and public spirit by teaching students the “duty of asserting and acting openly on their opinions.” “Disguise in all its forms is a badge of slavery” (Mill 2017e, p. 3285). Even if only in the long run, the words and deeds of brave men have the power to alter the course of history. Heretics who dared to question Church beliefs and dogma left an indelible mark. They established precedents for resistance and provided weapons for later Reformers to revisit the foundations of Christianity (Mill 2017a, pp. 2228–29; see 2017b, pp. 2428–29). More broadly, mental activity, initiative, and courage are indispensable for sustaining prior accomplishments and making further progress. Originality and inventiveness are becoming increasingly vital as new challenges and threats emerge in all aspects of social life (Mill 2017f, pp. 2545–47). Every era in history has the potential to chart a new course for the future. Mill observes that when tortured to death, Christian martyrs showed courage and perseverance for reasons other than of avoiding damnation and securing a place in heaven. Rather, their martyrdom showed a “self-forgetting devotion” to a noble idea or cause and divine enthusiasm for it. This state of elation is not unique to religion; it is inscribed in all “critical moments of existence, not to the ordinary play of human motives” (Mill 2017b, pp. 2433). Mill does not advocate, for all that, radical shifts in regimes of power. He remains committed to the advancement of civilisation, the primary pillar of which is people’s permanent obedience to a common authority or government. This is the first lesson of civilisation, unknown to primitive tribes who cling to the turbulent energy and bravery required in struggles with Nature and wars with their neighbours. Savages will yield to the primary conditions of civilised society only through war, the imposition of military command, and, in some cases, religious leadership (Mill 2017f, pp. 2583–84). Ludwig von Feuerbach (1808–1864) is more critical of lawfully established authorities, especially in the moral domain. He is well remembered for his vitriolic attacks against Christianity and his staunch support for

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atheism and anthropological materialism. In The Essence of Christianity, the German philosopher and anthropologist reproaches Christianity for giving God an immaterial existence that has no real positive attributes and cannot be distinguished from non-being. Unlike man, God lacks the courage to be real. Qualities are the fire, the vital breath, the oxygen, the salt of existence. An existence in general, an existence without qualities, is an insipidity, an absurdity. But there can be no more in God than is supplied by religion. Only where man loses his taste for religion, and thus religion itself becomes insipid, does the existence of God become an insipid existence—an existence without qualities. (Feuerbach 1890, p. 15)

Religious sentiments not founded in the positive world lack the strength and courage to examine things as they really are. They perceive everything through the eyes of an otherworldly god or phantom ghost in the human mind. This does not mean that men should stop praying and expressing their feelings of dependence. After all, praying is and has always been a conversation between a man and himself. It enables man to voice his own need together with “the feeling of his own strength, the consciousness of his own worth, the guarantee of his existence, the certainty of the fulfilment of his wishes,” all of which take great courage (Feuerbach 1890, p. 124). For Feuerbach, philosophy must nonetheless free itself from the absurdity of a God who is not at one with Nature and the real world. True philosophy has the power, courage, and freedom to doubt itself, think dialectically, resolve its own relationship with sensuous beings, and proclaim the divine essence of human existence. All modern philosophies have failed to achieve this goal, mostly because they proceed from their own presuppositions rather than embracing creative negativity. The true mission of philosophy is to confront what resists and opposes it, namely real and sensuous beings (Feuerbach 2012a, p. 72). Hegelian philosophy is the prime example of this tendency to cling to the past rather than negate it in order to meet the present and future needs and aspirations of humanity. “Only he who has the courage to be absolutely negative has also the power to create something new” (Feuerbach 2012b, p. 146).

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Although thinly developed, Feuerbach’s approach to courage is critical of much of modern philosophy. This is also true of the little that Karl Marx (1818–1883) and Friedrich Engels (1820–1895) have to say about courage. Both political scientists are uninterested in exploring moral concepts on their own, which have no bearing on understanding the material and economic roots of class struggle and social history. The term “courage,” rarely used in their writings, predictably refers to the war that the proletarian worker declares against “the disguised war which the bourgeoisie wages upon him” (Engels 1887, p.  59). Workers demonstrate courage in the fire of the revolutionary struggle. One passage in The Condition of the Working-Class in England in 1844 is nonetheless worth quoting to illustrate Engels’ economic perspective on the matter. The text describes the frequent strikes that took place across England in response to current wages, new machinery, and other issues. Engels concedes that these numerous skirmishes and strikes had little effect on the whole system. However, they are the strongest proof that the decisive battle between bourgeoisie and proletariat is approaching. They are the military school of the working-­ men in which they prepare themselves for the great struggle which cannot be avoided; they are the pronunciamentos of single branches of industry that these too have joined the labour movement. (Engels 1887, p. 150)

Labour unions are schools of war, spearheading the proletarian battle against bourgeois supremacy. “In them is developed the peculiar courage of the English,” Engels adds. This contradicts the prevailing belief on the continent that people from working-class backgrounds in England are cowards. Unlike the French, they apparently tolerate the bourgeois regime and will not riot to launch a revolution. Engels could not disagree more. In his mind, English working men are second to none in courage. They are as restless as the French, but the way they fight back is different. The French are, by nature, political. They fight social ills and abhorrent living conditions with political weapons, launching insurrections against the ruling government in support of the republican cause. English workers, on the other hand, are less interested in politics. They are primarily concerned with specific social issues that affect their own interests and

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livelihoods. Their courage stems from the misery, hunger, and slow starvation they endure with their spouses and children on a daily basis. As a result, they battle the bourgeoisie one enterprise at a time, knowing full well that the property-holding class will retaliate. Horrible poverty and bitter suffering are at the root of the revolutionary courage of English working men, which they demonstrate on countless occasions. Like the Manchester brickmakers who went on strike in May 1843, they do not run away from a rain of bullets in their fight for fairer wages. The struggle of English coal miners against mine owners is another instance of “an endurance, courage, intelligence, and coolness which demands the highest admiration” (Engels 1887, p.  172). Every day, the unbreakable grit, quiet tenacity, and unwavering commitment of English workers are tested and displayed a hundred times. Their battle in each branch of industry commands the utmost respect and holds great promise. Men who “endure so much to bend one single bourgeois will be able to break the power of the whole bourgeoisie” (Engels 1887, p. 151). Their struggle is more noble and courageous than any political uprising on the continent. In The Prussian State, Marx adopts a more nuanced position on the merits of courage in the political arena. In passing, he praises the people of Vienna for their industry, second to none in Germany, and their superior courage and revolutionary energy. He nonetheless reproaches them for ignoring their true political interests during the Revolution and committing many blunders as a result. Similarly, his discussion of Petty Traders (1852) suggests that political alliances with “influential but less courageous classes of society” may contribute to a revolutionary course of action (Marx 1907, p.  167). However, by and large, Marx and Engels consider the class struggle led by the labour movement to be the primary site for bold revolutionary action. Despite their radical nature, Marx’s and Engels’ scattered remarks on class-based courage do not amount to a comprehensive rethinking of the ethics of courage. In their own way, they mirror the current trend in the natural and social sciences, which is to say little about the topic because it is unworthy of systematic enquiry. In this respect, Max Weber’s (1864–1920) silence on the matter is equally revealing. One of the most influential and prolific scholars of the modern era, the German

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sociologist and political economist has virtually nothing to say on the subject of courage or fortitude. His contemporary, the German sociologist Georg Simmel (1847–1922), has some thoughts to offer, but mainly to emphasise the futility of deriving a general concept of courage from countless individual lives. Simmel tackles ethics in The Law of the Individual with the premise that a person’s life proceeds in absolute, unbroken continuity. Life as we know it and wish it to be is never the sum of moments of courage and cowardice, cleverness and foolishness, assessed against objective and universal categories that stand above a person’s “continuous and continually changing life-stream.” A display of courage is not the realisation of some general concept or Platonic essence. Nor is it the expression of man’s “good conscience,” governed by supra-individual norms of practical behaviour applicable to all humans. More to the point, acts of courage make sense in the context of a person’s entire life process, a constant “pulse beat” that connects the rational with the sensory, the practical with the theoretical, and the individualistic with the social. Life also revolves around each person’s sense of responsibility, understood as an ethical rationality and vital-individual outlook on “what is” and how it relates to “what ought.” While courage is universally desirable, its true significance may be found only in the fullness of a person’s life and related ideals. The latter have little to do with universal morals, let alone a person’s unchanging character. As Simmel puts it, [T]he person, in the totality of his life conceived as a unitary continuity, should be something, that he has an ideal given with this life to actualize himself, an ideal whose essence (like that of life itself ) is to develop as ceaselessly changing, often perhaps logically mutually contradictory actions. (Simmel 2010, p. 138)

Human behaviour is ethical, provided there is an active engagement of the entire person. Each life is lived as the unity of “Is’ and “Ought,” grounded in the singular circumstances of the total person. The imperative of authentic individuality replaces Kant’s categorical imperative. All

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actions are now judged based on a person’s whole life and sense of moral responsibility. It is difficult to see how the “ought” of courage can reflect the unique circumstances and morals of each person while remaining universal in scope. The encounter between self and social history has much to teach us about the complexity of our lives, but it provides no answer to the initial question: What is the meaning of courage in relation to issues of truth, power, and life? If anything, Simmel’s answer points to a total dispersion of meaning. At best, he adds yet another voice to the growing conviction that morals vary ad infinitum and can only be commented in passing. This is true of most nineteenth-century discussions of courage. They are many and a good indication of the diversity of perspectives on questions of human existence, life in society, and the workings of the mind. Without the bold and original works of Emerson, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, and James, the emerging social sciences would have relegated fully developed theories and debates about courage to the realm of idle speculations and moral doctrines of the past. As the next chapters argue, the existentialist movement closes the gap and creates new riddles of its own.

References Bentham, Jeremy. 1843. The Works of Jeremy Bentham. Vol. 1. Edinburgh: W. Tait. Calkins, Mary Whiton. 1918. The Good Man and The Good: An Introduction to Ethics. New York: Macmillan. Durkheim, Émile. 2018a. L’éducation morale. In Émile Durkheim—Oeuvres: Classcompilé n° 140. lci-eBooks, Kindle. ———. 2018b. La philosophie dans les universités allemandes. In Émile Durkheim—Oeuvres: Classcompilé n° 140. lci-eBooks, Kindle. ———. 2018c. De la division du travail social. In Émile Durkheim—Oeuvres: Classcompilé n° 140. lci-eBooks, Kindle. ———. 2018d. La science positive de la morale en Allemagne. In Émile Durkheim—Oeuvres: Classcompilé n° 140. lci-eBooks, Kindle. ———. 2018e. Origine du mariage dans l’espèce humaine d’après Westermarck. In Émile Durkheim—Oeuvres: Classcompilé n° 140. lci-eBooks, Kindle.

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———. 2018f. Les Nandis, les Akamba et Autres Tribus de l’Afrique Orientale. In Émile Durkheim—Oeuvres: Classcompilé n° 140. lci-eBooks, Kindle. ———. 2018g. Le socialisme, sa définition—ses débuts—la doctrine saint-­ simonienne. In Émile Durkheim—Oeuvres: Classcompilé n° 140. lci-­ eBooks, Kindle. ———. 2018h. Éducation et Sociologie. In Émile Durkheim—Oeuvres: Classcompilé n° 140. lci-eBooks, Kindle. ———. 2018i. L’individualisme et les intellectuels. In Émile Durkheim— Oeuvres: Classcompilé n° 140. lci-eBooks, Kindle. ———. 2018j. Le divorce par consentement mutuel. In Émile Durkheim— Oeuvres: Classcompilé n° 140. lci-eBooks, Kindle. ———. 2018k. Les Formes élémentaires de la vie religieuse. In Émile Durkheim— Oeuvres: Classcompilé n° 140. lci-eBooks, Kindle. ———. 2018l. Cours divers. In Émile Durkheim—Oeuvres: Classcompilé n° 140. lci-eBooks, Kindle. ———. 2018m. La prohibition de l’inceste et ses origines. In Émile Durkheim— Oeuvres: Classcompilé n° 140. lci-eBooks, Kindle. ———. 2018n. Le suicide. In Émile Durkheim—Oeuvres: Classcompilé n° 140. lci-eBooks, Kindle. Engels, Friedrich. 1887. The Condition of the Working-Class in England in 1844. Trans. F. Kelley Wischnewetzky. New York: J.W. Lovell. Feuerbach, Ludwig von. 1890. The Essence of Christianity. Trans. M.  Evans. London: Kegan. ———. 2012a. Towards a Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy. In The Fiery Brook, Selected Writings, trans. Z. Hanfi. London: Verso. ———. 2012b. The Necessity of a Reform Philosophy. In The Fiery Brook, Selected Writings, trans. Z. Hanfi, London: Verso. Lévy-Bruhl, Lucien. 1925. How Natives Think. Trans. L.A.  Clare. New York: A. Knopf. Martineau, Harriet. 1833. The Faith as Unfolded by Many Prophets. London: L.C. Bowles. ———. 1838. How to Observe Morals and Manners. London: C. Knight. Marx, Karl. 1907. Revolution and Counter-revolution; Or, Germany in 1848. Ed. E. Marx Aveling. Chicago: E.H. Kerr. McCosh, James. 1882. The Method of the Divine Government. London: Macmillan. Mill, John Stuart. 2017a. A System of Logic, Ratiocinative and Inductive. In The Collected Works of John Stuart Mill. E-artnow, Kindle.

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———. 2017b. Three Essays on Religion. In The Collected Works of John Stuart Mill. E-artnow, Kindle. ———. 2017c. The Subjection of Women. In The Collected Works of John Stuart Mill. E-artnow, Kindle. ———. 2017d. On Liberty. In The Collected Works of John Stuart Mill. E-artnow, Kindle. ———. 2017e. Thoughts on Parliamentary Reform. In The Collected Works of John Stuart Mill. E-artnow, Kindle. ———. 2017f. Considerations on Representative Government. In The Collected Works of John Stuart Mill. E-artnow, Kindle. Mosca, Gaetano. 1939. The Ruling Class. Trans. H.D.  Kahn. New  York: McGraw-Hill. Muirhead, John Henry. 1892. The Elements of Ethics. London: John Murray. Renouvier, Charles Bernard. 1876. Uchronie (L’utopie dans l’histoire). Paris: Bureau de la critique philosophique. ———. 1896. Introduction à la philosophie analytique de l’histoire: les idées, les religions, les systèmes. Paris: Ernest Leroux. ———. 1908. Science de la morale. Tome 1. Paris: Félix Alcan. https://archive. org/details/sciencedelamora00pratgoog/page/n9/mode/2up Sidgwick, Henry. 1907. The Methods of Ethics. London: Macmillan. Simmel, Georg. 2010. The View of Life: Four Metaphysical Essays with Journal Aphorisms, Trans. J.A.Y. Andrews and D.N. Levine. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Tocqueville, Alexis de. 1841. Democracy in America. In Two Volumes. Trans. H. Reeve. New York: Langley. ———. 1854. American Institutions and their Influence. New York: A.S. Barnes. ———. 1872. Correspondence and Conversations of Alexis de Tocqueville. In Two Volumes. London: H.S. King.

13 Emerson’s Heroes of Truth

Energetic Courage and the Rule of Might With the noteworthy exception of Socrates, philosophers, scientists, and theologians have proposed a wide range of theories of courage since antiquity, each claiming to provide definitive solutions to the problems posed. In all cases, courage is approached as a quality that truly exists, has universal scope, and begs to be discovered and perfected in real life. In Hegel’s philosophy, the ideals of courage culminate with the Spirit of Reason reaching its highest manifestation in modern civilisation and the utmost achievements of state life. Chapters 11 and 12 showed how natural and social scientists of the nineteenth century veer away from this legacy of abstract and doctrinal generalisations and towards explanations that seek validation through factual evidence. As a result, scholars virtually abandon the subject or pay less attention to it. The fact that courage loses salience is not surprising. The beginnings of modern science, in their own cold-hearted way, herald an age of methodical dis-couragement and de-moralisation, as it were. Science is about the observable world, not its idealised version meant to provide moral guidance for better living. The comments made by scientists in passing are generally limited in scope and depth. They are, nevertheless, numerous enough to set a new © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_13

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trend in the field of ethics, best described as “moral scientism.” When compiled, scientific observations and assessments of noble ideals prepare the ground for a profound rethinking of courage, a paradigmatic shift that will eventually lead to the fast-growing wellness industry and, more recently, studies of resilience. More is said about this shift in Chap. 22. What must be emphasised at this point is that, despite its quest for new knowledge, science never challenges its own assumptions. While shedding new light on an old problem, novel claims about courage continue to give off an air of certainty. When it comes to science, views expressed with authority are not ethical claims that encourage others to imagine and argue about how the world should be. Law-like statements about courage point rather to properties, causes, and effects that can be described or known objectively and cannot be otherwise. The reign of abstract reason and religious faith may be over, but the rule of undisputed truth remains. If cultural and social relativism is invoked, it is only as a matter of fact and a minor caveat to notions of goodness that are not up for debate. The order of epistêmê is never completely abandoned or dismantled. Instead, it adapts and mutates to withstand the test of time. At the risk of stating the obvious, science overreaches itself by trying to settle moral issues on its own. The early forays of evolutionism into the moral domain are a good example of the contradictions that follow. Natural and social scientists seek to make a compelling case for life in society, freedom of thought, and factual certainty, all of which have much to commend them. However, the discovery process, along with the findings and recommendations that follow, all point in the opposite direction. To begin with, social engagement plays no role in thinking through the importance of social life; while courage is considered social in nature, the questions it raises are settled in the ivory towers of academic life. On the matter of freedom, academics claim the right to freedom of thought in science and promote the exercise of free will in society, against the darkness of ignorance. Yet scientists abdicate the responsibility they have in freely choosing one set of morals over another. The choices they embrace are hidden under a thick layer of pure objectivity and immunity from history. As for their findings and moral assumptions that transpire in their work, they are as varied as the number of ethical and political biases and priorities that vie for attention. Moral scientism appears to be

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asocial, unable to freely choose its own ideal of courage, and ill-prepared to handle competing views of the existing world and what it ought to be. The ethics of courage turned into science has far-reaching ramifications for contemporary society. In hindsight, the nineteenth century brought with it a Weltanschauung, or “intuition of the world” (Kant 2000, p. 116), that gathered the most energetic form of courage in history. The outlook is for an industrial age with new power sources and a more effective organisation of labour, as well as an exponential increase in knowledge, wealth, state authority, and military force. In the modern era, courage is no longer about enduring hardships, facing death, performing acts of patriotic bravery, or seeking self-preservation and contentment in life. Instead, priority is given to the active, powerful, and persistent deployment of human strength, intelligence, conscious determination, and restless vitality. Growth turns into a dynamic process that has no limits and requires everyone’s contribution to keep the wheels of progress turning. The importance and far-reaching potential of this new ethos, which is more about thriving and less about surviving or living pleasantly, cannot be overstated. But neither should we ignore the political cost of this “spirited” outlook on courage, which includes the many services it provides to rising systems of inequality. When the forward march of history becomes the norm, holders of power can claim, in good conscience and with the support of science, that they are better equipped to thrive and rise above others. Women can be subjected to men, as can savages to civilised people, followers to leaders, weaker communities to stronger nations, and all forms of life to the human species. Expressions of sympathy and solidarity that seem well-intended are conveniently adapted to the rule that might makes right. Aesop’s fabled wolf still gets the last word on who deserves to suffer the fate of Hegel’s overly gentle lamb (Hegel 1892, II p. 94). But the modern story of courage does not end there. Thus far, this volume spans several centuries, from the writings of Machiavelli and Descartes through the rapid growth of the natural and social sciences in the nineteenth century. The chapters cover vastly different approaches to the question of courage. Taken together, they prepare the ground for ideas that are now widely accepted. Our age has grown familiar with the

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notion that people living in different circumstances will hold different values and define courage as it suits them best. Few will now be shocked to learn that ethics can be self-serving and contribute to a person’s happiness while also advancing the common good. Also, for most people, it will seem obvious that individual values and self-evident truths can be deeply felt and trigger strong emotions rooted in the world of physis as opposed to abstract reason or church doctrine. Individualism that benefits everyone, well-being that begins at home, noble sentiments and causes that can be defended with passion and energy—all have become commonplace in our landscape of moral ideas. One line of thought that lies at the heart of advanced modernity is nonetheless absent from the previous chapters: the courage of despair. Prior to the twentieth century, philosophers took every effort to show how suffering on Earth could lead to rewards in heaven; how faith and reason could settle their differences; how the pursuit of self-interest could contribute to the common good; how civic equality and freedom could accommodate power relations based on class, gender, and race; how social diversity rich in history could pave the way for the achievements of Western civilisation; and how the body, human emotions, and the laws of Nature could align themselves with high-minded expressions of the human soul. Most philosophers trust they can bridge, each in their own way, the gaps that most concern them. Twentieth-century thinkers, on the other hand, seem to have lost confidence. They are less convinced of the utility and soundness of grand visions of moral life. The few scholars who persist in addressing questions of right and wrong have doubts about human beings’ ability to reconcile the conflicting aspects of life on Earth. Moral dilemmas, great suffering, and deep distress persist despite all efforts to overcome them. Consensus about the meaning of death has long passed, and grand narratives and hopes for the future are no longer compelling. As disturbing as it may be, uplifting wisdom and optimism are no longer in vogue. Current doubts about the teachings and reassurances of moral philosophy and theology are not new. Sigmund Freud (1856–1939) was openly sceptical about the usefulness of moral principles in understanding the human psyche and perfecting it. Accordingly, he has practically nothing

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to say about courage. As he points out, his study of the unconscious is not meant to emphasise “all that is most beautiful and noble in mankind, its heroic courage, its self-sacrifice, its social feeling,” as demonstrated in times of war (Freud 1920, p. 119). His task does not consist of investigating or denying the noble strivings of human nature. His goal lies elsewhere, in showing how the mind can effectively suppress and distort immoral wishes and impulses emanating from the unconscious. If psychoanalysis dwells on censorship and devious expressions of evil, it is because too many insist on ignoring them. Other warnings against the rule of reason were sounded in the nineteenth century, primarily through the writings of Emerson, Kierkegaard, and Nietzsche. However, rather than abandoning the topic, they introduce an entirely different approach to the ethics of courage. Their goal is to confront human evil, unfreedom, absurdity, and despair by looking straight at them and transforming them beyond recognition. This represents a radical departure from Fichte’s dialectical framing of despair. Briefly, Johann Gottlieb Fichte (1762–1814) holds that philosophy can help us comprehend the whole man and develop moral and religious sentiments for all humanity. Proposing a new theory of religion is particularly important for abolishing useless and confusing doctrines about God that are not fit for the human mind. For religiousness to have educational value, it must awaken “the true supersensual motive-powers of life” (Fichte 1868, p.  348). By this, Fichte means the powers of self-­ activity, which are rooted not in man’s sense of perception but rather in his sense of introspection and freedom of the will, the supreme condition of everything. Since man controls his destiny, he must learn to stand on his own two feet and achieve strength, courage, and self-confidence. Courage is born of a philosophy that teaches freedom, which lies at the heart of self-consciousness, self-confidence, and self-activity. Fichte adds that, historically speaking, courage originates from despair, the kind that is experienced by the oppressed living under the yoke of tyranny. Tyrants, driven by insatiable cravings, will continue from generation to generation their efforts to acquire wider and yet wider privileges, and never say “It is enough!” until at last oppression shall reach its limit, and become wholly insupportable, and despair give back to the

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oppressed that power which their courage, extinguished by centuries of tyranny, could not procure for them. (Fichte 1931, p. 122)

If oppression takes the upper hand in human affairs, it is primarily due to men’s cowardice, baseness, and mutual distrust. Oppression and slavishness, two opposing vices, complement one another and, in excess, become agents of their own destruction. This dialectic movement, from thesis to antithesis and synthesis, results in lasting freedom, the noblest of all human relations (Fichte 1931, p. 161). “One, free, moral community” is the ultimate outcome of man’s history: peace between all people, made by man himself through his good will and in accordance with duty. As we are about to see, Emerson, Kierkegaard, and Nietzsche could not disagree more. Despair that has no redeeming value and is “wholly insupportable” is not the source of courage. In truth, it is cowardice of the mind. In the heart of darkness lies a treasure trove of existential inspiration, namely the philosophical freedom and power of the self to face and “transfigure” anything that is hideously and tragically human, exploring it in great depth, heroically, and without shame or compromise. If the “humus” of life contributes to the growth of our “humanity,” it is by virtue of the filth and dirt that compose it, as it were. Excess, dissidence, solitude, incomprehension, absurdity, anguish, lying, sinning, suffering, pain, death, fatality, and chance—all contain the seeds of human greatness. There is no wisdom or courage to be found in sanitising our mortal existence with moral bleach. Philosophers must resist the temptation to remove the taste and smell of bitterness from our lives. They must show the highest level of courage and willpower and live a life of self-­affirmation and quest for truth, no matter how painful and sombre it may be. Their solitary journey towards new heights of energy and wisdom is essential to escaping hordes of plaintive voices—minds weakened by two thousand years of herd instinct and slave morality.

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Self-commanding Individualism and the Solitary Scholar Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1895) is a leading figure of nineteenth-­ century transcendentalism and a champion of individualism and human freedom. The American philosopher has no difficulty admitting that courage takes root in man’s physical constitution, notably in the blood flow through the arteries. When a generous blood supply fortifies the body and the arteries function normally, courage and bold action become possible. Robust health gives man the coarse energy he needs to be fierce. It also enables him to be frank and direct, which are qualities that many politicians, churchmen, and well-educated men frequently lack (Emerson 1897, p. 369). All the same, there is more to courage than natural strength. Human beings, unlike animals, require courage to express their individuality in all aspects of their lives, including the way they demonstrate courage. This means that there are as many “courages” as there are men. “Heaven is large, and affords space for all modes of love and fortitude” (Emerson 1897, p. 37). Some are courageous by temperament. As with wasps and roosters that fear nothing, they enjoy a good fight and are quarrelsome by instinct. Their virtue lies in “courage, address, self-command, justice, strength, swiftness, a loud voice, a broad chest” (Emerson 1897, p. 6). But not all brave men are bullies. In Society and Solitude, Emerson argues that the courage of the tiger is one, and of the horse another. The dog that scorns to fight, will fight for his master. The llama that will carry a load if you caress him, will refuse food and die if he is scourged. The fury of onset is one, and of calm endurance another. There is a courage of the cabinet as well as a courage of the field; a courage of manners in private assemblies, and another in public assemblies; a courage which enables one man to speak masterly to a hostile company, whilst another man who can easily face a cannon’s mouth dares not open his own. There is a courage of a merchant in dealing with his trade, by which dangerous turns of affairs are met and prevailed over. (Emerson 1897, p. 267)

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It takes courage to master any art, whether it be architecture, sculpture, painting, or poetry. While they are unlikely to demonstrate physical valour, artists may be admired for their bold genius. A true orator is also a hero (Emerson 1897, p. 454). The bar, the senate, journalism, and the pulpit—all professions call for courage, even when they are peaceful. The courage to engage in politics is also admirable, if for no other reason than the complexity of the issues that public figures must address and the unfailing patience they require to deal with them. Their task is superhuman (Emerson 1906, p. 175). Youths seeking adventure and contemplating future careers should be aware that all professions demand the same level of bravery as the sea or camp. What matters is that they choose a profession that appeals to their personality and manly strength (Emerson 1897, p. 494). Each nation displays courage in its own way. The English distinguish themselves through their steady courage and capacity to take on enormous challenges while enduring many hardships along the way. But they also have “a petty courage,” where every man reveals himself for who he is. The Englishman has such a high opinion of himself and his personal traits, whether they be qualities or flaws, that he will never lower himself to imitate someone else. Since he believes that everything about him fits him perfectly, he conceals no imperfection in his form, features, dress, connection, or place of birth. “If one of them have a bald, or a red, or a green head, or bow legs, or a scar, or mark, or a paunch, or a squeaking or a raven voice, he has persuaded himself that there is something modish and becoming in it, and that it sits well on him” (Emerson 1897, p. 316). Emerson calls this the unwritten code of aristocratic honour, a set of standards open to anybody who takes pride in who he is, regardless of his circumstances, wealth, or social rank. “Who has courage and faculty, let him come in” (Emerson 1897, p. 322). In fact, all nations stand to gain from every man’s brave individuality, and they should welcome settlers with the same unbending character. One principled, strong-minded man settling in a new country is worth a thousand newcomers who lack character (Emerson 1897, p. 268). Courage takes many forms. Still, there is a common thread that runs through all expressions of courage. Every form is like a different piece of the same ancient tree made of the same wood that grows in all parts pf

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the world (Emerson 1897, p.  37). The idea of courage, like truth and generosity, is a universal commandment that may be heard anywhere, even in the exotic voice of savage rituals and mythologies. The commandment teaches a simple truth that transpires in all virtues: “Self-trust is the essence of heroism” (Emerson 1897, p. 56; see p. 570). Human courage is not the instinct of an animal resisting an attack, but rather the self-­ possession of an elevated character facing adversity and overcoming it through his own special power. The hero is his own man. He is not merely a member of a family or society. Rather, “he is a person; he is a soul” (Emerson 1897, p. 40). Courage is the quality of a “person of commanding individualism” (Emerson 1897, p.  256). This notion of courage, energetic and self-­ centred, taps into the singularity of each person; everyone’s strength is his own. No one can overshadow a man who draws on attributes that define him. If he fails to win his battles, it is because he wears another man’s armour. A brave man “is strong, relying on his own, and each is betrayed when he seeks in himself the courage of others” (Emerson 1897, p. 268; see p. 29; 1884, p. 260). The hero faces the circumstances of his life in his own way without adopting someone else’s character. Nonetheless, a close study of Emerson’s work reveals a strong preference for a particular type of daring, which is heroism of the mind. Of all expressions of human character, the scholar and his passionate devotion to truth represent the highest level of moral strength. Emerson imagines this scholar as more Stoic than Epicurean. He is athletic, enjoys his work, leads a simple life, and avoids excessive smoking and drinking. This is “no helpless angel to be slapped in the face, but a man dipped in the Styx of human experience, and made invulnerable so, self-helping” (Emerson 1884, p. 240). The self-reliant scholar is “the right hero.” He has the fortitude of understanding and enough self-confidence to seek and speak the truth. His mind is devoted to mastering the world and battling evil, ignorance, and falsehood. A manly scholar lives a robust life with a strong mind that holds on to whatever knowledge or wisdom it considers solid and reasonable. He feeds it like a fire that shines brightly and sheds light on everything (Emerson 1884, p. 298). Since he masters the art of seeking and speaking his truth, the “speculative man” may tell readers of his latest

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book to ignore all other writings on the same subject. In doing so, he sets the example of a bold man’s “habit of reference to one’s own mind, as the home of all truth and counsels” (Emerson 1897, p. 267). The scholar always seeks and speaks the truth, devoting himself to its quest relentlessly and without compromise. Confidence in his own mind reflects his intellectual probity, a virtue more costly than any biblical calling. While he may not be a skilled swordsman or rifleman, the man has his own armour and weapons. His strength lies in his power of concentration and meticulous attention to the facts (Emerson 1884, p. 260). What makes him a model of courage is his mental capacity to look straight at facts and exercise judgement with complete sincerity, even when the evidence shocks others and contradicts what he himself holds dear (Emerson 1904, p. 63). Emerson is particularly critical of “effeminate” scholars and thinkers who avoid studying the hideous facts of history, including persecutions, inquisitions, massacres, parricides, or the lives of evil men such as Nero and Caesar Borgia. Uncheerful as they may be, these facts require of us a patience as robust as the energy that attacks us, and an unresting exploration of final causes … and we must have a scope as large as Nature’s to deal with beast-like men, detect what scullion function is assigned them, and foresee in the secular melioration of the planet how these will become unnecessary and will die out. (Emerson 1897, p. 269)

The scholar asks hard questions. He faces the real threat in front of him, stares at it, and probes into its origins. Thus, he can better grasp its nature, challenge it, and give it a mortal blow. His ability to debate intellectual giants and critique them in search of fresh insights is more evidence of his valour and greatness (Emerson 1897, p. 496). England is full of well-bred men who express themselves clearly and courageously on difficult matters and attack everyone, including those of high status. While these men of character have myriad personalities, they all have one thing in common: they ask questions, stand up for the truth, and expose everyone’s ignorance, including their friends’ and even their own. In keeping with these principles, they see value in finding

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a companion who knows what you do not; to tilt with him and be overthrown, horse and foot, with utter destruction of all your logic and learning. There is a defeat that is useful. Then you can see the real and the counterfeit, and will never accept the counterfeit again. You will adopt the art of war that has defeated you. You will ride to battle horsed on the very logic which you found irresistible. You will accept the fertile truth, instead of the solemn customary lie. (Emerson 1897, p. 450)

The scholar seizes every opportunity to discover new ways to overcome problems and win battles of the mind. Emerson’s approach to brave learning reflects the notion that “courage is equality to the problem, in affairs, in science, in trade, in council, or in action” (Emerson 1897, p.  266). To act courageously, one must be convinced that the rival or enemy is not superior in strength or spirit, even if he may be superior in other ways. The chancellor of the exchequer marshals the power of knowledge and logic in the sphere of politics, and the bishop in religious matters. Conversely, discussing the English Church with someone who excels in geology or business is comparable to conversing with a box turtle (Emerson 1897, p. 334). While he defines courage in the plural, Emerson draws attention to every individual’s courage and strength of mind. True courage resides in the boldness of one’s truth, epitomised by the self-commanding individualism of the accomplished scholar. The key to his moral philosophy is this: “Knowledge is the antidote to fear” (Emerson 1897, p. 266). The approach has direct implications for early education. Children are like soldiers. They learn to overcome their fear by understanding the dangers they encounter and experimenting with different ways to handle them. If they panic, it is because they let their imagination and ignorance rule their thoughts. Familiarity with danger is therefore crucial. It helps children control their imagination. Once he knows the steps needed to solve an arithmetic problem, a schoolboy is no longer frightened by the question. He is like the sailor who loses fear as soon as he masters the art and instruments of navigation. If a man becomes good at playing chess, he will make moves that others will regard as daring. But the daring is only an illusion; the player has gained the ability to see many steps ahead and confidence in his moves.

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Unlike animals, children take time before they can control their fear. The problem is that education regarding life’s hazards ends too soon, with the result that courage and understanding give way to feelings of obedience and fear. This explains men’s frequently observed sympathy with tyranny and the rule of terror. Unprepared for bad times, politicians do everything they can to maintain the illusion of strength rather than using their own health and wealth to defend what they believe is right. Civilians who join the army are not much help either. Enlisted troops who volunteer for a war often strive to hide their personal shortcomings. When men think they are unequal to the task of overcoming danger, courage becomes a matter of appearance. The greatest threat that man faces lies in this illusion of weakness and inferiority. Soldiers without self-confidence let the enemy’s drum, flag, shiny helmet, beard, and moustache overpower them before the bayonet even touches them. The threat is more formidable than the blow, and the spectacle of pain is more horrifying than the pain itself. “Half a man’s wisdom goes with his courage” (Emerson 1884, p. 87). One can achieve complete self-possession by facing one’s apprehensions and recognising them for what they are: unfounded perils that should not be exaggerated. As the Latin proverb says, “[I]n battles the eye is first overcome” (Emerson 1897, p. 53). Knowledge gained from experience, more than the teachings of duty, helps in the development of courage. Self-trust in one’s practical knowledge is the key to mastering fear and danger. It is the “encourager” that takes fear out of the heart. The scholar sets an example by his love of learning, which is the only passion that is truly eternal, or nearly so (Emerson 1897, p. 503). But his courage is not merely passive. He shows how powers of the mind can transcend the laws received by natural decree: “Nature is good, but intellect is better: as the law-giver is before the law-receiver” (Emerson 1883, pp.  63–64). Courage necessarily involves an active conversation with reality and the discovery of truth, which drives our pursuit of happiness. Courage, then, for “the persuasion that we must search that which we do not know, will render us, beyond comparison, better, braver, and more industrious, than if we thought it impossible to discover what we do not know, and useless to search for it.” He [the scholar] secures a position not

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to be commanded, by his passion for reality; valuing philosophy only as it is the pleasure of conversing with real being. (Emerson 1883, p. 64)

By actively engaging with reality, men shape the course of social history. The scholar serves as a model of courage whenever he moves to act on what he believes to be true. As Goethe teaches, the secret of genius and therefore courage is to suffer no fiction, seek knowledge in the arts and sciences, and then extract a sense of purpose that inspires us to “honour every truth by use” (Emerson 1883, p.  276). The same reasoning applies in the public sphere. A journal is truly brave when it addresses real concerns. It musters the courage and power necessary “to solve the problems which the great groping society around us, stupid with perplexity, is dumbly exploring” (Emerson 1906, p.  230). This is how man should approach the future: with courage and confidence in the powers of the mind.

Infinite Power and the Ultimate Sacrifice Emerson’s stance on courage revolves around the exercise of free will, bolstered by constant learning and the self-directed pursuit of truth. The scholar’s resolve to converse with reality and defeat all forms of ignorance is a model of strength and courage. The means required to accomplish this includes a conquering mind, a commanding voice, and the superior power of one man over the masses (Emerson 1897, p. 461). The judge illustrates this every time he struggles to sort out the contradictions of a difficult case and persists until the matter is resolved. Because of the “quantity of power” he possesses, he may act on his bold instincts and flashes of genius. Instead of fearing defeat, he has the heroic inspiration to invent a way to judge the case and raise the questions he sees fit (Emerson 1897, p. 267). Men of courage lead full lives because they have nothing to dread. Charles XI of Sweden had no fear of danger, and he lived more than any other man. Far from expiating his life, he embraced it, living it fully without having to pay a fine or the penalty of virtue. Emerson is critical of those who demonstrate virtue with penances: “I do not wish to expiate,

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but to live” (Emerson 1897, p. 12). His vision of a life of courage and virtue is wild; it is heroic, Stoicism of the blood and not of the schools (Emerson 1897, p. 55). Courage is wealth—not in money or lands but rather in the possession of “creative supplying power” (Emerson 1904, p. 84). This power is elemental in that it conjoins the perception of truth with “the desire that it shall prevail,” a desire that is essential to will. A strong will that is fearlessly creative and daring usually results from a certain unity of organization, as if the whole energy of body and mind flowed in one direction. All great force is real and elemental. There is no manufacturing a strong will. There must be a pound to balance a pound. Where power is shown in will, it must rest on the universal force. (Emerson 1897, p. 361)

A brave man is always in peril, on the brink of disaster. Only one thing can save him: the courage to be creative through invention rather than conservation. The man has deep-felt convictions based on what he believes to be universally true and the highest ideals of life. When that happens, he has no choice but to rely on the unlimited power at his disposal. Every beat of his heart will then express a heroic spirit and a sublime oath to the Most High, as it were. In essence, the experience is one of excess mental and bodily energy, a hoarding of “surplus power” that converts physical vigour into moral strength. The bread he eats is first strength and animal spirits: it becomes, in higher laboratories, imagery and thought; and in still higher results, courage and endurance. This is the right compound interest; this is capital doubled, quadrupled, centupled; man raised to his highest power. (Emerson 1897, p. 384)

The highest level of power is excess, which leads to “genius in poetry, inventions in mechanics, enterprise in trade, magnificence in wealth, splendor in ceremonies, petulance and projects in youth.” In Society and Solitude, Emerson adds that courage is the perfect will that no terror can shake. Extreme danger and hazards invigorate it, unleashing immense power and energy that springs like a flame. The purpose of our existence

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is to educate the will and strengthen the faculties through discipline, which is the source of all forms of courage. All men can become heroes, superior souls who conquer weakness and cowardice, and never accept their inferiority as incurable. Moments of heroic impulse are exceptional occurrences that no one can anticipate. A single demonstration is sufficient to draw attention and respect from the masses. As in battle, great courage is shown at unexpected moments, on rare occasions, and without prior planning, as if the feat were performed at two o’clock in the morning. The hero could not have done it at another time. It follows that a slight opportunity or pretence can help regain lost courage. “The art is to give rise to the opportunity, and to invent the pretense” (Emerson 1897, p. 200). Courage is in seizing the moment, not in planning it. The surplus power of a courageous soul imposing its will on the spur of the moment comes at a high cost: being willing to endure great trials and make the ultimate sacrifice, if necessary. A man earns other people’s esteem if he is willing to answer for his actions with his life. He puts his existence in peril for a cause. Men like Socrates, Jesus, and the martyrs are doomed to perish at the hands of the inquisitor or the tyrant almost as soon as they are born. However, their spirit of sacrifice and bold energy are also present in everyday life. Household activities can transform sacrifice into duty. When that happens, limits vanish, and new horizons emerge. A man may spend the entire day working himself to death out of duty, never lifting a hand to preserve his own life. When night falls, he sinks into deep sleep and awakens the next morning with renewed youth, hope, and the courage to face another day of constant daring (Emerson 1897, p. 489). Every society has heroes who make the greatest sacrifices while remaining humble and self-effacing. They will risk everything they have to fight their own battles and fulfil their duty. Take away their sense of responsibility, and they become pirates and ruffians. Poverty, the prison, the rack, the fire, the hatred and execrations of our fellow men, appear trials beyond the endurance of common humanity; but to the hero whose intellect is aggrandized by the soul, and so measures these penalties against the good which his thought surveys, these terrors vanish

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as darkness at sunrise. We have little right in piping times of peace to pronounce on these rare heights of character; but there is no assurance of security. In the most private life, difficult duty is never far off. (Emerson 1897, p. 269)

To qualify as heroic, a sacrifice must achieve lofty aims that reflect on the brave deed, the method used, and the cost incurred for it. “A great aim aggrandizes the means.” It garners the power and courage required “to make a new road to new and better goals.” Courage comes from a prophetic instinct and vision, not from being calm and wise.

Moral Duty and the Struggle for Freedom Courage takes the colour of each soul. Regardless, all manifestations of courage share the same spirit of self-commanding individualism and the unwavering pursuit of an absolute truth. All generate a surplus quantity of creative power dedicated to achieving lofty goals and, if necessary, making important sacrifices in the process. But what should these goals consist of, one might ask? Should every man decide for himself and cling firmly to his own truth and moral values, whatever they may be? Is the scholar brave whenever he recognises the infinite power of his own ideals and extends them to all of humanity? Emerson is careful to avoid this path. Instead of advocating moral relativism, he harnesses the energy and power of the mind to promote sentiments that have always inspired humanity, such as love, courage, and wisdom, which lie at the heart of all things (Emerson 1906, p. 386). Nonetheless, freedom is the noblest sentiment, one that every human being is free to embrace with unfailing strength. In this noblest of all causes lies the courage of “a little whim of will to be free gallantly contending against the universe of chemistry” (Emerson 1897, pp. 361–62). Emerson insists that there is “no separate essence called courage, no cup or cell in the brain, no vessel in the heart containing drops or atoms that make or give this virtue” (Emerson 1897, pp. 266–67). Instead, he advances a definition that emphasises a free and healthy man’s right to do “what is constitutional to him to do.” By this, he means the immediate

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performance of what he ought to do, acting the only way he can, regardless of other people’s opinions. It takes great strength to act freely, in accordance with one’s mind and understanding of duty, using the right means to achieve the right ends, regardless of the costs. Every human being thus possesses “a courage of his constitution fit for his duties,” which is as sacred as God’s hat (Emerson 1897, p. 267). The courage of duty thus liberates the mind and allows it to speak the truth. This is the prime attribute of a man who is everywhere a liberator, but of a freedom that is ideal; not seeking to have land or money or conveniences, but to have no other limitation than that which his own constitution imposes. He is free to speak truth; he is not free to lie. He wishes to break every yoke all over the world which hinders his brother from acting after his thought. (Emerson 1897, p. 269)

The ultimate expression of freedom is behaving in accordance with one’s own truth. This includes the scholar’s freedom to define freedom based on his own convictions, free of fear born of ignorance. A scholar who is truly brave thinks and speaks openly, unconstrained by anything outside his own constitution. Freedom is the essence of his faith, and its mission is to make men good and wise (Emerson 1906, pp. 13–24). The struggle for liberty is ingrained in every soul, and it drives social history. Emerson argues in The Sovereignty of Ethics that civil history progresses from virtue, defined as physical courage, to higher morals centred on the principles of chastity and temperance. Eventually, religious principles give way to the negotiation of rights between kings and particular classes, followed by the masses. “Then at last came the day when, as the historians rightly tell, the nerves of the world were electrified by the proclamation that all men are born free and equal” (Emerson 1906, p. 383). This is the bravest victory of the just and wise over malice and wrong. Emerson’s moral philosophy establishes a direct connection between the courage to be who we are, the freedom to speak the truth, and the wish to serve and contribute to the freedom and well-being of all men throughout history. Justice, courage, love, and humility all work together in the pursuit of the universal good. While justice is how this overall good is applied to each person’s life, courage is the absence of fear when

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fighting for it with resolve. Love is preferring another’s gain over our own safety. Humility is the insignificance we feel when we consider our lives in the broader scheme of things (Emerson 1906, p. 307). At its best, man’s soul performs God’s work while overcoming every obstacle and enemy in its path. “The best and highest courages are beams of the Almighty” (Emerson 1897, p.  268). The brave soul hitches its wagon to a star and promotes whatever the divinities value most: justice, love, freedom, knowledge, and utility. Only dazzling courage can do these sentiments justice, with contempt for the transient interests they may serve. True heroes are pure idealists, committed to a principled cause without regard for fear or self-interest. They have broad minds that look beyond individual, racial, or national concerns in order to benefit the entire human race and the growth of civilisation. This is what evokes so much sympathy for them. All religious creeds preach the same virtues, each in their own way. But what if a man believes that fate or some supreme intelligence preside over the history of man and Nature? In response, Emerson teaches that courage is the best use of fate and that baseness is futile because it will never change what is fated to happen. The courage and total surrender to what life has in store for him, including his birth and the unavoidable Day of Judgement, define a man’s virtue (Emerson 1897, p. 480). If you accept your thoughts as inspirations from the Supreme Intelligence, obey them when they prescribe difficult duties, because they come only so long as they are used; or, if your skepticism reaches to the last verge, and you have no confidence in any foreign mind, then be brave, because there is one good opinion which must always be of consequence to you, namely, your own. (Emerson 1897, p. 269)

The lazy blame fate for their weakness. The best use of fate is to teach fatal courage. Instinctive and heroic races are proud believers in their own destiny. They exhibit courage by accepting their “elevated nature” and the inherent dangers associated with performing their duties. A solitary scholar who sees and speaks the truth has the lion’s bold eyes, strong heart, and roaring mouth (Emerson 1897, pp.  264–68,

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461, 570). The imagery harks back to the lion-hearted heroes of Greek antiquity, but with a focus on the search for truth as the greatest battle. Given this emphasis, the hero more closely resembles a roadside sphinx, a scholar who escapes death by resolving his own riddle. He discovers how to find the entirety of history in himself and his own experience. “Of the universal mind each individual man is one more incarnation.” “All its properties consist in him” (Emerson 1897, p. 1). All the facts and events of his life are winged riddles that beg to be solved by his superior mind. He alone can solve the enigma, because he is strong enough to sit still and withstand the passage of time (Emerson 1897, pp. 8, 440). The enlightened scholar, like the sphinx, is a man of immense knowledge and stature. He is the antithesis of a sheepish creature who blindly submits to religious and political forces mightier than himself. However, the scholar is so free that he can also choose complete obedience to whatever life has in store for him, as God requires. As in Oriental society, he can embrace the fact that his life hinges on the favour or displeasure of the Sultan, as well as his encounter with “the desert, the simoom, the mirage, the lion, and the plague.” His life “hangs on the contingency of a skin of water more or less” (Emerson 1897, p. 480).

References Emerson, Ralph Waldo. 1883. Representative Men. In Emerson’s Complete Works, Vol. 4. London: Waverley. ———. 1884. Lectures and Biographical Sketches. In Emerson’s Complete Works, Vol. 10. Boston: Houghton. ———. 1897. Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson. London: Routledge. ———. 1904. Natural History of Intellect, and Other Papers. In Emerson’s Complete Works, Vol. 12. Boston: Houghton. ———. 1906. Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson. Vol. IV.  Miscellaneous Pieces. London: G. Bell. Fichte, Johann Gottlieb. 1868. The Science of Knowledge. Trans. A.E. Kroeger. Philadelphia: Lippincott. ———. 1931. The Vocation of Man. Trans. W. Smith. Chicago: Open Court.

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Freud, Sigmund. 1920. A General Introduction to Psychoanalysis. Trans. S. Hall. New York: H. Liveright. Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich. 1892. Lectures on the Philosophy of History. In Three Volumes. Trans. S. Haldane. London: Kegan Paul. Kant, Immanuel. 2000. The Critique of Judgement. Trans. J.H. Bernard. Amherst, NY: Prometheus.

14 The Courage of Despair

For Emerson, heroes of truth win battles of the mind without having to rely on the teachings of the church, society, or state, let alone the mechanical laws of Nature and science. Their struggle and the sacrifices they make to achieve noble goals—most of all freedom from both ignorance and the imposition of external beliefs and norms—follow a simple principle: knowledge is the antidote to fear. Self-trusting scholars are free to pursue noble ideals as they understand them. Their courage takes many forms, all of which are “beams of the Almighty.” Brave men nonetheless have one thing in common: they never get caught in dead alleys. Their “ethics of thought” enable them to open new doors, constantly hoping and striving, knowing that “despair is no muse, and vigor always liberates” (Emerson 1897, p. 415). But this is not to say that logic or reason rule over everything. In truth, intuition is the great enabler. Logic is merely “the procession or proportionate unfolding of the intuition; but its virtue is as silent method; the moment it would appear as propositions and have a separate value it is worthless” (Emerson 1897, p. 73). Heroes trust their intuitive thinking, born in silence. They do so knowing that their own destiny is not a will or an implacable logic that rational wisdom can conquer. If anything, fate is “an immense whim; and this the only ground of terror and despair in the rational mind, and of tragedy in © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_14

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literature” (Emerson 1906, pp. 190–91). If reason is at work, it is primarily through a spiritual vision of the world, and thus through the best of human imagination. Søren Kierkegaard (1813–1855) explores similar themes but goes one step further: as with man’s destiny, despair and the absurdity of hope should not be feared. They can be transformed beyond recognition by turning them into the self-affirmation of “knights of infinite resignation” and “knights of faith,” as he calls them. While Emerson despairs of those who lack courage, Kierkegaard finds courage in those who have the strength to live in anguish and experience despair. As we shall see, Max Stirner and Lev Shestov are also staunch supporters of courageous individuals and freed minds struggling against the tyranny of reason, religion, and the state. But they laugh at all attempts to rescue the ”righteous good,” moral laws, and heavenly spirituality from the depths of despair and the sublime terror of unreason and nothingness in life.

 he Aesthetic, the Ethical, and the Religious: T Søren Kierkegaard Kierkegaard views courage as the linchpin between three modes of existence: aesthetic, ethical, and religious. Each level sheds a different light on the role of courage in facilitating leaps from one level to another. The aesthetic is the sentimental level where people get what they wish for by chance and without much effort, even when they seem to have fought for it (Kierkegaard 1941, pp. 158–59). Courage at this level is going “where pleasure beckons in order to see where pleasure is” (Kierkegaard 1956, p. 172). An individual living at this level only deludes himself into believing he is happy and will express outrage at anything that threatens his joyful existence. Sensuality and its distinction between pleasure and displeasure dominate him. This individual is not brave enough to live ethically and is “too sensuous to have the courage to venture to be spirit or to endure it” (Kierkegaard 1941, p. 319). While the man may seem vain and conceited, he has a low conception of himself. Like Don Juan, he prefers to live in the cellar of his own house.

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Kierkegaard brings more nuance to his discussion of the aesthetic self in On the Concept of Irony. The focus is on the concept of irony from a philosophical perspective. Irony uses words to mean things that contradict or differ from their conventional meaning. In its Socratic form, irony is the midwife who helps give birth to critical thinking, self-reflection, and individual subjectivity. Socrates masters the art of “infinite negativity,” which gives him the courage to doubt and fight almost anything (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 45). It enables him to challenge all previously held views, requiring others to step back from their certainties and accept responsibility for their own thoughts. But not everyone will accept the invitation to live reflectively as a thinking subject with heightened curiosity and doubt. People need great energy and courage to abandon all their presuppositions and experience a new birth inspired by some “genuine and proper finding” (Kierkegaard 1989, p.  274). All learning, in fact, requires courage. The only way to rescue knowledge from ignorance and save one’s life through self-knowledge is to abandon all feelings of self-­ assurance and absolute certainty. Seeing everything is the best sign of chronic blindness. The man who is not up to this task is like Orpheus, who tried to rescue Eurydice from the underworld and failed (Kierkegaard 1989, p. 26). Because he ignored the warning and thought he could look back at her with impunity, she vanished from his sight forever. Kierkegaard takes pleasure in using irony on his path to wisdom. He concedes that it is a brave thing to talk with self-assurance about just any topic, including the dialectic of life and the infinite meaning of irony itself. Yet the person who wallows in self-confidence has less courage than the person who despairs of knowing the truth. It would be a mistake to think “that every full-grown adult infant with his sweet, sentimental smile, his joy-intoxicated eyes, has more courage than the person who yielded to grief and forgot to smile” (Kierkegaard 1989, p.  327). The same is true of irony. The philosopher cautions us against its allure. But that doesn’t stop him from recommending it and taking pleasure in following his own advice. Kierkegaard delves deeper into the life and unsmiling nature of the reflective aesthete in Either/Or. Anyone who, like Faust, is overly sensitive to beauty and love risks becoming ensnared in melancholy and ennui. In his yearning for memories of past hopes, he completely dissociates

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himself from immediate experience and self-presence. This mood of contemplative sadness contrasts sharply with the self-assurance and sense of control the modern man has over his life. The modern world views melancholy as effeminacy and prefers to hold the individual responsible for his own life. The aesthetic experience is a defect that deprives man of “the courage to command, the courage to obey, the strength to act, the confidence to hope” (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 394). Thus, philosophers disavow the idea that a man’s fate is wholly determined by external factors, such as the tragic repercussions of his early life. They emphasise the pursuit of what is actual and good, to be enjoyed egotistically and without any trace of sorrow. An effective trope for the aesthetic experience is love between man and woman, especially after marriage. Couples who lament the passage of time and recall how happy they once were are crippled by memories of their glowing past. They are prone to “lose the zest and the courage to venture” (Kierkegaard 1958, p. 191). Recollections may be beautiful, but they are like old garments that no longer fit. Dwelling on aspirations for a brighter future is also fraught with peril. It is like trying on a new outfit that has never been worn before and may never fit. The only imperishable garment that will always fit, neither too tight nor too loose, is the never-­ changing present. Using tropes from his time, Kierkegaard compares repetition in the present tense to the loving wife that a man of courage never tires of. A man who finds joy in repetition does not forsake a woman’s love. He is brave enough to seduce and marry her, count her tears, and witness her distress as she grows pale and old (Kierkegaard 1946, p. 101). Less figuratively, if a man must be young at heart to remember the past and dream of the future, he needs courage to will repetition. He who would only hope is cowardly, he who would only recollect is a voluptuary, but he who wills repetition is a man, and the more expressly he knows how to make his purpose clear, the deeper he is as a man. But he who does not comprehend that life is a repetition, and that this is the beauty of life, has condemned himself and deserves nothing better than what is sure to befall him, namely, to perish. For hope is an alluring fruit which does not satisfy, recollection is a miserable pittance which does not

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satisfy, but repetition is the daily bread which satisfies with benediction. (Kierkegaard 1946, p. 5)

The man who chooses the aesthetic life does so out of weakness and cowardice. All the same, his escape from the immediate present brings him some happiness and creative freedom. Since he dwells in the realm of what is infinitely possible, the aesthete acts as his own godlike creator, uninhibited by the limits of the here and now in his thoughts and feelings. In his own way, he lives in a kingdom of gods. From where he stands, every single event is completely malleable and may be poeticised through self-absorption and immersion in erotic desire, ad infinitum. In his creative mind, the mere sight of a delicate ankle descending from a carriage inspires countless images of a woman’s beauty. For Kierkegaard, this experience of “poetic infinitude” is a defining feature of eroticism, an adventurous experience that requires courage. As with Socratic doubting, lovesick fear and trembling undermine a man’s self-confidence. But the feeling also makes him stronger, giving him a heightened sense of self-­ possession and manly audacity (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 288). Embracing the ephemeral passion and poetry of love entails risks and inspires bold moves and ruptures. “When two people fall in love and suspect they are made for each other, the thing is to have the courage to break it off, for by continuing they only have everything to lose and nothing to gain.” “It seems a paradox and is so, for feeling, not for understanding” (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 238). Kierkegaard acknowledges the value of aesthetic courage and freedom. However, the admission is merely a step in his path to higher levels of existence. Feelings of aesthetic boldness and creativity, while liberating, are deceptive and delusional. They hide the fact that tragedy is forever present in a man’s journey through life. “The energy, the courage, which would thus be the creator of its own fortune, yes, the creator of itself, is an illusion and in losing the tragic the age gains despair” (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 143). Stacking paradox upon paradox, the Danish philosopher invites us to rediscover and appreciate the healing power of tragedy, unfreedom, and connections with universals and the wholeness of life. Whatever he does, every individual remains a child of God, his age, his nation, his family,

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and his milieu. No man is an island, with an identity apart from the rest of the world and a life lived just for himself (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 533). When man “tries to be the absolute, he becomes ridiculous” (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 144). Every man has a history that defines him, his roots, and his self, and it takes courage to choose oneself as an individual deeply connected with others. “It takes much ethical courage not to be distinguished by difference but to be content with the universal” (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 526; see p. 517). Cowardly souls have this in common: they despair at not being unique in the things they enjoy and value most, hoping to stand out, if only for a while. And when the aesthetician himself admits that the difference which gives his life meaning is also transitory, but adds that it is still always best to enjoy it as long as one has it, this is really a cowardice in love with a certain kind of enjoyment of ease, under not too high a ceiling, and is unworthy of a human being. It is as though someone were to rejoice in some relationship based on a misunderstanding which, sooner or later, would have to come into the open, and lacked the courage to be cognizant of this or to admit it, but rejoiced in the relationship as long as possible. (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 527)

The problem with this outlook on life is that the individual chooses himself above all else. The same criticism applies to philosophers and Christian hermits who withdraw from public life and isolate themselves from the world. They transform civic virtues, such as bravery, perseverance, temperance, and moderation, into purely personal qualities (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 534). Kierkegaard employs irony and literary devices liberally to highlight the inherent contradictions and flaws of the aesthetic life. While he enjoys and excels at his art, he worries about any art that is mastered solely for aesthetic reasons, egotistically, rather than for higher expressions of love. He distrusts the writer, who sits on the throne of youthful pleasure and does not have the courage to let his work mature beyond the amusement of literary philosophy. The joy he derives from tormenting himself and others with his own anxiety and ennui also concerns him. Nero believed

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that cruelty was the only way he could find peace from boredom (Kierkegaard 1992, p.  498). Kierkegaard loathes the thought of doing the same. The man who lives aesthetically follows the old saying, “To be or not to be.” His life depends on all his demands being satisfied, including those of his erotic imagination. They guarantee his existence. Ethics offers a higher level of self-awareness and living. The man who lives ethically thrives on adversity. He knows that things may go wrong and has a way out, whatever happens. He knows how to overcome hurdles in his journey to proper living and corrects any mistakes he makes along the way. He never loses courage and “never surrenders his sovereignty over himself.” To be sure, he wants to be happy with every choice he makes, including the woman he marries. But if he makes the wrong choice, aesthetically speaking, “he does not lose courage, he at once sees his task and knows that the art is not to wish but to will” (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 544). The ethical self believes in reality and has the courage to face adversity. Man’s mood becomes one of seriousness in seeing the task at hand, undertaking it, and trusting that something will come of it. He makes no concessions to pure chance, and he fears the blindness of fate most of all (Kierkegaard 1980, pp. 121, 159). All actions conform to pure categories unencumbered by learning from the senses. A man who lives ethically must nonetheless remain humble as he pursues noble ends through heroic action or Stoic suffering. He can do this and grow stronger if he expects nothing from himself in this life and everything from the position he occupies in an ideal world. The duty of self-forgetfulness puts a heavy responsibility on his shoulders. The task is even more humbling as a true hero cannot take pride in his rational calculations, knowing that reality does not require his assistance: whatever he plans and does, adverse events occur, and tragic outcomes keep looming on the horizon. Through tragedy, “the ethical idea contradicts itself as soon as it must be carried out in reality” (Kierkegaard 1941, p. 161). Heroic actions performed for ethical reasons do not eradicate fate. Rather, they call for brave thought on life’s many tragedies and what is universal about them. Heroic action and humble resignation are two sides of the same coin. Kierkegaard’s portrayal of the “knight of infinite resignation” captures this dual aspect of ethical living. Going beyond his sensuous nature, the

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knight foregoes the joy of possessing whatever he most desires in this world. He makes the sacrifice with courage and zeal, knowing that it is his mission to defend a universal ideal and that he will gain glory for it. Like the Stoic philosopher, the knight of infinite resignation has the courage to lose himself in order to gain himself (Kierkegaard 1941, p. 360). The despair he struggles with does not originate from outside. Rather, it comes from his readiness to boldly admit his inherent limitations and weakness (Kierkegaard 1990, p. 373). Ironically, the man who lives ethically is an exceptional individual as long as he recognises that “there is nothing great, only inferior, in being an exception” (Kierkegaard 1990, p. 563). As such, he will not imitate wealthy men who take pride in being an exception to the rule of having to work in order to live; they are not blessed with the ethical energy needed to earn a living. Just as a marriage is ruined by a cowardly husband, work loses its heroic value in the eyes of the independently rich, who take pleasure in standing above others. A true hero takes his place in society, lives by his work, and finds pleasure in it. Its being his vocation puts him in association with other people, and in carrying out his job he accomplishes what he could wish to accomplish in the world. He is married, content in his home, and time passes excellently for him—he cannot comprehend how time could be a burden for anyone, or be an enemy of his happiness; on the contrary, it seems to him that time is a true blessing. (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 573)

Similar paradoxes run through Kierkegaard’s discussions of honesty and frankness in marital love, which he uses as a metaphor for the rule of universal law and civic duty. He concedes in Either/Or that openheartedness and candour in marriage are easier said than done. It requires considerable courage to reveal oneself as one truly is without holding some secrets to improve one’s image or avoid embarrassment. Without the sharing of each other’s secrets, even occasional infidelities, married love becomes selfish and meaningless (Kierkegaard 1992, pp. 439, 443). “The husband who has strength to confide in his wife that he loves another— he is saved, and so too the wife” (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 450). Couples

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who abide by these principles are ethically exceptional. And yet the man who marries a woman is just like every other man, and the woman he chooses is just another wife. What married love brings to light, if anything, is so widespread as to be universal: a married couple can become happy over time. Commonalities overshadow all else, especially the personal circumstances and poetic story of two unique individuals who once fell in love. Similarly, as time passes, the differences that remain between the two lovers cease to offer reassurances of a singular love. Instead, they become challenging, as in all couples (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 572). The man who marries just like any other man has much to gain by remaining humble in his love. He should be happy and find comfort in the fact that he did not marry the perfect woman. Had his marriage been ideal from the start, the burden of keeping everything perfect would have been too much for him. He would have lost the chance of becoming a real hero, one who dares to believe that his labour of love can “transform an ordinary girl into a prodigy” (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 573). Using language that is less misogynistic, Kierkegaard praises the humble courage of marital love, which makes it a duty for man and woman to live together day in and day out, for richer or poorer, and create a stable relationship that offers satisfaction in life. Pure lust and pleasure of the flesh represent the lowest form of love. Aesthetic passion can easily morph into hate. Elvira, who was rejected by Don Juan, never fought for moral principles but rather for revenge and her lost love (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 193). Love in marriage, on the other hand, is ethical in character. The union does not preclude the aesthetic enjoyment of sensuality and beauty; poetic love can coexist with the difficulties and constraints of married life. Nonetheless, heroism lies elsewhere: in the challenges of marital love, echoing the romantic battles of knights in shining armour, which never end. Just as the knight is without fear, so too is married love, notwithstanding the foes it has to contend with are often far more dangerous. But if we let the knight say that the man who does not defy the whole world in order to save his beloved does not know knightly love, then we should let the husband say the same. (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 449)

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Kierkegaard adds that the ethical view of life elevates the aesthetic experience to a higher plane. Every individual grows into a knightly hero who battles and is willing to die for the sake of all beauty. He acquires enough self-assurance to vanquish melancholic despair and the superficial rule of personal distinction. In this order of knighthood, the universal reigns and eradicates all divisions, even the distinction between man and woman. Sarah, the daughter of Tobit’s closest relative, was no less a member of the order than Abraham. In eternity, all trivial differences are forgotten. A person’s individuality is not lost for all that. “The transfigured one, like eternity, does not desire the crowd.” “He desires the individual” (Kierkegaard 1956, p. 199). A man’s singular courage and faith in the victory of the beautiful within himself stand out as a most delightful sight (Kierkegaard 1956, p. 562). A man who lives ethically is sensitive to the heroic beauty and joy of his infinite resignation. His life is nonetheless fraught with issues of self-­ aggrandisement and pride. Regardless of how humble his life may be, the man places immense hope in what he is not and wills to become. He overinvests in his infinite self, of his own creation—the shadow self or abstract possibility he longs to be. By the aid of this infinite form the self despairingly wills to dispose of itself or to create itself, to make itself the self it wills to be, distinguishing in the concrete self what it will and what it will not accept. … He is not willing to attire himself in himself, nor to see his task in the self given him; by the aid of being the infinite form he wills to construct it himself. (Kierkegaard 1941, p. 361)

Either/Or concludes with an anonymous parson’s sermon warning that aesthetic and ethical love do not elevate man to the divine. To transcend aesthetic selfishness and the knightly ethics of resignation, there must be a leap of faith. The “knight of faith,” a model of spiritual courage, shows the way to the third and highest plane of human existence, which is religious in nature. Abraham was such a man. His faith was so strong that he was willing to obey God’s command and sacrifice Isaac, his own son (Kierkegaard 1941, p. 66). In exchange for his readiness to suspend the ethical and transgress the law against murder, he obtained the ultimate

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blessing—eternal life. An angel also rewarded his unwavering faith by saving his son’s life. The father and man of faith had it both ways. Moral philosophers are unable to grasp this lesson, which should come as no surprise. Their mission is to defend universal ethics and rely on human wisdom to eliminate any lingering contradictions. Their task is not to cultivate faith in things that defy human comprehension. Abraham embraced a contradiction that surpasses all understanding and was deeply humbled by it. His story goes to shows that a paradox enters in and a humble courage is required to grasp the whole of the temporal by virtue of the absurd, and this is the courage of faith. By faith Abraham did not renounce his claim upon Isaac, but by faith he got Isaac. By virtue of resignation that rich young man should have given away everything, but then when he had done that, the knight of faith should have said to him, “By virtue of the absurd thou shalt get every penny back again. Canst thou believe that?” (Kierkegaard 1941, p. 98)

The knight of faith knows how to behave ethically. He can renounce the joy of living with the son he loves. He can make the sacrifice with exemplary courage and zeal, knowing that it is his duty to defend a universal ideal and heed its command. His actions, however, point the way to an even higher plane, one of utmost humility and glory. While he experiences the feeling of resignation, he still humbly trusts that God will reunite him with the one he loves, no matter how absurd this may seem. Furthermore, Abraham and the son he was about to sacrifice will continue to love each other without any guilt or resentment. The father shows courage by submitting his faith to the test of absurdity (Kierkegaard 1941, pp.  72, 104–105). As did Kierkegaard, he considers himself a friend of free thought, implying that no thought is so absurd that he will lack the courage to embrace it and live happily with it (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 306). Sarah, from the Book of Tobit, is another knight of faith. She was brave enough to marry Tobias and trust that God would save him from the fate of her seven previous husbands, who all perished on their wedding night. Instead of surrendering to infinite resignation, Sarah had the courage to let herself be healed of her affliction. Her faith is all the more remarkable

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as she allowed the man she loved to be so bold as to love her back. “What ethical maturity was required for assuming the responsibility of allowing the loved one to do such a daring deed!” (Kierkegaard 1941, p. 189). Kierkegaard confesses, in his desire to be humble, that he would fail the test set before Sarah and Abraham (Kierkegaard 1941, pp. 206, 214). He portrays himself as someone who is unafraid of life’s perils and is capable of infinite resignation. His fortitude, however, is not equal to the courage of faith. He is incapable of making a great leap into the absurd, combining gestures of renunciation with some insane hope that persists despite all the contradictions that follow (Kierkegaard 1941, pp.  72, 74–75). He acknowledges that a man who cannot resign himself to the absurdity of faith is cowardly, effeminate, and without zeal. Because of his weakness, he cannot see the significance of every man’s noble mission: acting as his own censor and striving to become his highest self, motivated by his love for the Eternal (Kierkegaard 1941, pp. 97–98). Rather than losing everything, the man who follows this path gains everything in this life. The paradox is so profound as to be utterly humbling. As a true knight of faith, Abraham accepts being tested willingly and freely (Kierkegaard 1941, p. 69). He, like Sarah, is ready to join the order of knighthood without seeking approval through ballot (Kierkegaard 1941, p. 91). This does not exempt him from experiencing anxiety and despair. No matter how trusting he may be, the test is real. If he did not live in anguish, work hard at it, and be bold enough to give up everything for God’s sake, the world of spirit and divine order would not reward him (Kierkegaard 1941, pp. 61–62). Abraham could find peace if he chose to follow the ethics of infinite resignation, but that is not what he chooses. He knew that it is a kingly thing to sacrifice such a son for the universal, he himself would have found repose in that, and all would have reposed in the commendation of his deed, as a vowel reposes in its consonant, but that is not the task—he is tried. (Kierkegaard 1941, p. 145)

The idea that religious courage feeds on real anxiety and suffering resurfaces in Purity of Heart is to Will One Thing. “But what then is courage?” Kierkegaard asks. Part of the answer lies in the fearless knight who confronts opposition and danger, spurring his horse forwards against

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some terrifying objects and unavoidable suffering. He sees the threat clearly and does not have a fearful quiver in his eye. Nonetheless, the knight is mounted on a restless and unruly beast that represents the lower part of his nature. “The courageous one has a treacherous opposition within himself that is in league with the opposition without” (Kierkegaard 1956, p. 173). What makes the knight brave is that he embraces both the external and internal opposition that is thrust upon him. The true knight freely accepts being shackled to the beast underneath him as well as the external threat that creates anxiety. His freedom to choose what he cannot control seems illogical; powerlessness in the face of danger never gives hope. Only religious courage can enable him to take up such a challenge, which is to cling to the spirit of freedom, believe against all hope, and face the unavoidable. The Christian patience that embraces inevitable suffering is the courage Kierkegaard has in mind. The unavoidable is just the thing which will shatter courage. There is a treacherous opposition in the sufferer himself that is in league with the dread of inevitability, and together they wish to crush him. But in spite of this, patience submits to suffering and by just this submission finds itself free in the midst of unavoidable suffering. (Kierkegaard 1956, p. 173)

In Either/Or, Kierkegaard compares a hero’s courage at a single moment of agony to the patience of someone who struggles against time and risks his life day after day. Nothing can capture this long suffering—not even the beauty and poetry of a timeless work of art (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 460). From a Christian perspective, man’s sinful nature is the primary source of his pain and anguish. It is a sickness that lasts until death. The thought that all human beings, innocent and guilty alike, must bear this terrible burden is bound to cause despair. It suggests that good deeds have no consequences and that no one can aspire for justice in this world (Kierkegaard 1992, p.  598). But the knight of faith does not despair. Instead, he accepts the gift of sinfulness and “sickness unto death” (Kierkegaard 1941, p. 266; 1990, p. 75). He finds the courage to realise that the suffering of sin is a perfect gift from the Father of Lights. God is

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also the origin of his courage, “since it, too, is a good and perfect gift” (Kierkegaard 1990, p. 44). He can thank God for giving him the secret of earthly love, which consists in embracing the gift of redemption from sin, knowing that it bears the mark of divine love. Without God, earthly love is silly and insipid. Only Christian courage in accepting the burden of sin and patient suffering can save a man’s life. The knowledge of sin gives man the strength he needs to experience despair, with the assistance of the Eternal. Even if sin and guilt are infinite and inevitable, they can be annulled through repeated acts of resistance, atonement, and renewed faith (Kierkegaard 1980, p.  15). Continual repentance keeps the Christian soul eternally young—a soul that thrives in the light of ideals pursued with active energy as a never-ending task. The man of faith is forever starting to build a formidable tower, knowing that finishing it is beyond his reach (Kierkegaard 1941, pp. 137–38). “Young man, you who still stand at the beginning of your goal, if you have gone astray, turn back to God, and from his upbringing you will take along with you a youthfulness strengthened for manly tasks” (Kierkegaard 1980, p. 170). The courage of faith and atonement allows man to bear with a life full of misunderstanding, unhappiness, and senseless suffering. The deeper experience of anxiety that follows, which is Christian in nature, teaches a man about what is truly significant and mysterious in life. Because of his religious experience of life, the man of faith never deludes himself into believing that he can fully comprehend his fortune or misfortune. Neither does he consider himself responsible for everything that happens to him in the present world (Kierkegaard 1990, pp. 43, 92, 350). From finitude one can learn much, but not how to be anxious, except in a very mediocre and depraved sense. On the other hand, whoever has truly learned how to be anxious will dance when the anxieties of finitude strike up the music and when the apprentices of finitude lose their minds and courage. (Kierkegaard 1980, p. 161)

For Kierkegaard, sin is a crucial expression of spiritual life and the starting point of the religious order of things. Christianity does not err in attributing everything to sin. Because of its scepticism and aesthetic

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orientation towards knowledge and life, philosophy lacks the courage to do the same (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 533). In contrast to Socratic morality, Christian faith invites man to humbly accept the burden and power of being able to do wrong while knowing it is wrong. Ultimate courage is the boundless enthusiasm that goes into voluntarily putting up with man’s sinful condition and his inability to fathom God’s gift of freedom. “I cannot understand you, but I will love you,” the man says. “You are always in the right, yes, even if it seemed to me as though you would not love me, I will still love you” (Kierkegaard 2009, p. 225). Man’s sinful nature and suffering till death are at the heart of his journey towards the divine. This is no less terrifying than Abraham’s test before God. The journey is a solitary experience that nothing, not even other men’s judgements and opinions about sin and guilt, can explain or justify ethically. The knight of faith may seek guidance in the apostles’ teachings, but he must use them in a way that edifies him (Kierkegaard 1958, p. 201; 1990, p. 151). When a believer fails to understand difficult Bible passages, he should be sceptical of what authoritative interpreters say. He should not eschew the task and the anxiety of thinking independently due to the low opinion that he has of himself and his own suffering. His distress at needing help should be regarded with a smile, as if it were a joke. The fact that he wishes to be assisted confirms that he is passing a test (Kierkegaard 1990, pp. 329–30). The knight should not seek guidance from models of courage, either. Great men or preachers may discourage him and make him feel that he is not up to the task (Kierkegaard 1990, p.  7). As Kierkegaard puts it, “it is only the lower natures which find in other people the law for their actions, which find the premises for their actions outside themselves” (Kierkegaard 1941, p. 91). Those who attend the school of life can become superior pupils if they do not have a teacher to protect and guide them. “And in life there is no visible teacher who encourages the good pupil, for we are all pupils.” “If the good pupil keeps on, he must find the encouragement in himself,” not in others and even less in the goodness of the world on its own (Kierkegaard 1956, p. 78). Rather than joining caravans of people who “cling together en masse,” the man of faith should be brave enough to journey alone in the desert. This is the essence of the religious experience:

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the inwardness of the individual standing before God, reflecting within himself, which is where suffering comes from (Kierkegaard 2009, pp. 298, 366). In this regard, well-meaning teachers and preachers are of little assistance. They say reassuring things about fortune and misfortune, and how things will get better with God’s help. But these promises are invariably broken. While he cannot count on others to guide him, the knight of faith must be humble and bold enough to trust his own faith in God’s love and the pain that will inevitably follow. A fundamental tenet of Kierkegaard’s philosophy is this: “The courage of faith is the only humble courage” (Kierkegaard 1941, p. 138). The man who serves God and no one else has the courage to seek his own eternal happiness and redemption from sin. Yet he trembles at the thought of his wish not coming true (Kierkegaard 1958, p. 117). He cannot hope for God’s love without feeling that he is hoping in vain. In the end, it is his willingness to endure this suffering that saves him, trusting that love overcomes everything. The one who grows old in the service of God’s love develops “the rich and incorruptible beauty of faithfulness.” His faith is as strong as gold, having endured many trials and afflictions throughout the years, as in married life. After many years of combining a man’s courage and a woman’s tenderness, the elderly man will likely say, in a soft, kind, and unassuming voice, “My little children, love conquers all” (Kierkegaard 1958, p. 184). Men of tested faith embrace their own frailty without letting go of their zeal, knowing that peril is always present, and victory is never assured. Most of all, they acknowledge that God’s assistance is always necessary and sufficient for achieving life in the spirit (Kierkegaard 1958, pp. 186, 189). After all, man cannot conquer himself inwardly by regaining courage and self-confidence on his own. Vanity will not save his soul; exorcising demons with the assistance of the devil is self-defeating, as is succumbing to the temptations of pride, pleasure, defiance, and glory (Kierkegaard 1958, p. 168). Since man cannot attain happiness by himself, he must desire the concern, confidence, and courage to believe in God and his grace for salvation (Kierkegaard 1990, p. 273). From a religious perspective, the virtue of Christian patience works a greater miracle than any other form of bravery. A hero who aspires to the eternal and wants to preserve his soul is willing to give up everything,

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endure the trials of life, walk on a solitary path, show humble courage, and thank God for his sinful condition and the gift of grace without comprehending the mystery of it all (Kierkegaard 1990, pp. 193, 212). He chooses a lifetime of suffering, knowing that he has the option to flee. The knight of faith achieves freedom through this endurance of inevitable suffering. Paradoxically, this enables him to become “God’s intimate acquaintance, the Lord’s friend,” an outcome that is beyond all human comprehension (Kierkegaard 1941, p. 146). Kierkegaard illustrates this provocative idea through the story of an emperor who learns of the existence of a day labourer and invites him not just for a meeting but also to become his son-in-law. The worker finds the invitation to be exceedingly strange and insane, to the point where he prefers to keep it a secret for fear of ridicule from others and being shamed for the rest of his life. Rather than seeking assurances from others, the man decides to take a leap of faith and believe in the impossible. He has “humble courage enough to dare to believe it” (Kierkegaard 1941, p. 388). Christianity, according to Kierkegaard, is the daring to believe with joy. From an ethical perspective, the enthusiasm of faith suggests that man is placing his hope in something that is too high for him. But this is precisely what faith is meant to do. It transforms every believer, man or woman, maid or minister of state, merchant or barber, into a triumphant victor. Christianity teaches that no one is too lowly to be on intimate terms with God and talk with him. God came to the world, suffered, and died for the sake of every soul. The suffering God nearly begs every man to take his life as a gift, which is so absurd as to be is offensive. Whosoever has not the humble courage to dare to believe it, must be offended at it. But why is he offended? Because it is too high for him, because he cannot get it into his head, because in the face of it he cannot acquire frank-heartedness, and therefore must have it done away with, brought to naught and nonsense, for it is as though it would stifle him. For what is offense? Offense is unhappy admiration. It is therefore akin to envy, but it is an envy which is turned against oneself, or, more exactly, envy which is worst of all against oneself. The narrow-mindedness of the natural man cannot welcome for itself the extraordinary which God has intended for him; so he is offended. (Kierkegaard 1941, pp. 389–90)

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God’s gift, like love, cannot be explained or judged. It is an invitation to be bold and brave in offering thanks for it (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 435). The idea is so sublime that Christianity seems like a work of art. It is, in fact, the highest expression of aesthetics. The main character of this divine play, written by God the Creator, who also serves as the prompter, is the humble knight of faith. He plays the part so well that he thinks the sentences that were penned and whispered to him are his own. The knight even wonders whether he is not the one putting words into the whisperer’s mouth. “He who in the deepest sense feels himself at once composer and composition, who the instant he feels himself composing has the original pathos of the line, the instant he feels himself composed has the erotic ear that picks up every sound; —he, and only he, has realized the highest in aesthetics” (Kierkegaard 1992, p. 461).

 he Tyranny of Reason and Morality: Max T Stirner and Lev Shestov Kierkegaard’s knight of faith acts as both a lion-hearted hero and a feeble lamb. He demonstrates energetic courage and freedom at the same time as he surrenders blindly to a superior force. But how can the hero submit to the Almighty while asserting his own will and power over others? This is the question that Abraham ponders when he prepares to slay his son as God commands. Isaac innocently asked his father, “Where is the lamb for the burnt offering?” And Abraham said, “God will provide Himself the lamb for the burnt offering, my son” (Kierkegaard 1952, p. 180). A riddled answer lies in the last two cryptic words pronounced by Abraham: “My son.” Kierkegaard asks himself what these words mean. Is the father naming and speaking to his son Isaac, or is he talking about the lamb he is about to sacrifice? Who are the true hero and the real victim in this story? Is it the slaughtered lamb, as in much of Christianity, or the father sacrificing his own flesh and blood out of love for his heavenly Father? Kierkegaard expects to find answers to these questions at the highest levels of human wisdom, in closeness to God, and at a distance from the rational claims of moral egoism and virtue-based ethics.

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Emerson and Kierkegaard have one thing in common: they see no contradiction between showing heroic lion-like courage, being in the grip of destiny, and praising the humbleness of the sacrificial Lamb. Max Stirner (1806–1856) and Lev Shestov (1866–1938) also extol the energising, self- and life-affirming outlook on courage. However, they have no sympathy for the teachings of humility and submissiveness based on religious or political principles. In The Ego and His Own, Stirner is strongly opposed to Christ, his church, or the saints interfering in human affairs. He also opposes the state intervening in labour disputes “with all the force of its lion-paws and eagle-claws: for it is the king of beasts, it is lion and eagle” (Stirner 1907, p.  336). Instead, he advocates the “unclouded life-courage” of amoral egoism, which is the absolute freedom to experience every kind of pleasure without guile or hypocrisy (Stirner 1907, p. 26). A life devoted to reckless egoism is making oneself “the central point and the main thing altogether” (Stirner 1907, p. 211; see pp. 67–68). To live such a life, man’s spirit must withstand all blows and preserve its freedom by committing to life in this world (Stirner 1907, p. 34). However, the courage to fully own one’s existence faces two formidable adversaries. The “power of things” is the first enemy to emerge in history and is capable of overcoming “our courage, our spirit” (Stirner 1907, p. 463). It brings with it the strong rod and sharp command of an outside authority, whether parental or political. The other adversary appears later in life. It is the power of words and “priestly” conviction, a force that is mightier than the rack and the sword. The way courage manifests itself differs depending on the threat it faces. To subdue the force of things, the mind must foment a shrewd rebellion and never yield (Stirner 1907, p.  10). The battle against the power of words and moral judgement is fiercer. Only an exceptionally strong will may reject being a slave to morality and all related ideals, such as love and truth. While people want to be free, they cannot give up their submission and servile devotion to the righteous “good.” Those who are possessed by the “good” are not all that different from the arch-villain Nero. What the “good” Romans under his rule believed to be “bad” took hold of the tyrant. Still, their own moral feelings never drove them to rebel and put the evil man to death. As good and obedient subjects, they

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were shocked by Nero’s immorality, but they “opposed to him only moral demands, not their will” (Stirner 1907, p.  68). No one wants to live among arch-scoundrels like Nero, but living among moral men is not much better. They are content to wage war against the noble nature of egoism and the courage of free thinking (Stirner 1907, pp.  67–69, 211, 457). In his discussion of “The Owner,” Stirner uses the fictive account of a French revolutionist in 1788 to illustrate his views on courage. The German philosopher imagines this man telling his friends that “the world will have no rest till the last king is hanged with the guts of the last priest” (Stirner 1907, p. 398). Denis Diderot, a French Revolution philosopher, popularised the dictum, which historians trace to the French atheist Jean Meslier (1664–1729). In the story, the king learns of the incident and orders that the rebellious man be tortured on the rack until he confesses his crime. The philosopher wonders what the poor man should do. Should he confess the truth, die for it, and become a moral hero and martyr to his cause? Or should he lie and defy the “mighty rod” as well as the “power of words” and moral truth (Stirner 1907, p. 463)? Stirner, as expected, prefers the “courage of a lie” (Stirner 1907, p. 397). No one should be a slave to truth and sincerity, let alone allow his judge to wring the truth from him. No menacing judge, whether in heaven or on earth, should be permitted to use his “priestly arts” to turn a man against his own will. The man who spoke out against the king should thus refuse to share his feelings with anyone outside of his close circle of friends. He should protect his right to choose who he confides in and not be afraid of the moral stigma of lying. Similarly, if the man escapes his enemy, his friend should lie and put the pursuer on a false trail. It is preferable to lie bravely to an adversary than to betray a friend. The truth should not be revered as an idol or a holy thing. Rather, people should embrace the heroism of the lie. Of all people, young men have much to learn from this story. They are prone to confessing the truth and are willing to mount the scaffold out of self-sacrifice and blind reverence for the truth. Instead of acting like fools, they should mock the goddess of truth and be brave enough to “confound the enemy’s power by the impudence of a lie” (Stirner 1907,

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p. 401). If they are to be martyrs, let them be martyrs for the lie and their rights to self-ownership. Lev Shestov (1866–1938), a Russian Existentialist philosopher, likewise advocates the primacy of courage and firmness of purpose over rational thinking, philosophy, and religion. In his mind, the Epicurean and Stoic philosophers were correct in viewing virtus as synonymous with courage, making it the primary and highest virtue. “It is not for nothing that the Romans designated by this term courage as well as virtue in general” (Shestov 1923, p. 247). In Greek philosophy, courage is the cardinal virtue of an impassive man who fears nothing, is not astonished by anything, and will not give away his virtue to anyone, not even an evil tyrant (Shestov 1923, p. 38). But there is a problem with the courage of virtue: it was and still is bound to the tyranny of reason. As such, it is no match for the wisdom of the fabled Thracian girl who laughed at Thales, the astrologer who tumbled into a well while gazing at the stars. Susanna discovered the only source of truth, anathema to the philosophical mind, in herself and her mirth. Even the Sophists, who were otherwise renowned for their courage, lacked the candour to acknowledge that their lofty reasoning and debates with Socrates were laughable manifestations of their “fortuitous wishes and ambitions” (Shestov 1975, p. xl). Socrates and later philosophers inspired by him did not renounce rationalism either. Even though they disagreed with what most people thought, they still held that happiness results from upholding the virtues of piety, moral courage, and highmindedness (Shestov 1966, p. 195). Brave minds resist the tyranny of reason (Shestov 1923, pp. 247, 351). They are distrustful of compelling proofs, self-evident truths, and deductions from premises. For them, seeking an explanation for everything that exists is not the path to wisdom. Instead of submitting to the laws of Nature and conventional wisdom, philosophy should nurture “a mysterious faith in oneself and one’s higher destiny” (Shestov 1923, p.  397). Shestov commends Plotinus (c. 204/5–270 AD) for his valiant but ultimately unsuccessful war against reason. The neoplatonic thinker fell victim to an intellectual tradition that elevated immaterial truths and self-renunciation above man’s vital impulses and the physical world. Inspired by the works of Kierkegaard and Dostoevsky, Shestov prefers to investigate the implications of a philosophy that places faith in the power

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of the absurd, beyond the illusions of reason (Shestov 1966, pp. 234–35). By “faith,” he means a way of thinking where everything is possible. So long as it frees itself from the walls of fate and necessity, the soul can believe in itself and nothing else, knowing that nothing on Earth is impossible (Shestov 1966, pp. 40, 44). Human wisdom begins when man abandons the opinionated throng in favour of being alone with himself and his own thoughts, wandering like a madman on “a solitary, narrow and abrupt path” (Shestov 1966, p. 243). Straying from well-established views is a perilous journey. It condemns the philosopher to live in solitude, outside the court of reason. When alone, however, man is free to create and follow his own beliefs without having to bow to any laws, not even those that uphold the courage of Greek virtue. “Submission to the law is the beginning of all impiety” (Shestov 1975, p.  308). When morality is no longer the supreme court of appeal, the “good” loses authority over men and gods (Shestov 1923, p. 247). The tyranny of reason and goodness can no longer hide a fundamental fact of human existence: once we realise that nothing transcends our experience of real living, “only pure nothingness is left” (Shestov 1975, p. 28). This is a terrifying thought. But the idea can also lead to ecstasy. Man can find immense joy by summoning the courage to do what most men cannot: refuse to pay attention to a universe that pays no attention to him. His ego confronts the world and even death with absolute faith in himself and no other superior force, not even natural necessity based on hard evidence. Man thus becomes intimate with death and uses his strong will to get through the “eye of the needle” of final loneliness and despair. We must overcome fear, summon up all our courage, go toward death and try our luck with her. Ordinary thought, the thought of the man who obeys and recoils before threats, gives us nothing. (Shestov 1966, pp. 112–13)

To attain true wisdom, the philosopher must enjoy the solitude of his suffering and find freedom in the depths of despair (Shestov 1923, p. 190). Once he is alone, “then his courage abandons him, and it is better so.” “Then despair seizes hold of him, and this is even better” (Shestov

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1923, p. 106). But despair is only the penultimate word on the path of man’s faith in himself. Shestov, unlike Pascal, liberates himself from the grip of death by fully abandoning the gifts of godlike reason (Shestov 1975, p. 325, 357). In his view, men have yet to take control of the laws and command them rather than obeying them. When that happens, death will no longer haunt the perpetual flow of human existence. Nor will the love of some eternal truth, as proposed by Spinoza and his predecessors, be the only answer to the question of life’s meaning. Instead, great courage will overcome our habitual fears and free us from all the a priori certainties of the rational mind. “And then there will no longer be anything impossible for us” (Shestov 1966, pp. 407–408). Stirner is often portrayed as a precursor of Nietzsche, who in turn had a direct influence on Shestov’s works. The three philosophers are of kindred spirit. They share a strong aversion to the lofty principles of Christian faith, Kantian rationalism, and Hegelian metaphysics. They are viscerally opposed to any cowardly denial of humanity’s earthbound physis and affirmation of life in this world. The convoluted style and vivid imagery they use in their approach to moral psychology are in keeping with this shared goal: downplaying the powers of abstract logic and metaphysical thinking. As Chap. 15 shows, Nietzsche is especially adept at portraying complex ideas and riddles through the world of animals without giving in to the spirit of lower gravity and falling under the weight of life.

References Emerson, Ralph Waldo. 1897. Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson. London: Routledge. ———. 1906. Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson. Vol. IV.  Miscellaneous Pieces. London: G. Bell. Kierkegaard, Søren. 1941. Fear and Trembling and The Sickness Unto Death. Trans. W. Lowrie. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. ———. 1946. Repetition: An Essay in Experimental Psychology. Trans. W. Lowrie. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. ———. 1952. Fear and Trembling: Dialectical Lyric by Johannes de Silentio. Trans. W. Lowrie. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

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———. 1956. Purity of Heart is to Will One Thing: Spiritual Preparation for the Office of Confession. Trans. D.V. Steere. New York: Harper & Row. ———.1958. Edifying Discourses: A Selection. Trans. D.F. and L.M. Swenson. New York: Harper. ———. 1980. The concept of Anxiety: A Simple Psychologically Orienting Deliberation on the Dogmatic Issue of Hereditary Sin. Trans. R.  Thomte. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. ———. 1989. The Concept of Irony, with Continual Reference to Socrates. Trans. H.V. Hong and E.H. Hong. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. ———. 1990. Eighteen Upbuilding Discourses. Trans. H.V.  Hong and E.H. Hong. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. ———. 1992. Either/Or: A Fragment of Life. Trans. A.  Hannay. London: Penguin. Kindle. ———. 2009. Concluding Unscientific Postscript to the Philosophical Crumbs. Trans. A. Hannay. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Shestov, Lev. 1923. Potestas Clavium. Trans. B.  Martin. Athens, Ohio: Ohio University Press. ———. 1966. Athens and Jerusalem. Trans. B.  Martin. Athens, Ohio: Ohio University Press. ———. 1975. In Job’s Balances: On the Sources of the Eternal Truths. Trans. C. Coventry and C.A. Macartney. Athens, Ohio: Ohio University Press. Stirner, Max. 1907. The Ego and His Own. Trans. S.T.  Byington. New  York: B.J. Tucker.

15 Nietzsche’s Animal Foes and Friends

The Fox, the Ant, and the Ape Stirner and Shestov’s critique of Christian morality and all forms of submission to authority, including the rule of logic and reason, grows to epic proportions in the works of Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900). His understanding of courage is multilayered and conveyed through a philosophical style comprised of pithy aphorisms, convoluted prose, obscure speculations, philosophical fiction, and allegorical treatises. One rich layer that provides a window into his thinking is a tangled web of animal friends and foes that reflect different moral systems, especially those he feels significant enough to condemn or promote. In the many parts of his work that speak of courage, Nietzsche quickly dismisses several emblematic creatures otherwise celebrated in the history of moral philosophy. They include the wise owl and annoying gadfly of Athens, the loving dove of Aquinas, and the impassive hare imagined by Montaigne. In keeping with his time, he explores the qualities and limitations of Machiavelli’s cunning fox, Kropotkin’s colony of hard-working ants, and Darwin’s wild ape. His scattered thoughts on the subject inevitably set the stage for his portrayal of higher forms of strength, well demonstrated by the noble horse mounted by Lull’s well-armed knight and, © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_15

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even more impressively, the lion-hearted heroes of ancient Greece. However, in the end, the top contender for the crown of courage is Zarathustra’s best animal friend, a high-flying eagle with a serpent coiled around his neck. He alone is brave enough to overthrow the sacrificial lamb and the sanctified ass or donkey of biblical times. In Nietzsche’s work, the owl seems suited to the task of teaching courage. The bird stands for a genius who is full of audacity and verges on madness. It sees and flies through darkness with great confidence, never surrendering to the spirit of gloom (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1690; 2015m, p. 3306). It keeps company with Socrates, the “wicked gadfly which is mounted on the vainest peoples; the scorner of all uncertain virtue; which rideth on every horse and on every pride” (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2316). Still, the owl is rarely mentioned, and the gadfly even less. The same can be said for hares and gentle doves. Hares are evoked only once, with reference to the seven skins that hide their true nature, like men (Nietzsche 2015d, p. 788). Doves make a few appearances, mostly as carriers of the spirit of tenderness and joy. A flock of doves may be a harbinger of death at a time when love is needed the most. Silent words and thoughts that come on a dove’s feet may guide the world through stormy weather (Nietzsche 2015h, pp.  2266, 2326, 2354, 2492; 2015i, p.  2732). But doves are not admired for their courage, and their innocence makes them vulnerable to accusations of gullibility (Nietzsche 2015a, p. 126). Nietzsche has more to say about what the fox teaches, both as prey and predator. On the one hand, the animal is like truth, which flees and hides from the scholar. The man of knowledge is driven by a strong taste for intellectual adventure and the pleasure of “nosing the trail of dialectic, and beating the cover where the old fox, Thought, lies hid” (Nietzsche 2015d, p. 839). Chasing the truth, surrounding it, and killing it with art matters more to the savant—and to Socrates, for that matter—than possessing it. The battle is the source of great joy, and truth as such is only its pretext. Nietzsche explains that he does not take truth lurking like a fox too seriously, unlike Kant, who searches for absolute knowledge and uses hair-splitting metaphysics to cloud our idea of existence (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 1034). Kantian reasoning is obscurantism and black art masquerading as rays of light.

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On the other hand, the fox is a fearsome beast and predator, snatching sour grapes from other animals (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 1307). Kant behaved like a clever fox when he gained possession of the categorical imperative, and with that in his heart strayed back again to “God,” the “soul,” “freedom,” and “immortality,” like a fox which strays back into its cage: and it had been his strength and shrewdness which had broken open this cage! (Nietzsche 2015g, p. 1958)

His audacity nonetheless showed a high degree of timidity. The deep feeling he had that everyone must think the way he does, transforming his judgement into a universal law, is selfishness of the weakest kind. He and his followers lack the strength and self-confidence to create personal ideals of their own. Those who are content with making dialectical speeches exhibit the same shortcoming. If they use methods reminiscent of Reynard the Fox, it is because they have no other weapons to defend their rights (Nietzsche 2015k, p.  3055; 2015n, p.  3499). The ascetic priest shows equal weakness. He acts like a fearsome fox attempting to raise himself above others, with secret powers and an air of superiority. Nonetheless, he refuses to acknowledge his own cunning and deception as weapons of war (Nietzsche 2015o, p. 4277). As a result, he is nothing more than the Lord of all sufferers in his kingdom, a champion of the sick herd, a saviour who spreads hatred against the noble and powerful, i.e., against “every rough, stormy, reinless, hard, violently-predatory health and power” (Nietzsche 2015j, p. 2916). Nietzsche has mixed feelings about the fox. He is also hesitant to endorse Kropotkin’s views on ants as models of industry and community spirit. Ants should be praised for their hard-working spirit and simple ways of life and thinking. They, like the Chinese, exude calmness, contemplation, and stability (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1555). However, the ants are also a metaphor for German teachers who bury their heads in the sand and ignore the monumental legacy of classical literature and culture (Nietzsche 2015a, p. 106). Ant-like intellects abandon the “cult of culture.” They are no match for brilliant minds that can appreciate everything that is all-too-human, never losing “the continued harmony of all things human, attained by amazing toil and strokes of luck, and just as

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much the work of Cyclopes and ants as of geniuses” (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 1105). The little insect deserves recognition for its accomplishments, but it cannot serve as a model for man’s journey on Earth. Praising the small creature suggests that man has little chance of reaching a higher order or some kinship with God and eternity (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1410). Man should never lower himself to that level, not even as a ploy to prove his unique role in carrying the world on his shoulders, along with the burden of guilt and everlasting punishment. An ant should not delude itself and others into thinking that its minuscule life is the sole aim and purpose of the forest’s existence. If man were to become an ant, he should take pleasure in everyday matters and let go of all religious certainties and philosophical dogmas. He should become indifferent to questions of faith, his mission on Earth, his wish to make peace with God, and his yearning to know what awaits him after death. This would allow him to live a full and productive human life (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 1193). Nietzsche’s discussion of “Reason and the Tree of Mankind” casts the ant in a different and somewhat intriguing light, with prophetic words about the ideals of rational thinking and organic life in society. Man, he says, will some day become a tree overshadowing the whole Earth with millions upon millions of buds that shall all grow to fruits side by side, and the earth itself shall be prepared for the nourishment of this tree. That the shoot, tiny as yet, may increase in sap and strength; that the sap may flow in countless channels for the nutrition of the whole and the parts— from these and similar tasks we must derive our standard for measuring whether a man of to-day is useful or worthless. The task is unspeakably great and adventurous: let us all contribute our share to prevent the tree from rotting before its time! (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 1281)

The world-tree benefits from all activities conducted in previous ages and should be revered by all humanity, like a massive mound built by many generations of ants. This is not the work of a single instinct. Entire nations and centuries developed and tested new methods of growing the wholesome fruit tree, at the cost of much suffering and painful errors along the way. Despite their best instincts, ants too make mistakes. Success is never certain, and humanity may perish before its time.

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Nietzsche invites everyone to “boldly face the great task of preparing the earth for a plant of the most ample and joyous fruitfulness—a task set by reason to reason!” (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 1281). The individualistic ethos of our day suggests that the invitation has thus far been ignored, even by Nietzsche. Nietzsche’s view of apes more accurately reflects his individualistic approach to nurturing a higher humanity. The prophetic man who suffers in the face of imminent danger is like an ape. The animal is said to sense changes in electricity loads in the air, a pain-inducing gift that causes it to flee or hide in order to protect itself from the approaching storm (Nietzsche 2015g, p. 1944). Thus, ape imagery is perfectly suited to the prophetic overman, especially since he is likely to be mocked and regarded as an ape-like fool. Mockery awaits anyone who dares to think creatively, such as acknowledging that man was once an ape and must remain so if he is to embody “the meaning of the earth.” The overman rises above others by remaining true to the Earth rather than blaspheming it. He refuses to despise life in the body and does not place his hopes in an invisible world ruled by phantom-like souls and a non-existent God (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2085). His followers are insightful enough to recognise the ape-like animal in the average man and traces of the commonplace and the ordinary in their own selves. They pay attention to the teachings of any clown or laughing satyr who thinks like a scientific head on an ape’s body, “a fine exceptional understanding in a base soul” (Nietzsche 2015i, p. 2592). Nietzsche is referring to physicians and moral physiologists who depict man as a cranium atop a body primarily driven by hunger, sexual instinct, and vanity. As clownish as they may seem, these geniuses never let bitterness or moral indignation stop them from speaking poorly of men but not ill, i.e., without judging them. As with foxes and ants, Nietzsche is ambivalent about what superior men can learn from apes. For one thing, apes undermine all beliefs in man’s divine origins (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1410). They encourage men to be humble and make sacrifices for a higher cause, towards a better future, for the good of all. But these ideals come with a warning. In the end, only fools believe they have a global mission that entails preaching sympathy and fellow suffering. Any man who is so selfish and self-loathing that he wants to share his misery and suffering with the whole of mankind is a

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conceited ape (Nietzsche 2015i, p. 2692). If God created the world, man would be this ape. He would amuse his Creator with his vanity and pain, giving God something to laugh about during his “rather tedious eternities” (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 1192). Another downside of primate imagery is that the animal has limited intelligence and can only imitate others. An actor who tries to penetrate the soul of a great human being succeeds only in being “an ideal ape” (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1608; 2015k, p. 3049). Similarly, those who seek inspiration from others, as the French did when they stole the modern ideas of eighteenth-century England, are just aping other nations (Nietzsche 2015i, p. 2734). Interestingly, the poor imitation trope points to Nietzsche’s greatest source of irritation, also known as “Zarathustra’s ape” or “grunting pig.” The character is a frothing fool standing in the way of Zarathustra, blocking his entry into the Great City. He grunts because no one flatters him enough. The idiot knows how to ape Zarathustra because he “learned something of the expression and modulation of language, and perhaps liked also to borrow from the store of his wisdom” (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2301). With his fake wisdom and grunting, Zarathustra’s ape ruins everything, even Nietzsche’s praise of foolishness. Children resemble Zarathustra’s ape. They imitate their parents’ strong moral feelings and adopt them as their own. It is only later in life that they use rational concepts to justify their “violent predilections and aversions for certain actions” (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1397). Some of these predilections can go out of control, as when madmen seek wealth and power above all; they climb over one another like nimble apes vying for a throne of happiness covered with filth (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2136). On this matter of ape-like passions, Nietzsche raises racially loaded questions, consistent with the prejudices of his time. He ponders whether the black pigmentation of an ape’s skin is the consequence of centuries of high blood flow and bouts of passion and rage. If so, races that exhibit regular “spasms of fear and blanching” would show greater intelligence and timidity. “Thus a brownish-grey would probably be the primitive colour of man—something of the ape and the bear, as is only proper” (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1575).

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The Horse and the Lion While he may have ambivalent feelings about doves, foxes, and apes, Nietzsche seems confident that horses can shed more light on the nature of courage. Citing Plato, he portrays one of the two horses pulling the chariot of one’s soul, the ugly and irrational one, as being arrogant and proud to the point of never yielding to a whip or spur (Nietzsche 2015a, p. 132). This restless horse is not a model to follow. It cannot take its gaze away from the shifting shadows of its own body (Nietzsche 2015k, p. 3049). The beast stands for the man who gratifies his every impulse, riding his horse to death and breaking his own neck in the process (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1456). It also represents the feeble horse that pulls the chariots of second-rate intellectuals who strive to emulate Greek thinkers and fail miserably (Nietzsche 2015b, p. 315). Socrates’ bold and free thinking is not an act they can follow. Short of questioning all forms of religious piety, he tested God in the service of truth, like a gadfly that stings and rides on every horse of pride and whips the vainest people into a fury (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 1229). Unlike him, many philosophers embrace the dogmas of humble asceticism and sanctity, only to revel in their own inconsistencies and stare at hideous images of themselves. They are “like eager riders who enjoy horseback exercise most when the horse is skittish” (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 1000). Or, to use more damning imagery, they resemble the “death-horse jingling with the trappings of divine honours” (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2136). Lame-footed as they are, weak spirits rely on horses to leap high in pursuit of the higher man, but they stumble as soon as they reach their goal, dismount from the beast, and struggle to stand on their two feet (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2443). Plato’s second horse that pulls the chariot of one’s soul provides a better understanding of true courage. According to Nietzsche, this is the noble and fiery horse that the aristocratic horseman rides and trots in the proud Spanish style. The same rider can display his superiority with even greater strength by letting

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his horse dart away with him like the elemental forces, to such a degree that both horse and rider come near losing their heads, but, owing to the enjoyment of the delight, do keep very clear heads: in both these cases this aristocratic culture breathes power, and if very often in its customs only the appearance of the feeling of power is required, nevertheless the real sense of superiority continues constantly to increase as the result of the impression which this display makes upon those who are not aristocrats. (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1543)

When facing the enemy, men mounted on noble horses that are wild and fearless experience the highest bliss. They, like semi-barbarian warriors, disregard the rule of good measure and “proportionateness” because they itch for the infinite and the immeasurable, as modern men do (Nietzsche 2015i, p. 2696). Similarly, the overman rides a wild horse that faces a worthy opponent, tramples across every field, and “is bedevilled with delight in all fast racing” (Nietzsche 2015h, pp. 2179, 2321). The noble animal, wallowing in pride, awakens man from his state of weakness, obscurity, submissiveness, and morbidity of the self (Nietzsche 2015g, p. 1727). It does not flee from itself, which is what suffering philosophers do when they refuse to enjoy their own works and strive to attain something “beyond themselves” (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1705). The wild and noble horse is man’s instrument. The rider loves it because he can use it to assert his power and choose to follow either a straight or a winding path, according to his will. All oppressed people and slaves have a powerful animal on their side, fighting to free them. It never abandons them, even when they try to flee from themselves. The rich choose rather to saddle their horses with the love of humanity, God, the gospel, or the spirit of pity and self-sacrifice. The stronger species, on the other hand, take the straight path. They embrace the will to justice, or, more importantly, the will to overpower others. This takes the form of deeds of capture, of imposing service on some one, of an instinctive reckoning of one’s self as part of a great mass of power to which one attempts to give a direction: the hero, the prophet, the Cæsar, the Saviour, the bell-­ wether. (The love of the sexes also belongs to this category; it will overpower something, possess it utterly, and it looks like self-abnegation. At bottom it is only the love of one’s instrument, of one’s “horse”—the

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c­ onviction that things belong to one because one is in a position to use them.) (Nietzsche 2015n, pp. 3909–10)

In keeping with the machiavellism of power, the force that drives the chariot of one’s soul expresses the love of one’s instrument, or one’s “horse.” Nietzsche’s equine imagery comes close to spelling out what noble and wild courage entails. Explicit references to horses as models of courage are nonetheless few and far between. This is where the lion steps in, with clearer demonstrations of strength. Unlike animals that can be domesticated or live in colonies or herds, each lion in the wild is a unique individual. Contrary to what Schophenhauer claims, not all lions are really one lion (Nietzsche 2015g, p. 1843). The animal is so strong that it makes tyrants tremble. Also, it craves food in the same way that the overman desires knowledge (Nietzsche 2015a, p. 152; 2015h, p. 2087). But while knowledge is food for the beast of prey turned human, it is also a great burden. Accordingly, the beast must have a heroic spirit strong enough to carry heavy things. He must be willing to kneel humbly, like a camel preparing to carry a heavy load. As knowledgeable as he may be, man knows that pride in his own wisdom is pure foolishness. The camel metaphor is part of the first metamorphosis of a load-­ bearing and reverent spirit: the overman is a camel that feeds on the acorns and grass of knowledge without ever seeking solace in some final truth. As a solitary spirit, he bears the heavy burden of seeking knowledge in the desert. But another metamorphosis soon follows. The spirit-camel eventually turns into a lion that seeks freedom through the exercise of power. It does this by expressing “a holy Nay even unto duty,” which is a must if it is to advance new laws and assume lordship in its own wilderness. Thus, the beast of prey overcomes the greatest of all dragons, a beast that poses as God and glitters with gold. The last metamorphosis is even more radical. The beast of prey transforms itself into an innocent child capable of “forgetfulness, a new beginning, a game, a self-rolling wheel, a first movement, a holy Yea” (Nietzsche 2015h, p.  2103). Through the child, the spirit wills its own will and world. The lion-hearted child takes us back to ancient Greece, a time when gods deified the animal within man who revels in the freedom of the soul (Nietzsche 2015j, p. 2876).

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The investigator who conquers knowledge has the lion’s speckled skin and dishevelled locks. He goes into the wilderness hungry, fierce, and forsaken by God. This is what the lion-will yearns to be: “Free from the happiness of slaves, redeemed from Deities and adorations, fearless and fear-inspiring, grand and lonesome” (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2207). When doing great things, the man with the lion’s mane is not obeying a higher force. Rather, he has the power to command and speak with his own voice, as well and the liberty and playfulness to tell his own story (Nietzsche 2015h, pp. 2266, 2282). His strength is such that he can see the difference between a life filled with laughter and delight and a weary existence poisoned with sorrow. This allows him to savour life as if it were “the great cordial, and the reverently saved wine of wine” (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2316; see pp. 2326, 2338). Zarathustra thus awaits the arrival of the “higher ones, stronger ones, triumphanter ones, merrier ones, for such as are built squarely in body and soul: laughing lions must come!” (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2435). Nietzsche scorns the idea of taming man through the teachings of moral law, as if they could improve the wild beast in him. In reality, “the taming of a beast is only achieved by deteriorating it: even the moral man, is not a better man; he is rather a weaker member of his species” (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3634). We master laws by breaking them and exposing their hidden truths. This enables us to see the life-threatening riddle of the lion-bodied sphinx for what it is: a query that comes from us. To solve the riddle, lion-hearted men mightier than the sphinx should take inspiration from Oedipus and break the laws of the consecrated tables (Nietzsche 2015b, p. 284; 2015i, p. 2562; 2015j, p. 2969). They should also question the notion that there is only one final truth. “There are many kinds of eyes.” “Even the Sphinx has eyes—therefore there must be many kinds of ‘truths,’ and consequently there can be no truth” (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3751). For all its fearsome and commanding character, the lion is still capable of showing tenderness, which adds to its strength. Like a dog protecting its old master, the loving beast appears at the side of a weary Zarathustra resting in a mountain cave. It roars and growls timidly, licking Zarathustra’s tears as they fall into his hands. But the beast roars loudly when it comes time to protect its master from the higher men who remain in the cave.

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With the lion’s help, Zarathustra rises from his suffering, leaves his refuge, and distances himself from those who approach him and his ideals. He begins a new day and goes on striving after happiness, “glowing and strong, like a morning sun coming out of gloomy mountains” (Nietzsche 2015h, pp. 2491, 2494).

The Eagle and the Serpent While a source of inspiration, the lion is not Nietzsche’s favourite contender in the competition for courage. Another predator stands at the top of his symbolic food chain: the eagle. Given their affinities, the eagle and the lion become friends. The two far-sighted beasts provide Zarathustra with premonitions of his future strengths and weaknesses (Nietzsche 2015g, p. 1943). Unlike the lion, however, the eagle stands for the lone genius that lives within us and is full of audacity and joyful madness. Thanks to his moral instincts, the eagle-man can soar to the highest places in heaven. He rises like a strong and high wind, lives close to the snow, and honours the sun, which is where new conjectures and radical thoughts about the existence of God are formed (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1474; 2015h, pp. 2181, 2201, 2491). The overman flies freely and swiftly through the day, feeling the alarm and bliss that come with seeing the abyss and all below. Unlike the blind and the drunken, he resembles the eagle, which knows fear, sees the abyss with its eyes, grasps it with its claws, and vanquishes it with pride (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1690; 2015h, pp. 2209, 2440). He also possesses the key of anchorite courage, the kind that cannot tolerate the presence of a witness, not even God. Because he is a seer, the eagle-man elevates himself above others and trusts his future and his lucky star because he trusts himself. His friends also live in a solitary nest on the tree of the future, assisted by eagles that bring them pure food in their beaks (Nietzsche 2015g, pp. 1747, 1751; 2015h, p. 2199). The eagle has the power and is eager to fly away from “the spirit of gravity” and escape the Christian curse of a burdensome life full of self-­ hatred (Nietzsche 2015h, p.  2321). Given these attributes, Nietzsche’s story of an eagle stealing two lambs from their shepherd and bringing them to Zarathustra, who is recovering from a near-death experience, will

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come as no surprise (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2351). Nietzsche describes in The Genealogy of Morals how the resentful man blames the great birds of prey for killing the innocent lambs. The little ones accuse the birds of being evil and profess to represent all that is good. Meanwhile, eagles bear no grudge against them and are rather fond of them, if only because “nothing is tastier than a tender lamb.” What lamb-like souls fail to grasp is that eagles have the only kind of strength there is: the kind that must always show itself as strength, which is a quantum of force, movement, will, and action. Courage does not depend on a rational subject’s power to express or not express his strength. It lies rather in a creature’s natural “wish to overpower, a wish to overthrow, a wish to become master, a thirst for enemies and antagonisms and triumphs” (Nietzsche 2015j, pp.  2816–17). When considering self-assertion and courage, action is everything, and being is doing, working, and becoming. The difference made between cause and effect, or between a free-choosing subject and his brave deed, is an illusion of language. As with lightning and flashing, the subject and his action are one and the same. A brave soul acts bravely because he must. The eagle cannot choose to be anything other than an eagle, self-­ asserting and full of seething passions, swooping down on its prey with breathtaking pride and foolishness (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 4035). It would lose its nobility if it believed it could change into a puny lamb. Men who think like lambs also fool themselves when they blame birds of prey for who they are. The oppressed, down-trodden, and overpowered say to themselves with the vindictive guile of weakness. “Let us be otherwise than evil, namely, good! and good is every one who does not oppress, who hurts no one, who does not attack, who does not pay back, who hands over revenge to God, who holds himself, as we do, in hiding; who goes out of the way of evil, and demands, in short, little from life; like ourselves the patient, the meek, the just.” (Nietzsche 2015j, p. 2817)

When the eagle-winged bird reaches the highest altitudes, he realises that a lamb can only be a lamb. He understands “that everything happens, just as it ought to happen: and that all ‘imperfection,’ and the pain

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it brings, belong to all that which is most eminently desirable” (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 4066). However, Nietzsche opposes the admission and sanctification of men’s weakness, which he views as the lowest kind of prudence, analogous to the behaviour of insects that pretend to be dead in the presence of danger. These men have a dismal outlook on life. Their feebleness masquerades “in the pomp of an ascetic, mute, and expectant virtue,” as if weakness were a sign of choice and merit. This is what Christianity does. It renders possible “to the horde of mortal, weak, and oppressed individuals of every kind, that most sublime specimen of self-­ deception, the interpretation of weakness as freedom, of being this, or being that, as merit” (Nietzsche 2015j, pp. 2817–19). The eagle is even more powerful as it keeps company with a serpent coiled around its neck (Nietzsche 2015g, p.  1968; 2015h, pp.  2083, 2179, 2401, 2418, 2429, 2452, 2482). These “are mine animals,” Zarathustra says, the ones he loves, the proudest and wisest under the sun. Nietzsche explains that primitive man became man by enviously robbing the wildest animals of their courage and developing a craving for adventure, the uncertain, and the untried. Human courage eventually becomes more subtle, spiritual, and intellectual, “with eagle’s pinions and serpent’s wisdom” (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2460). While higher men equal to the eagle and the serpent do not exist, they resemble them in that they keep coming back in this same life, together with this sun and this Earth, to teach the eternal fate and return of all things. They keep announcing the great noontide of Earth, man, and the overman (Nietzsche 2015h, pp. 2419, 2452, 2491). Nietzsche is nonetheless conflicted about the serpent. On the positive side, the serpent adds to the eagle’s strength. Thus, the philosopher wonders what would happen if Zarathustra’s eagle-like pride were to part ways with his serpent-like wisdom (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2099). He recalls how the ancient serpent god promised to impart the knowledge of good and evil, secretly knowing that “good and evil are God’s prejudices” (Nietzsche 2015g, p. 1910; 2015i, p. 2660). Accordingly, Zarathustra is grateful to his disciples for giving him a walking stick with a golden handle, which stands for the serpent of knowledge wrapped around the sun (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2171). The serpent is so useful that it does good even when it bites. With a long road ahead of him, Zarathustra thanked

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the adder for biting him and waking him up under a fig tree. The adder replied that its poison was lethal. Zarathustra felt strong and smiled, confident that no poison could kill a dragon. He then invited the adder to lick his wound and take its precious poison back (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2161). Eve, the first woman created out of boredom, is another example of a fearful serpent doing good. Every priest regards her as the serpent since only evil may emanate from her. Nietzsche, on the other hand, concludes that she is responsible for the rise of science, in which man eats from the tree of knowledge and becomes a rival to God. She is to be thanked, for “it is all up with priests and gods when man becomes scientific!” (Nietzsche 2015l, p. 3244). But the snake has a dark side, and the creeper is not without flaws. The creature is a lowly animal, as hateful as swine (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2318). In Schopenhauer as Educator, the reptile stands for cowardice, selfishness, and terror (Nietzsche 2015d, pp.  814–15). Its tooth points to man’s aggressive nature, which grows when under attack (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 1040). The viper is also proverbially treacherous. It is a lurking witch, forever cursed (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2363). It whispers words of vanity into the ears of men who cannot fathom the fact that life on Earth is meaningless, “an event without a plan, without reason, will, or self-­ consciousness—the worst kind of necessity—foolish necessity” (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3569). The snake is so devious that it will instruct Christians to pray to the Lord, knowing full well that no one can influence or alter God’s will. It does so for Machiavellian reasons, because the opposite instruction “would have led Christians by way of boredom to the denial of Christianity” (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 1231). Even more worrying is the idea that a coiling snake crawls underneath God’s mask. It hides its filth and evil odour in the hope of duping men into believing in God’s power rather than their own (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2235). It wants us to believe that “where there is the tree of knowledge, there is always Paradise” (Nietzsche 2015i, p. 2637). In the end, the serpent at the foot of the tree of knowledge is God taking a breather from all his hard work creating so much beauty. “The devil is simply God’s moment of idleness, on that seventh day” (Nietzsche 2015p, p. 4421). These biblical associations bring to mind the most dramatic event in Thus

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Spoke Zarathustra, described in Chap. 17: a young shepherd is choking on the ground with a heavy black serpent protruding from his mouth. The scene is a prelude to thinking about the enigma of the eternal return (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2278).

The Lamb and the Ass When all is said and done, only the eagle can guide the way to Nietzsche’s highest and clearest expression of courage. The strong and wild bird flying over the abyss is the inverted image of both the foolish donkey and the helpless lamb from biblical times. The two domestic animals tell a sad story, with an emphasis on strength that is conspicuous for its absence. Their lack of courage points to the “pessimism of the weak, of the inferior, of the suffering, and of the oppressed” (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3488). Because of their long association with Christianity, sheep, lambs, and donkeys become the primary targets of Nietzsche’s caustic attacks on the servile and self-loathing morals of church doctrine. Contrary to what Schopenhauer teaches, he denounces the brass wall of fate, moral guilt, and devotional expiation at the heart of Christianity. Religion is a prison in which man is unable to fly in the fresh air of free will, to be his own judge, and to accept full responsibility for his actions, good or bad. The independent man who is willing to stand alone and provide compelling justifications for his beliefs and actions rises above the herd. He is the antithesis of those who refuse to show rigour and severity in justice. Ironically, Nietzsche finds inspiration in the vengeful words of Aquinas, who said, as gently as a lamb, “In the kingdom of heaven the blessed will see the punishment of the damned, so that they will derive all the more pleasure from their heavenly bliss” (Nietzsche 2015j, p. 2822). Nietzsche laments the fact that while “a lofty and rigorous nobleness and self-responsibility almost offends, and awakens distrust, ‘the lamb,’ and still more ‘the sheep,’ wins respect” (Nietzsche 2015i, p.  2659). Mellowness and effeminacy prevail. God and his lamb sacrificed at Easter should be tried and condemned for what they are: superfluous beings that do not exist. In their defence it must be said that belief in these idols is sufficient to elicit feelings such as fear or consolation; the emotions can

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be real and effective while their objects are imagined, just like witches. However, man remains responsible for these beliefs. The choice of burning and broiling tender flesh and skin on secret altars in honour of ancient idols belongs to him and no one else (Nietzsche 2015e, pp. 1039, 1123; 2015f, p. 1438; 2015h, p. 2330). Man should fully own his beliefs instead of giving up his freedom to the things he believes in and the weight of history. This is a bold step towards removing God’s curse of original sin and fall. Another key step is to challenge anyone who claims to deserve special treatment, either on earth or in heaven, because he happens to have attained to perfection in the art of behaving like a good-natured little sheep; at best, he only remains a dear, absurd little ram with horns—provided, of course, he does not burst with vanity or excite indignation by assuming the airs of a supreme judge. (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3492)

In Nietzsche’s bestiary, the lamb that represents Christ and the Shepherd’s flock are inseparable from the ass or donkey ridden by Jesus. The ass may be a model of strength, the type that carries heavy loads (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2122). It can travel in the wilderness, like an ascetic man who abandons the comforts of home in search of independence from the world and freedom from all forms of servitude. As strong as they may be, asses are nonetheless the antithesis of strong minds. This is not surprising, considering that an ass has very little to offer in the way of intelligence and wisdom. The animal is proverbially ignorant and stupid (Nietzsche 2015c, p. 434; 2015d, p. 612; 2015e, p. 955; 2015h, pp. 2474, 2893; 2015i, p. 2769). At best, it can be used to hurl insults at idiots who promote asinine ideas like the emancipation of women (Nietzsche 2015i, p. 2712). The animal gains from his close association with a preacher who directs a crowd to shout “Hosanna!” as he enters the city, one might think (Nietzsche 2015e, p.  1151). Yet the association can have the opposite effect, which is to tarnish its reputation. After all, a messiah pulling carts for people resembles a draught-beast in golden harness. He heads a procession of kings of “good manners” and false nobility, all seeking a higher

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man to lead them (Nietzsche 2015h, pp. 2207, 2383). His followers are subordinate rulers, all created in the image of the donkey he rides, i.e., good-natured people with stiff necks who never laugh or get drunk. Whether they be beggars, kings, priests, or the pope himself, believers and servants of God make fools of themselves by showering the holy-­ scented donkey with a litany of prayers. Their words of adoration are no less stupid and boring than the repeated “YE-A” braying of a long-eared donkey and its slow thinking that feels like an eternity. This is the “YE-A” of a divine ass that is never bold enough to say “Nay.” It never extols the man-made world by saying “Yea” to it, using real words to that effect (Nietzsche 2015h, pp. 2472–76). The only thing these ass-like souls get out of life is their innocence and a lack of understanding of what innocence is. They go through life as old maids swept up in sweet feelings of virtue and piety, holding on to their incurable shallowness, simplicity, credulity, and respectability (Nietzsche 2015g, pp. 1983, 2034; 2015h, p. 2308). Nietzsche remarks that if there is an asinine festival worth holding, it is one that pours lots of wine and gets a drunken ass to dance while joyful pagans celebrate their love for themselves and for Zarathustra (Nietzsche 2015h, pp. 2479–82). Nietzsche’s self-declared aptitude for writing excellent books, amply confirmed since his death, stems from the fact that he has no wisdom to offer and thus the smallest ears ever seen. This helps him understand women better, he claims. He is “essentially the anti-ass, and on this account alone a monster in the world’s history—in Greek, and not only in Greek, I am the Antichrist” (Nietzsche 2015p, p. 4367). The last thing Nietzsche wants is to carry God’s heavy works, crossing the bridge of faith like an ass sinking “under a burden which can neither be carried nor thrown off” (Nietzsche 2015k, p. 3045; 2015n, p. 3486). The philosopher kept his promise, save for one damaging aspect of his work: his contribution to the cult of individualism and wanton truth and power that now defines our era. Whether he foresaw this is doubtful, but everyone may thank Nietzsche for a new ass they can now blindly follow, namely their unique self, the one who keeps braying “YEA!” to their own stellar world and absolute truth. The only way to sanctify this substitute donkey, paradoxically, is to spread a new slave morality that is more

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devious and destructive than all others. I am referring to a self-loathing mindset where the “unique individual” obsesses about his fallen condition and the curse of having to live a social life, as most animals do. The overman is just another arrogant ass who wants to be free from all forms of social servitude. In pursuit of this fantasy, he pretends to isolate himself from the jungle of life around him, or he strives to make the whole earth a tool for his asinine rule. Nietzsche’s bestiary, in its own powerful way, transforms the humble donkey into an imperial eagle and aristocratic overman eager to rise above humanity and the planet Earth, with no regard for humanity’s pressing need to feast in the jungle of life as we know it, or at least what remains of it. As solitary and mighty as it is, the king of birds flying in the highest heaven should not forget that it needs a tall and healthy tree-world to rest and nest. Also, the apex predator should remember that its nestlings and eggs are a source of food for more modest birds such as real gulls, crows, and owls. The eagle may seem to reign supreme, yet it too renders services to organisms thriving at lower levels of the food chain. Last but not least, the bird of prey should bear in mind that it has a formidable foe, the most ruthless and irrational of all: man, who sees himself as the eagle-winged ruler of the world. Nietzsche’s bestiary provides insight into how the philosopher debunks all previous representations of courage. But most of his comments on the subject are not couched in the language of animal life. The vivid metaphors he employs raise fundamental issues that are amply discussed in his works, with explicit connections to the concept of courage. I examine these more abstract lines of thought in Chaps. 16 and 17, beginning with Nietzsche’s critique of cowardly morals that refuse to embrace the fullness of life and human existence, including suffering and eternal becoming.

References Nietzsche, Friedrich. 2015a. On the Future of Our Educational Institutions. Trans. J.M. Kennedy. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 34–159. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle.

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———. 2015b. The Birth of Tragedy. Trans. W.A. Haussmann. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 220–379. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015c. Philosophy in the Tragic Age of the Greeks. Trans. M.A. Mügge. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 399–489. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015d. Thoughts Out of Season. Trans. A.M. Ludovici and A. Collins. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 490–870. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015e. Human, All Too Human: A Book for Free Spirits. Trans. A. Harvey. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 871–1353. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015f. The Dawn of Day. Trans. J.M. Kennedy. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 1354–1719. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015g. The Joyful Wisdom. Trans. T. Common. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 1720–2054. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015h. Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book for All and None. Trans. T.  Common. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 2055–2555. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015i. Beyond Good and Evil: Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future. Trans. H. Zimmern. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 2556–2777. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015j. The Genealogy of Morals: A Polemic. Trans. H.B. Samuel. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 2778–2972. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015k. The Twilight of the Idol: How to Philosophise with a Hammer. Trans. T. Common. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 3039–3155. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015l. The Antichrist. Trans. H.L. Mencken. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 3156–3276. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015m. Nietzsche Contra Wagner: The Brief of a Psychologist. Trans. A.M.  Ludovici. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 3277–3328. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015n. The Will to Power. Trans. A.M. Ludovici. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 3329–4107. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle.

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———. 2015o. The Poems of Friedrich Nietzsche. Trans. P.V.  Cohn. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 4197–4302. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015p. Ecce Homo. Trans. A.M.  Ludovici. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 4304–4448. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle.

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Nietzsche’s idea of courage runs through his rich and coherent use of animal metaphors. His more abstract handling of the subject seems less cogent and appears at times to be ambivalent, especially when it comes to assessing the role of modern science, German culture, Romanticism, and the “unhistorical” in a world of constant becoming. But there is one area where his writings, metaphorical or not, leave no doubt about where he stands. Much of his work is a relentless and scathing attack on ascetic morality, which preaches suffering as part of an idealistic retreat into nothingness, far away from this world. What he advocates instead is a “pessimism of strength.” This is overjoyed courage in the face of suffering, tragedy, and evil, towards the affirmation of man’s life instincts, his fulsome existence in the realm of physis, and the search for truth without compromise.

 erman Character, Tragic Art, G and the Unhistorical Nietzsche praises the courage of the German spirit, reflected in its steadfast character, lofty aims, dramatic music, and military tradition. He lauds the legacy of the German Reformation as well as the strength and © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_16

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severity of German philosophy. He is nonetheless critical of modern culture and the nationalist sentiment of “Germany, Germany above everything.” The exclusive diet of German papers, politics, morals, and Wagnerian music does not suit his taste or muster the courage and freedom needed to idealise the whole Earth (Nietzsche 2015j, p. 2952; 2015l, p.  3180). Nor does it strengthen Europe. The German Wars of Independence are to blame for Napoleon’s failure to consolidate Europe into a superior political and economic unit. Nietzsche deplores this sickliness and want of reason which is most opposed to culture, and which is called Nationalism,—this névrose nationale from which Europe is suffering acutely; this eternal subdivision of Europe into petty states, with politics on a municipal scale: they have robbed Europe itself of its significance, of its reason,—and have stuffed it into a cul-de-sac. (Nietzsche 2015p, p. 4431)

More importantly, he laments the loss of character caused by the waning of “academical self-training for culture.” Germany’s noble ties with Greek antiquity have given way to the prevalence of political, religious, and economic considerations in mass-education schools, an educational system based on class conventions and ambitions, rote learning, and practical training aimed at making money (Nietzsche 2015a, pp.  88, 113, 144; 2015b, p. 368). The training that Greek philosophers used to impart to their youth is foreign to them. Schools have abandoned that duel of speech, athletic excellence, practical asceticism, training in virtue, moral thinking, and all other “courageous and earnest attempts to live according to this or that morality” (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1537). Since they are poorly paid, teachers constantly seek promotion and never stray from government views. Like obedient soldiers, they depend on the state for their training, financial security, and advancement in social rank. As a result, they lack the independence of mind and contentment that are “the mother of courage, the grandmother of free thought and exuberance” (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 1155). Gone are the days when a German was able to do great things “at a time of danger, or when his courage was high, with his teeth firmly set and his prudence on the alert, and often enough in a fit of generosity” (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1558).

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The scientific spirit taking hold of the modern world and its understanding of history is equally responsible for the growing neglect of classical training in Germany. Nietzsche firmly denies the scientific claim that the wheels of history determine man’s fate. In his view, historicism replaces man’s instincts of youthful daring and passion with his commonplace desire to be productive, ready, and useful. It undermines his lofty feelings and the “misty atmosphere” in which man can revolt against the blind force of facts, the laws of history, and the tyranny of “empiric reality.” Mechanical views of history weaken these sentiments and man himself by removing the aura of wisdom and enthusiasm that surrounds him. From an infinite horizon he withdraws into himself, back into the small egoistic circle, where he must become dry and withered: he may possibly attain to cleverness, but never to wisdom. He lets himself be talked over, is always calculating and parleying with facts. He is never enthusiastic, but blinks his eyes, and understands how to look for his own profit or his party’s in the profit or loss of somebody else. (Nietzsche 2015d, p. 774)

If there are historical lessons to be learnt, they can be found in stories of “fighters against history,” brave men who defended every “thus it must be” rather than revering the “thus it is.” Their lives bear witness to the power of the unhistorical, a hazy backdrop against which clear thoughts and distinctions fade and great thoughts develop and transform into formidable deeds. The unhistorical gives man “the courage to begin,” whether by using his passions to swim against the tides of history, fighting his passions with passion, or “training himself to honesty amid the glittering nets spun round him by falsehood” (Nietzsche 2015d, pp. 707, 761). This is where philosophical thinking and living can make a difference: in discovering what enlightens the unhistorical man’s world and dispelling anything meaningless that blinds him to intense feelings in life. The most crucial question to pose, according to Nietzsche, is about the unhistorical and unalterable. Once the question has been solved, philosophers must find the courage to improve what is still susceptible to change (Nietzsche 2015d, p. 623). Above all, they must work to change men’s perspective as well as their own. They can accomplish this by cultivating a strong, active, and heroic will based on whatever art or philosophical

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system inspires them. In Richard Wagner in Bayreuth, Nietzsche praises Wagner for taking up the challenge and remaining true to his highest self, despite all that he lacked as a musician. The man had the courage of despair: “Out of this deficiency he established a principle; he invented a kind of music for himself ” (Nietzsche 2015n, p.  3961). The German composer demonstrated how art may play an essential role in men’s courageous battle against their own flaws, conflicting and unreliable beliefs, and the many forms of violence and injustice imposed on them. His music drama illustrates how men can possess the courage to “point up to the stars of the whole of this heavenly dome of beauty and goodness and to say, This is our life” (Nietzsche 2015d, p. 694; see p. 629). In the heavens lives Wotan, the supreme god, whose life sets an example for the free and the fearless who strive to become greater than they are, knowing full well that power is evil and thrives on the rich soil of “innocent egoism.” Man’s passion and will to power, pride, health, and courage all rise with the beautiful in him and fall with the ugly and everything he instinctively abhors. “It is because of this that art is deep” (Nietzsche 2015k, p. 3114). Art is daring and free when confronting a formidable foe—a sublime calamity or tragic suffering worthy of man’s fear and triumph. The artist chooses and glorifies suffering as a tribute to the heroic man (Nietzsche 2015k, p. 3117). Something is beautiful when it attests to the overflowing strength of an individual or a people who faces many obstacles with courage; weaklings, on the other hand, shudder and cultivate a taste for pretty and charming trifles. In short, the love of tragedy elevates strong characters and ages above the rest of humanity and history. “It is the heroic spirits which in tragic cruelty say Yea unto themselves: they are hard enough to feel pain as a pleasure” (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3971). Given the tragic nature and beauty of human existence, the alliance between Christian morals and the science of natural evolution must be viewed with suspicion. In his essay on David Strauss, the Confessor and the Writer, Nietzsche launches a vitriolic attack on David Strauss’ materialistic faith in universal laws that govern the progression of history: “The universe, he is happy to inform us, is, it is true, a machine with jagged iron wheels, stamping and hammering ponderously” (Nietzsche 2015d, p. 556). He reproaches Strauss for showing courage of the pompous and artificial kind, a façade of audacious thinking that hides philistine

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cowardice. Strauss is a word-hero with average courage, unable to devote his energies to truly serious matters (Nietzsche 2015d, pp. 562, 579). Leaving aside these scathing remarks, his main criticism of Strauss concerns his effort to reconcile a Darwinian view of the ascent of man with the idea that humans are all the same and have equal rights before God. Instead of being honest and applying the laws of evolution to a Darwinian system of ethics, the German protestant theologian comforts the smug and noble “we,” who cower in the face of “the inflexible and pitiless wheel-works of the world-machine” (Nietzsche 2015d, p. 569). Had he displayed personal daring rather than courage on paper, Strauss would have liberated the common people from a helping and pitiful God and fought for the higher culture and genius of those with enough courage and strength to conquer the demons of their age (Nietzsche 2015d, p. 575; 2015n, p. 3959). Even modern scientists lack this kind of courage. They discourage humans from taking full responsibility for their egoistic and apparently evil actions, which is the norm. Men will cease to be evil the day they no longer think of themselves as evil (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1504). Nietzsche’s view of Darwinism suggests that science must relinquish the idea that God is the supreme lawmaker and abandon all moral systems.

Pessimism of Strength and Dionysian Nihilism Nietzsche praises the German character for its commitment to academic self-training in culture. He contrasts classical learning with modern science, as well as the narrowness of formal education based on nationalism and petty economic concerns. He rejects the tyranny of history over man’s artistic pursuit of lofty ideals and philosophical grasp of the unhistorical. This makes him suspicious of how evolutionary science and Christian morals work together to fight the tragedy and sublimity of human sorrow and pain, which deserve man’s fear and courage. Nietzsche acknowledges that Romanticism’s philosophical pessimism and the dominant mood of the nineteenth century shaped his perspective on the tragic nature of human existence and the courageous struggle for noble ideals. What he saw at first in the Romantic movement was “the

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symptom of a higher power of thought, a more daring courage and a more triumphant plenitude of life than had been characteristic of the eighteenth century, the age of Hume, Kant, Condillac, and the sensualists” (Nietzsche 2015g, p. 2018). The Romantics had a tragic view of the world and advanced the most precious, noble, and dangerous aspects of German culture and its Dionysian soul. However, in The Birth of Tragedy, Nietzsche distances himself from the despair of his time. He condemns the Romantic movement’s weariness and gloom, its glorification of weak instincts, and its discontent with existence in general. In its place, he advocates a “pessimism of strength,” that is, an intellectual predilection for the gruesome, evil, and problematic aspects of man’s life, driven by the pursuit of well-being, an overflowing health, and the overfullness of human existence. What is this pessimism if not the “sharp-eyed courage that tempts and attempts, that craves the frightful as the enemy, the worthy enemy, against whom one can test one’s strength?” (Nietzsche 2015b, p. 227; see p. 368). This is the courage of life-affirming instincts driven by man’s struggle to remain healthy. It is led by men who embrace the tragic nature of human existence and the constantly changing nature of a world that is always “becoming” and prone to destruction and joyful suffering. “The most spiritual human beings, if we assume that they are the most courageous, also experience by far the most painful tragedies: but just for that reason they honor life because it pits its greatest opposition against them” (Nietzsche 2015k, p. 3111). Suffering is a stepping stone to the affirmation of the life instinct. In a letter to George Brandes, Nietzsche remarks that his own illness gave him the courage to be himself: “Indeed, in virtue of my instincts, I am a brave animal, a military one even” (Nietzsche 2015q, p. 4544). Courageous pessimism sounds the death knell for idealism and every high-minded formulation of “thus it must be” (Nietzsche 2015d, p. 761). Nietzsche’s consciousness of uncertainty and becoming is a nihilistic statement against every formulation of the highest canon of morality (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3354). Beliefs in the moral order of the universe and advances in love, humanity, and general happiness are naive and pathetic. Men should emancipate themselves from these absolutes and motivations for action and realise that human becoming has been aiming

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at nothing and has achieved absolutely nothing. The truth is that “only the innocence of Becoming gives us the highest courage and the highest freedom” (Nietzsche 2015n, p.  3923). Giving up the notion that life’s evolution has a definite goal or purpose may sound depressing, to put it mildly. Positing aimlessness as a fundamental article of faith, however, provides the uplifting courage and freedom of nihilism, a philosophical feeling that Nietzsche developed only later in his life (Nietzsche 2015n, pp. 3354, 3363). It involves a “new kind of courage—no a priori truths … but free submission to a ruling thought, which has its time” (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3979). As with everything else, ruling thoughts are “becoming” as long as they match the time and place in which people live their lives to the fullest. There are traces of this pessimism of strength in the life of Socrates, “this mocking and amorous demon and rat-catcher of Athens, who made the most insolent youths tremble and sob” (Nietzsche 2015g, p. 1965; see 2015k, p. 3057). Before his death, Socrates uttered a bold and vindictive remark that stood the test of the time: “O Crito, I owe a cock to Asclepios.” His mockery of religious customs reveals the pessimism lurking beneath his cheerful demeanour, an attitude also found in ancient Greek tragedy and mythology of Dionysian inspiration. But the moral optimism of Socrates, Epicurus, and later Greeks weakens and spoils feelings of tragic irony. In its quest to explain everything, modern science suffers from the same unhealthy optimism. Modern man has lost the art of pessimistic thinking and truthful living. He no longer dares to live philosophically and openly defy the rule of governments, churches, academies, customs, and fashions (Nietzsche 2015c, p.  410). Philosophers such as Kant and Schopenhauer have shown extraordinary courage in their battle against the optimism of logic and eternal cause-and-effect relationships, which would account for all the riddles of the universe (Nietzsche 2015b, p.  337). Nonetheless, Kant erred in looking for humanity in the ghostly realm of pure reason and the dialectics of the “pros and cons of things.” His rational meanderings culminated in his categorical imperative and complete denial of Becoming (Nietzsche 2015d, p. 807; see 2015i, p. 2565). As for Schopenhauer, he made the same mistake as Christianity and even Plato, which consists in resisting the highest affirmation of the superabundance of life. He failed to offer

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a yea-saying free from all reserve, applying even to suffering, and guilt, and all that is questionable and strange in existence … This last, most joyous, most exuberant and exultant yea to life, is not only the highest, but also the profoundest conception, and one which is most strictly confirmed and supported by truth and science. Nothing that exists must be suppressed, nothing can be dispensed with. (Nietzsche 2015p, p. 4376)

Nietzsche is a nihilist of the Dionysian kind. He rebels against the illusion of order and logic and replaces it with an instinctive and ecstatic affirmation of life and all its pleasures and pains (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 4091). He does not teach cowardly pessimism, which incites man to reject the highest values of life, lie to himself, and flee from reality in order to preserve himself. Instead, Nietzsche praises the courage of Dionysus, an investigator and discoverer famed for his shameless wisdom and fearless love of naked truth. Dionysus is the god who once described man as a brave and inventive beast. He liked him so much that he resolved to “further advance him, and make him stronger, more evil, and more profound” (Nietzsche 2015i, pp. 2775–76). In The Antichrist, Nietzsche once more challenges the duality of good and evil and the decadence that results when they are pitted against one another. Dualism deprives goodness and God of the qualities of the devil, including everything that is “strong, courageous, masterful and proud” (Nietzsche 2015l, p. 3197). As fabrications of the human mind, assessments of good and evil ought to arouse scepticism. They have no intrinsic value and do not necessarily manifest “the fulness, the strength, and the will of Life, its courage, its self-confidence, its future” (Nietzsche 2015j, p. 2785). Christianity has made the wrong choice in this regard. Its deep “hatred of the intellect, of pride, of courage, of freedom, of intellectual libertinage” incites men to despise all expressions of joy in the senses, if not joy in general (Nietzsche 2015l, p. 3202). The god of Christianity is a democratic saviour sent on a mission to save all the destitute, sinners, and invalids gathered on Earth. He sets them free from their lower world ghetto. The teachings of Dionysus are just the opposite. They shake the foundations of Christianity and all like-minded philosophies that are bent on transforming God into the “ideal,” the “pure spirit,” “the

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absolute,” or “the thing-in-itself,” making God even thinner and more pale-looking than he already is (Nietzsche 2015l, p.  3198). Dionysian thought fosters a deep pessimism towards all forms of idealism as well as a strong desire to draw closer to the truth and the fullness of human existence (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 4041). Instead of letting men surrender to self-resentment and misery, it encourages them to champion the cause of “courageous pessimism” and see it as their primary work and responsibility. Failure to achieve this comes at a terrible price (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 1018).

 oral Scepticism and the Ascetic Will M for Nothingness Nietzsche’s critique of ascetic ideals and suffering in the service of heaven-­ made ethics highlights the flaws he sees in much of moral philosophy. This is not to say that all ascetics are weak. Schopenhauer is living proof that an ascetic may be brave enough to be himself, a hero who does not wait for others to assist him or superiors to command him. He is conscious of his power and shows pride in his rebellion against God and “some alleged teleological and ethical spider behind the meshes of the great trap of the causal web” (Nietzsche 2015j, p.  2899; see p.  2886). Nonetheless, in The Genealogy of Morals, Nietzsche condemns all philosophical and religious ideals that promote retreat from this world. “Can we today point to enough pride, enough daring, enough courage, enough self-confidence, enough mental will, enough will for responsibility, enough freedom of the will, to enable the philosopher to be now in the world really—possible?” he wonders (Nietzsche 2015j, p. 2903). Apart from dogmatism, a significant problem with priestly asceticism is its predilection for mechanical activity and impersonal work, which reduces all other interests in life to secondary considerations. Men must have the intellectual strength and courage to find healthier means to alleviate their misery (Nietzsche 2015j, pp. 2926, 2937). Asceticism has the merit of closing the door to suicidal nihilism, but it also creates more

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suffering, a brutal willing motivated by feelings of loathing for what is all too human, animal, or material. It betrays a will for nothingness, namely this horror of the senses, of reason itself, this fear of happiness and beauty, this desire to get right away from all illusion, change, growth, death, wishing and even desiring—all this means—let us have the courage to grasp it—a will for Nothingness, a will opposed to life, a repudiation of the most fundamental conditions of life, but it is and remains a will!—and to say at the end that which I said at the beginning—man will wish Nothingness rather than not wish at all. (Nietzsche 2015j, p. 2956)

The desiring man errs when he retreats from this world into pure emptiness in search of the desirable man. His dreamt-up ideals obliterate everything worthwhile in this world that justifies his existence. His retreat leads to nothing but “what is abject, absurd, sick, cowardly, and weary, all kinds of dregs out of the emptied cup of his life” (Nietzsche 2015k, p. 3120). By wallowing in the world’s filth, priests help build iron bars that imprison the wild animal in us and keep it forever chained. They are animal tamers, and their moral instruments are the worst weapons imaginable (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3632). Abandoning his earlier disdain for modern science, Nietzsche views its genuine reality philosophy as a healthy antidote to the ascetic will for nothingness. It takes courage for science to believe in itself alone, willing to be itself without positing the existence of God or some other world (Nietzsche 2015j, p. 2940). In this respect, the realism of Thucydides and Machiavelli has much to teach. Their emphasis on the hard facts and workings of reason in social history is a far cry from the embellishments of moral ideals and the imperatives of reason that are hallmarks of Greek philosophy (Nietzsche 2015k, p. 3147). They help us understand how every scientific finding consists of “laying a meaning in things.” In fact, the same can be said for religion, love, and pride. Like ploughing, they too illustrate the courage of discovering and growing a sense of meaning (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3799). The bravest and most intellectual among us are the conscious bearers of the modern world’s healthy scientific attitude towards all that life has to offer. They teach us how to gladly suffer the knowledge of suffering,

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knowing that it is the only way we can overcome danger and recover from diseases and ailments of the mind and body. Unlike the abstinent, the unfortunate, or the conquered, the brave are called to embrace a will to the tragic and to pessimism, which is a sign as much of the severity as of the strength of the intellect (taste, emotion, conscience). With this will in our hearts we do not fear, but we investigate ourselves the terrible and the problematical elements characteristic of all existence. Behind such a will stand courage and pride and the desire for a really great enemy. (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 1022)

Nietzsche’s critique of asceticism contains a good measure of moral scepticism, but not the kind that makes us weak and worm-eaten. His sceptic spirit is intended to make man more courageous and healthier than ever, enabling him to conquer his instincts of fear and feebleness and take up the challenge of saying “yes” to life. “Where a strong wind blows, where the waves are rolling angrily, and where more than usual danger is to be faced, there I feel happy.” “And in doing so I have learnt to say yea again,” he adds (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1664). The battle offers men an ecstatic experience of truth. Critical thinking, science, and reason help by debunking all idols and ideals based on false accounts of history. They expose the lies propagated by “noble enthusiasts,” who enjoy inflicting pain on themselves and sanctimonious kindness on others (Nietzsche 2015f, pp. 1696–97). Zarathustra, like all great minds, enjoys freedom of thought and an excess of intellectual power. He is an independent thinker, “a dancer” or “the light one,” who refuses to be a believer or prisoner of any set of convictions concerning what is unconditionally negative or positive. His superior mind can look past all the values that are either behind or beneath him. The mission and ruling passion for knowledge that dominate him and his intellect are tyrants; they give him the courage to employ unholy means and express anger, even against his own convictions. “A grand passion makes use of and uses up convictions; it does not yield to them—it knows itself to be sovereign” (Nietzsche 2015l, p.  3255; see 2015m, pp. 3299–300). Passions are like the dreams we have and fully assume. They belong to no one else and are the fruit of our work. They

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allow us to be our complete selves, regardless of how embarrassing or reprehensible that may be. This does not mean that we should blame ourselves for our dreams. In the end, dreams control us more than we control them (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1479). Zarathustra is not a faithful follower. He is not a dependent man who cannot find goals in himself or set himself up as a goal. He refuses to serve as a means to an end and abhors the ethic of self-effacement and estrangement (Nietzsche 2015l, pp. 3255–57). His greatness resides in his ability to create his own values and enlist the means to enforce them without using moral convictions to back up his great passion and strength of will. “From this it follows that ‘all freedom of spirit,’ i.e. instinctive scepticism, is the prerequisite of greatness” (Nietzsche 2015n, p.  4046). The great man trusts the goodness of his passions and bravely says ‘Yea’ to his own nature without using a moral formula to dress it up and justify himself (Nietzsche 2015n, pp. 4015–16). If he repents of anything, it must be his low self-esteem, egotism, and propensity to disregard his inclinations and needs. He also regrets the many losses that follow “in health, friendship, well-being, pride, cheerfulness, freedom, determination, courage” (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 4018). To achieve greatness, man must cultivate his high spirits and overflowing will. He must also allow peril to pique his interest in the extent of his own courage and strength (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 4035).

Christianity and the Body Nietzsche’s stance on the tragic nature of man’s existence and the courageous struggle for ideals rooted in this life explains his “pessimism of strength.” What is at stake is a philosophical attitude that is neither so gloomy as to be weak and romantically weary nor so optimistic as to leave out all sense of becoming, danger, wickedness, and suffering in life. The attitude he proposes is one of overjoyed courage in the face of suffering, treating it as an integral part of the affirmation of man’s life instincts, his fulsome existence, his infinite becoming, and his total freedom from all a priori truths and final aims. Nietzsche is careful to distinguish this pessimism of strength from ascetic morals, in which suffering is part of an

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idealistic retreat into nothingness, far from this world. His critique of traditional ideals reveals a moral nihilism and scepticism fueled by the ruling passion and tyranny of truth, which calls for critical thinking and honest investigation into all aspects of life that are deeply human. In Human, All Too Human, Nietzsche continues to commend the courage of total honesty in art and science. He praises art that is courageously simple and free from the bizarre. Ancient Greece once again sets the example with its “presentment of the highest man, the most simple and at the same time the most complete man” (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 1100). But Nietzsche also lauds the simple, lasting, and uplifting truths of an advanced civilisation, namely those that are hard-worn and that science bravely defends. In an effort to expose the metaphysics and aesthetics of less advanced people and epochs, he proposes a candid scientific analysis of all seemingly disinterested moral feelings and good deeds. His psychological observations on the subject lead him to express once more a deep mistrust of all ethical systems, especially those of Christian inspiration, to the point where he declares himself “the enemy and challenger of God” (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 876; see p. 924). The primacy of the body and the senses plays a central role in Nietzsche’s attack on Christian conceptions of the human spirit and soul and all related formulations of asceticism and metaphysics. Scientifically speaking, metaphysical claims about human existence and the world are mere symptoms of man’s refusal to affirm the fullness, power, and sovereignty of his physical constitution throughout history. They act as obstructions, exhaustions, and impoverishments of physis, that is, “its premonition of the end, its will to the end.” When investigating the collective health of times, races, people, and humanity, the philosophical physician must have the courage to see in all of philosophy not a question of truth but rather of “health, futurity, growth, power, life” (Nietzsche 2015g, p. 1729). He can help others in doing the same, knowing that the intellectual opinions that prevail at a given time are nothing more than the arbitrary decisions, feelings, and views of individuals of power and influence. They impose their convictions in order to validate their mode of life, nourishment, or digestion, perhaps in a surplus or deficiency of the inorganic salts in their blood and brain, in short in their physis. They

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have, however, the courage to avow their physical constitution, and to lend an ear even to the most delicate tones of its requirements: their aesthetic and moral judgments are those ‘most delicate tones’ of their physis. (Nietzsche 2015g, p. 1796)

Nietzsche uses reasons of health and appeals to the senses to explain his own instinctive dislike of the New Testament and its overly sweet tone. He shares his preference for the strong-hearted people and heroic tone of the Old Testament. In it he finds a spirit of vengeance expressed without timidity (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 944; 2015f, 1607). He makes no excuse and takes full responsibility for these views, knowing that most people will find it “in bad taste” to go against the taste of two thousand years of history (Nietzsche 2015j, p. 2937). Christianity is even more distasteful as it promotes sickness and lunacy. In contrast to the Greek spirit, its system of penance and salvation is a roundabout way of making people unwell, weary, and epileptic. The church itself is an asylum for lunatics, and the whole Earth under its rule is a madhouse. Religious morals create an unhealthy world where members see virtue in being malnourished and misrepresenting the body, treating it as an enemy or tempting devil. The faithful believe in the superstition of the disembodied soul striving for divine love and perfection, a mode of living that lacks “the courage for health and likewise for contempt” (Nietzsche 2015l, p. 3249). Europe’s and China’s soft-hearted morality is an indication of physiological decline in which man loses all semblance of being dangerous, impetuous, boisterous, and caring for humanity. Christendom is a decadent uprising of outcasts and rejects who hide their desire for dominance and gather in the hope of gaining power. Courage and psychological subtlety are required to see under the surface and realise that “the more healthy, strong, rich, fruitful, and enterprising a man may feel, the more immoral he will be as well” (Nietzsche 2015n, p.  3631; see 2015l, p. 3251). This is a terrible thought, but it is key to further humanising and civilising man while doing away with virtue. The medicine of virtue works only if we transform the whole world into a hospital where everyone nurses everyone else. The hope is that people will find joy in each other’s company and that peace on Earth will finally prevail; the danger

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and bold action that made life worth living will be gone. According to Nietzsche, deeds that are worth celebrating run counter to this morality. All great things and individuals are immoral in the deepest sense of the word. Courage lies in replacing moral philosophy with the immoral affirmation of the will to power, which is the wellspring of all pleasure and happiness. Nietzsche sees himself as the only philosopher with enough courage to regard virtue as the fruit of immorality and a will to power in the service of a species. Like Epicurus and Pyrrho, he is disgusted at the lack of intellectual cleanliness and self-control shown by philosophers of virtue. Every step in the development of knowledge comes from man being hard and clean with himself, which removes the dirt and untruthful cowardice of idealism (Nietzsche 2015n, pp. 3661, 3670). Nietzsche’s vision of the will to power is radical, making him the first guide on a provocative path to wisdom: “I am the first Immoralist” (Nietzsche 2015p, p. 4385). His mission is to help man know himself physiologically. This will comfort the most educated, who are fully aware that man has a nervous system but no soul. Others should be brave and human enough to say they don’t know this (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3512). If they could overcome their ignorance of the body, they could fight the decay and sickness caused by narrow views of pessimism and related psychological disorders, such as those observed in a lunatic asylum. They could then treat unhealthy and foolish feelings of pessimism, beginning with morals that are overly sensitive to suffering or that deny the power and freedom of the will. Good medicine would also overcome attitudes that spread doubt about everything, exaggerate the value of compassion, or keep wishing for nothingness and the fictions of another world. Negation without affirmation is cowardice of the will. Saying and doing terribly negative things is worthwhile if it is grounded in the enormous power and tenseness of an affirmative attitude—peculiar to all rich and mighty men and ages. It is, as it were, a luxury, a form of courage too, which opposes the terrible, which has sympathy with the frightful and the questionable; because, among other things, one is terrible and questionable: the Dionysian in will, intellect, and taste. (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 4078)

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To develop his pessimism of strength, man must try his healthy body and mind against as much morbidity as he can bear and overcome, and then convert it into even more health (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 4070). This is the only way he can combat moral sickness and achieve physical health, cheerfulness, agility, and courage of the mind. If Nietzsche takes religious beliefs and morals seriously, it is only as the transformative meaning or interpretation that a genius bestows on a pre-­ existing mode of life. Jesus rose above others by attributing the highest value to the modest, virtuous, and inoffensive lives of the oppressed. He gave the average type of soul the courage to despise every other mode of life. He gave them the self-confidence to “overcome the world” under the rule of Rome and its upper classes, as well as the hopes of another life free of suffering and toil (Nietzsche 2015g, p. 1986). God also dispels any doubt that the faithful may have about alternative courses of action. More than rational thought, superstitious faith in his promises provides immense courage and hope (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1393). Religious reassurances, however, come at a high cost. They harbour deep-seated feelings of discontent, guilt, and gloom. Christian souls slink quietly and humbly through life, like “invalids and sick and depressed people who have no longer the courage to become healthy” (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1607). They submit to a moral order that replaces natural causation with the unnatural causation of punishment and reward. Assuming a punitive character, religion condemns the body, denounces human sensuality, fosters cruelty towards oneself and others, and incites hatred and the persecution of unbelievers. The promised rewards conjure up an unreal divinity who is “merely a name for every happy inspiration of courage and self-reliance” (Nietzsche 2015l, p. 3209). Wishful thoughts of divine assistance threaten the conditions that allow people to grow, follow their instincts, and live healthy lives. Beliefs in divine grace and an afterlife free of suffering point to a man who lacks courage and evil instincts, reinforcing a message and ethos well reflected in the New Testament (Nietzsche 2015l, p. 3247). In the past, men had a short existence and rushed to swallow poorly tested ideas, such as redemption and the immortality of the soul. The notion that every man has an everlasting soul assumes that the laws of Nature will be suspended for absolutely everyone, including idiots and bigots. By appealing

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to everyone’s vanity and infinite selfishness, Christianity drew the entire refuse of humanity to its side. The “salvation of the soul”—in plain English: “the world revolves around me… To allow “immortality” to every Peter and Paul was the greatest, the most vicious outrage upon noble humanity ever perpetrated. (Nietzsche 2015l, p. 3235)

Christianity is “a physiological disorder produced by the canker worm of conscience,” a chronic allergy to well-being and a healthy existence (Nietzsche 2015l, p. 3209). Unhappiness is inevitable, to be sure. But it gets polluted with the idea that well-being is a sinful temptation. All strong emotions become sinful, while feelings of weakness and inner cowardice are glorified. By these norms, even the greatest scientist or artist should renounce his individual strength and personality for the good of others (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3566). Thankfully, the world is changing and norms are shifting. “Now we have acquired good courage for errors, experiments, and the provisional acceptance of ideas.” That is, “Now we have the right to experiment upon ourselves!” (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1676). This forces us to make the greatest sacrifices, including letting go of our eternal salvation. It compels us to face adversity with joyful courage, knowing that suffering adds flavour to this life. Eating some hard-to-­ digest food is part of the banquet of life; without it, brave men would find life insipid. They accept pain because they refuse to let go of the associated pleasures (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1617). Nietzsche rejects all morals that promote man’s feelings of self-­ contempt and despair. However, as self-loathing as he may be, man always finds a way to restore his self-esteem and find joy in his own being and powers. Religion credits this natural recovering of self-love to God’s grace and goodness, just as his despair is an indicator of God’s wrath. Yet what the Christian “calls grace and the preliminary of salvation is in reality self-grace, self-salvation” (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 997). As with sinners, criminals do not need God to restore their courage, sanity, and freedom of mind. With proper skill and good will, they can atone for their wrongdoing on their own; they can free their souls from all remorse without God’s intervention (Nietzsche 2015f, p.  1545). They have already

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exhibited courage by risking their own lives, honour, and freedom. Punishment does not purify “because crime does not sully” (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3889). In fact, some crimes attest to man’s intelligence, noble manners, courage, and self-confidence, all of which deserve our highest esteem (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3912). When it comes to unravelling the ethics of courage, the issues of freedom and criminality have social and political ramifications that should not be overlooked. Punishments from God may be useless, but should society organise and use power to promote equality and protect people’s basic rights and freedoms? So far, my reading of Nietzsche has revealed little about his approach to real power relations in social history. Chapter 17 fills the gap.

References Nietzsche, Friedrich. 2015a. On the Future of Our Educational Institutions. Trans. J.M. Kennedy. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 34–159. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015b. The Birth of Tragedy. Trans. W.A. Haussmann. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 220–379. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015c. Philosophy in the Tragic Age of the Greeks. Trans. M.A. Mügge. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 399–489. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015d. Thoughts Out of Season. Trans. A.M. Ludovici and A. Collins. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 490–870. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015e. Human, All Too Human: A Book for Free Spirits. Trans. A. Harvey. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 871–1353. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015f. The Dawn of Day. Trans. J.M. Kennedy. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 1354–1719. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015g. The Joyful Wisdom. Trans. T. Common. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 1720–2054. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle.

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———. 2015i. Beyond Good and Evil: Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future. Trans. H. Zimmern. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 2556–2777. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015j. The Genealogy of Morals: A Polemic. Trans. H.B. Samuel. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 2778–2972. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015k. The Twilight of the Idol: How to Philosophise with a Hammer. Trans. T. Common. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 3039–3155. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015l. The Antichrist. Trans. H.L. Mencken. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 3156–3276. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015m. Nietzsche Contra Wagner: The Brief of a Psychologist. Trans. A.M.  Ludovici. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 3277–3328. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015n. The Will to Power. Trans. A.M. Ludovici. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 3329–4107. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015p. Ecce Homo. Trans. A.M.  Ludovici. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 4304–4448. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015q. Friedrich Nietzsche by George Brandes. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 4450–4581. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle.

17 Thus Spoke Nietzsche

Democracy, Race, and the Herd Instinct Christian morals, according to Nietzsche, are self-effacing means for the soul to overcome the physical world and achieve salvation and immortality in heaven. When seen through the lens of polis, these wishful principles attest to the feelings and will of men in positions of power, as well as the genius of great prophets such as Jesus. Religious leaders elevate themselves above others by fostering an unhealthy climate of profound discontent, modesty, guilt, suffering, hatred of the body and the world, and submission to the grace of God. They turn the world into an asylum for outcasts who foolishly believe they can conquer the world by fleeing it. In reality, the negativity of religious ideals undermines the joy of life, the superiority of great scientists and artists, and man’s sense of self-reliance and courage. Man fails to recognise that he can save himself from feelings of self-contempt and despair. He does not allow himself to approach life and himself as an ongoing experiment, nor does he find pleasure in the difficulties and hazards of existing in this world. Hopes of immortality impoverish his existence and force the world to revolve around the average man’s vanity and give comfort to his self-delusional soul.

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Nietzsche has little sympathy for the rancour of the sick, which is the bedrock of Christianity. The Christian instinct is to oppose the healthy and health itself, along with everything that is proud, gallant, and beautiful. To use St. Paul’s formula, “God hath chosen the weak things of the world, the foolish things of the world, the base things of the world, and things which are despised” (Nietzsche 2015l, p. 3250). God on the cross stands for the frightful rule of universal suffering, which destroys the pessimism of strength and the passions of elevated minds. The vindications of democracy reflect the same instinct. Instead of appealing to nationality and race, they attract the masses of people who have been disinherited by life and their do-gooder allies. Too many so-called free thinkers are gregarious levellers, which makes them “ludicrously superficial.” They blame all human misery on previous forms of social organisation and pander to the herd’s hope for a brighter future. They paint the enticing picture of the “green-meadow happiness of the herd, together with security, safety, comfort, and alleviation of life for every one” (Nietzsche 2015i, p. 2608). They extol the virtues of equal rights and sympathy for all sufferers, especially the flawed, sick, or disabled. By raising the will to life well above the will to power, they hide the fact that everything wicked, terrible, and predatory in man contributes to elevating the human species. Worse, they undercut man’s brave quest for knowledge and consciousness, which seeks truth in risky terrain and finds inspiration in the experience of pain (Nietzsche 2015i, pp. 2611, 2626). Christian beliefs in the equality of souls spread the poisonous doctrine of “equal rights for all” and universal suffrage at the expense of feelings of reverence and distance, both of which are necessary for the development of civilisation. Democracy and its bloody revolutions are monuments to the masses’ mediocrity and resentment of everything lofty, noble, and high-spirited in this life. They undermine the aristocratic spirit and courage for special privileges, the right of dominion, and the sentiment of pride. At stake here is “the pathos of distance… Our politics is sick with this lack of courage!” (Nietzsche 2015l, p.  3235; see p.  3243; 2015n, p. 3979). If anything, modernity celebrates “lazy peace, cowardly compromise, the whole virtuous dirtiness of the modern Yea and Nay” (Nietzsche 2015l, p.  3181). It urges man to submit to the gregarious instinct and conform to the life of the average type, the common man,

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who fights for the same rights as everyone else but nothing more (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3686). Democracy hastens the downfall of the European race (Nietzsche 2015i, p. 2628). Christianity prepared the path by sustaining and perpetuating the suffering type of man, the one who should perish. It gives comfort and courage to the sick, regardless of their race. Religious ideals provide oppressed people and those in despair hope of a sunny life in a Hyperborean place ruled by the spirit of universal forgiveness and understanding (Nietzsche 2015l, p. 3182). Nietzsche disparages the resulting mingling of classes and races. In his view, the mixing of blood and values promotes constant interrogation and indecisiveness, which undermines the “courageous feeling of pleasure in willing” (Nietzsche 2015i, p. 2675). While Europeans are clever and industrious, they are evolving into a cacophony of cosmopolitan passion and intelligence. This limits Europe’s ability to acquire a classical taste and a will for simplicity. It also saps men’s courage to fight for the terrible truth of suffering, as well as the enduring willpower of a ruling race bred of violence and crisis. In order to fight one’s way out of that chaos, and up to this form, a certain disciplinary constraint is necessary: a man should have to choose between either going to the dogs or prevailing. A ruling race can only arise amid terrible and violent conditions. Problem: where are the barbarians of the twentieth century? Obviously they will only show themselves and consolidate themselves after enormous socialistic crises. They will consist of those elements which are capable of the greatest hardness towards themselves, and which can guarantee the most enduring will-power. (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3988)

Philosophers, on the other hand, can prepare the way for a “new kind of ruling species and caste” by releasing the instincts of a strong type of man, one who is endowed with exceptional intellect and willpower (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 4041). At times, Nietzsche appears to believe that only he has the key to comprehending what this implies. But this is not the case, he says. By his own admission, his method does not concern itself with advancing precise ideas of how the overman lives. His task is to re-evaluate promising ideas using standards that challenge conventional

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morals and reasons for action. His “transvaluation” of philosophical thought draws attention to stronger motivations that “now appear under false names and false valuations” and have yet to become self-conscious. More than ever, philosophers must have “the courage to become conscious, and to affirm all that which has been attained—to get rid of the humdrum character of old valuations, which makes us unworthy of the best and strongest things that we have achieved” (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 4067). One much-needed transvaluation concerns the ideals of republican fellowship. As previously explained, free spirits and philosophers of the future resist the herd instinct and the fashionable taste for democracy. They are friends of freedom, truth, and solitude. They admire the achievements of Renaissance men, a period that sought a higher order of values, saying “yes” to life and proclaiming the reign of the individual in opposition to the Christian “values of degeneration.” Unfortunately, the Renaissance had a brief existence and wasted its strength. The vision of a new future did not materialise, primarily because of Luther. He attacked the church only to restore its “Denial of the Will to Live.” Despite its potential for transvaluation, the monk’s struggle ended in the rebirth of German idealism and morality, at the expense of scientific growth and people’s capacity for self-control and courage. The Reformation was a plebeian version of the Italian Renaissance that took on a religious form. Its spirit was one of individual libertinage that justified practically everything, allowing everyone to become his own priest. Blinded by the lies of religion, people put all their energy into rebelling against Rome and seeking evangelical freedom above all else, without making clear what kind of freedom they were fighting for (Nietzsche 2015n, pp. 3412, 3910; 2015p, p. 4430). In the absence of a higher vision of man’s future, the paralysis of will has spread throughout a European. A more daring way of exercising doubt is to think critically without mixed feelings and hesitation. The German spirit sets the example, at least when it is at its best, i.e., tough and masculine in nature. Despite some Romanticism in its music and philosophy, the German mind has a fearless gaze, the courage and sternness of the dissecting hand, and the resolve to undertake voyages of discovery under the most dangerous skies. Philosophers of the future are of

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the same calibre. They have a passion for new experimentation and knowledge that is far more daring than “the sensitive and pampered taste of a democratic century can approve of.” They are more critics than skeptics, with strict dissection standards that reflect manly discipline and “the wary courage, the standing-alone, and the capacity for self-responsibility” (Nietzsche 2015i, pp. 2675–81). Such men have the courage to answer questions with the seriousness they deserve. They examine each question inwardly and thoroughly with complete honesty and lucidity that verges on intellectual cruelty. Men with knowledge and a free spirit do not seek truth that is idealistic, feminine, pleasing, beautiful, or inspiring. Opposed to libertine freethinking, German minds never succumb to the allure of uncertainty, ambiguity, mystery, or arbitrary and meaningless change (Nietzsche 2015i, p. 2704; 2015k, p. 3100). Under “Spiritual freedom” I understand something very definite: it is a state in which one is a hundred times superior to philosophers and other disciples of “truth” in one’s severity towards one’s self, in one’s uprightness, in one’s courage, and in one’s absolute will to say nay even when it is dangerous to say nay. I regard the philosophers that have appeared heretofore as contemptible libertines hiding behind the petticoats of the female “Truth.” (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3694)

The Christian yearning for spiritual enlightenment is effeminate. It causes men to be unsure, weak in will, and reliant on others and God. It cultivates men’s herding instincts, which serve the will to power of the few. Confucius, the Roman Empire, Napoleon, and the Popedom were all examples of strong individuals who harnessed herding instincts to achieve worldly dominance, subjugating the self-deceiving masses to their insatiable rule (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3439; see p. 4041). Democracy is no exception; it, too, is driven by the lust for power. The progress it offers hinges on making men smaller and more docile, taking advantage of their gregariousness, and giving mediocrity the courage to become conscious of itself. “Democracy” is unnatural Christianity made “natural,” a ruling order that seizes power by eroding the natural aristocracies of the noble, the exceptional artist, and the passionate genius (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3503).

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Nietzsche extends his caustic transvaluation of Christianity and democracy to the guiding stars of altruism, civic fellowship, socialism, and the state (Nietzsche 2015n, pp. 3876–77, 3916). These are childish ideals that stray from a basic principle: only individuals can take responsibility for their own lives and have the courage to follow their own desires. From a political perspective, states and their huge machinery rob man of the courage to murder or flog another man while accepting full responsibility for his actions. Altruistic sentiments are equally suspect. They rarely extend beyond enemies and hostile neighbours. Furthermore, society has always used these sentiments, as well as the associated systems of reward and punishment, to achieve strength, authority, and order. Socialism itself starts from the premise that men must organise into a general movement or power to make sure their kind prevails. It uses anarchy and the threat of individual egoism to inspire fear and terror and draw the most courageous and reckless individuals to its cause. However, Nietzsche sees in socialism a mixed residue of eighteenth-century Christianity, the Renaissance concept of virtue, and Rousseau’s “man of nature” living in a de-Christianised world. Goethe and Napoleon fought against these reinstatements of the “good man.” Schopenhauer was equally critical, but he failed to invent a new approach to the affirmation of life. Despite some advances, philosophers have yet to fully embrace the growth of the terrible side of man’s character, which is “an accompanying feature of every advance in culture” (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 4073). They have yet to reinstate the “domineering morality” of the Greek man, an enterprising soul who was stronger and deeper than modern man. This type of individual is more needed than ever. He is “the most subtle and most effective of anti-democratic and anti-Christian powers, just as it was in the time of the Renaissance” (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 4041).

 ristocratic Radicalism and Argonauts A of the Ideal Nietzsche’s attacks against moral standards based on social or human fellowship are relentless and virulent. In his view, the courage to break the shackles of morality lies in the lightning flash of great deeds, in “the

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fulness, the tension, the storing up of power,” far away from the happy resignation of the weakling (Nietzsche 2015l, p. 3182). Creatures of the highest value possess hardness, independence, and a sense of responsibility; their exercise of power is laborious and demands courage (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 1309; 2015n, pp. 4009–10). A good expression that captures Nietzsche’s thinking on this subject is “aristocratic radicalism.” The higher man is an aristocratic ruler who believes in himself and acts as if he were the ultimate cause or reason worth fighting for. What he holds true is a tribute to his strength of personal courage. He enjoys victory for the sake of winning rather than serving a faraway entity ruling from heaven. He is, paradoxically, more modest and courageous than the Christian, who tries hard to conceal his tyrannical impulse, personal interests, and lust for power beneath a thick cloak of sanctimonious virtue (Nietzsche 2015n, pp. 3579, 3600; 2015q, pp. 4523–24). What the higher man aims for is the sky, but in a different way. First and foremost, he fights for his lofty self, which is and will always be greater than what he is. In order to distance himself from others and from himself, he wills to be commanded by the “thou shalt,” driven by his hope and love of the highest thought of life. The thought that commands him is this: “Man is something that is to be surpassed.” “So live your life of obedience and of war!” (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2133). Living a long life matters little to him, at least when compared to being a warrior of knowledge, a saintly soldier on a mission to accomplish great things through means other than peace, charity, or sympathy. As a warrior, he is ready to hate and fight the enemies who make him proud and will not spare him. If his struggle is ugly, then he covers it with the mantle of the wickedly sublime. His strength allows him to overcome the “feminist” barriers that stand in his way to knowledge. That is, he does not spare himself and is always hard on himself. This is the only way he can reach his ideal reader, a man made in his own image: namely, a monster of daring and curiosity, a born adventurer, “good-humoured and merry among a host of inexorable truths” (Nietzsche 2015p, p. 4369). In his essay on Schopenhauer as Educator, Nietzsche sees value in the “Schopenhauer man,” the kind that strives for perfection through patient toil and thankless suffering. This is the man who has the courage to consciously destroy his happiness on Earth and choose a heroic life. “Such as

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a man lives, who is always fighting against unequal odds for the good of others; and wins in the end without any thanks” (Nietzsche 2015d, p.  820). The hero Nietzsche has in mind seeks truth above all else. Nonetheless, he renounces the cold neutrality of the scientific man, who lacks feeling and fears the suffering that comes with knowledge (Nietzsche 2015d, pp. 818, 841). The noble man, unhappy with himself, sees something above his narrow self, something higher and more human than he. He hopes to reach it with the help of his knowledge, vision, love, and strength. In these passages and elsewhere, Nietzsche’s hope rests on “a future great man,” the genius who rises above the murky waters of human existence. He prefers “all that is struggling into life,” and hence the man who struggles to reassemble his broken pieces into a whole, exquisite work of art (Nietzsche 2015d, pp. 831–32). Nietzsche explains elsewhere that the “laws of class distinction” account for the lack of courage and philosophical vision among middle-class intellectuals. He targets the English philosopher and biologist Herbert Spencer and his pedantic enthusiasm for the reconciliation of “egoism and altruism” as humanity’s highest hope. In his view, too many natural scientists indulge in this sort of reasoning where human values and thought have their equivalents in nature and the present world. If they were to abandon the comfort of home and look beyond the horizon for what is most distant and forbidden, they would catch a glimpse of higher men who have yet to be understood: they are the firstlings of an untried future that calls for “a new end and also a new means, namely, a new healthiness, stronger, sharper, tougher, bolder and merrier than any healthiness hitherto” (Nietzsche 2015g, p.  2036; see p.  2025; 2015l, p. 3180). Men of the future conquer and discover the ideal through their most personal experiences and adventures. They draw inspiration from the nonconformist artist, legislator, sage, scholar, prophet, and godly man of bygone eras. Like “argonauts of the ideal,” they possess the greatest health, which they continually sacrifice and then regain. Since they are more courageous than prudent, they are often shipwrecked and exposed to grief. But they remain dangerously healthy, on their way to the undiscovered country that awaits them. This is

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a beyond to all countries and corners of the ideal known hitherto, a world so over-rich in the beautiful, the strange, the questionable, the frightful, and the divine, that our curiosity as well as our thirst for possession thereof have got out of hand alas! that nothing will now any longer satisfy us! (Nietzsche 2015g, p. 2037)

Nietzsche acknowledges that his perspective on courage is two-sided. At times he uses the word to evoke an attitude of “cold and unshaken resolution, and at other times of a fiery and reckless élan” (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1590). A single word denotes both kinds of courage: the firm and the impulsive, or the steadfast and the venturesome. In reality, the goodness and usefulness of courage depend on both qualities, cold and hot, and humanity stands to gain from their union. In previous ages, fear drove men to fall to their knees and beg for mercy at the sight of anything unknown, mysterious, and unintelligible. Now that men are more knowledgeable and less timid, the world has lost some of its charm. There is a downside to this. As the spirit of dread decreases, men think less boldly and less highly of the world and themselves, losing their dignity and formidable character. But a time will come when the spirit of free thought will soar in unmatched pride, far above people and things. The wise man, who is the boldest, will see himself and his current existence as the lowest of all, lying well beneath himself. This kind of courage contains a surplus of generosity that has been lacking until now. After letting go of some of their power and innocence, poets will revert to what they once were: seers who can anticipate future virtues, those that will never be found on Earth, like “purple-glowing constellations and whole Milky Ways of the beautiful!” “Where are ye, ye astronomers of the ideal?” (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1707). Future men will become their own subjects of experimentation (Nietzsche 2015g, p. 1947). Since they are contrary to reason, the miracles and experiences of rebirth imagined by the founders of religion are no match for this freedom of experimentation. In The Joyful Wisdom, Nietzsche criticises the modern world for imposing a fixed role or calling on every man and depriving him of the liberty to choose. Some individuals seem free to experiment, but most have roles chosen for them and end up identifying with them. Instead of having the courage to be honest

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with God and with one another, they spend their lives as if they were in a play, lying their way through. They join the crowd and fall prey to the levelling charm of the gregarious public (Nietzsche 2015m, p. 3284). There one is people, public, herd, woman, Pharisee, voting animal, democrat, neighbour, and fellow-creature; there even the most personal conscience succumbs to the levelling charm of the great multitude; there stupidity operates as wantonness and contagion; there the neighbour rules, there one becomes a neighbour. (Nietzsche 2015g, p. 2017)

The multitude become victims of their “good acting.” They remain unaware of the arbitrariness of acting and the alternative roles they could play. The European man is nonetheless becoming more artistic over time. As in America, his character and nature depend increasingly on the role he chooses and the art of creating it. In this most interesting and insane period of history, man is on the road to discovering the role he plays and becoming a stage player in his own right. The individual is now “convinced that he can do almost anything, that he can play almost any part, whereby everyone makes experiments with himself, improvises, tries anew, tries with delight, whereby all nature ceases and becomes art” (Nietzsche 2015g, p. 1993). He becomes a stage actor with the power to enchant and conquer the world, just like the Greeks did when they overcame Rome. This evolution, however, comes at the expense of an even higher species of man: the architect and organising genius who has the courage to make plans for the distant future. Beliefs in solid foundations and long-­ lasting works are fading, as is the idea that “man has only value and significance in so far as he is a stone in a great building; for which purpose he has first of all to be solid, he has to be a ‘stone’… Above all, not a stage-player!” (Nietzsche 2015g, p.  1994). In the Middle Ages, great architects built societies with people who believed they were predestined for particular roles and livelihoods. All found support in the enduring pillars of social rank, guilds, and inherited trade rights. These beliefs run counter to individualism, which is an expression of the will to power, at

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least in its “most modest stage” (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3916). The courage required to support truly great works, such as those of visionary architects, also clashes with the democratic and whining ethos of American and European societies, inspired by the ideals of Pericles’ Athens. Admittedly, these remarks about the fabric of mediaeval society deviate from the path that Nietzsche outlined for the overman. However, in his defence, they are only a footnote in his work. All things considered, the essence of man’s superior being can be found only in his own natural and ideal self, above the horde of actors contributing to social endeavours on whatever scale.

Lonesomeness, the Abyss, and the Eternal Return Unlike believers in society and God, the higher man strays from the multitude, refuses to join the herd, and bears the burden of lonesomeness. All brave souls must do the same and muster the courage to create their own laws and lofty ideals, projecting a star in their own desert and solitary lives. They can thus rise above others, knowing that they will be despised and envied even when they are just and compassionate to their enemies. “Injustice and filth cast they at the lonesome one: but, my brother, if thou wouldst be a star, thou must shine for them none the less on that account!” (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2155). Those who crow about the merits of goodness and justice will not hesitate to crucify the lonesome heretic who dares invent his own virtue or anyone who behaves as “a wizard and a sooth-sayer, and a fool, and a doubter, and a reprobate, and a villain.” The heretic, on the other hand, has no choice. Before he can become new, he must endure persecution and turn to ashes. He must create a god for himself and follow the path of the loving one. If he is to soar to new heights, he must also despise himself, which is a requirement of self-love. “I love him who seeketh to create beyond himself, and thus succumbeth” (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2156). Nietzsche praises “reverence for self; love of self; absolute freedom of self.” Nonetheless, in The Antichrist, he exhorts the future man to become superior to himself and the rest of humanity,

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not just in power and contempt but also in the loftiness of his soul (Nietzsche 2015l, p. 3180). Christianity expects its followers to do good deeds and resist the temptations of sin. Even if they perform acts of kindness, God condemns them to be “watched, guarded, surrounded by leading strings and gifts” (Nietzsche 2015f, p.  1659). Whether evil or good, the faithful are oppressed by a supernatural neighbour who continues to deny men’s right to remain alone, making it impossible for them to achieve the highest levels of courage and kindness in this world. Man should question Christianity’s notions of grace and redemption, take his distance from God, isolate himself from his docile flock, and take pleasure in danger and “the spirit full of a joyful wickedness” (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2122). Raising his courage and vigour above the herd instinct is a lonely and perilous journey away from the secure valleys of the multitude and towards the cold air of distant mountain tops (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 1130). Only at great heights can he master the four virtues of courage, insight, sympathy, and solitude. For solitude is a virtue with us, as a sublime bent and bias to purity, which divines that in the contact of man and man—“in society”—it must be unavoidably impure. All society makes one somehow, somewhere, or sometime—“commonplace.” (Nietzsche 2015i, p. 2769)

This is a major theme of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, which is about the higher man, the most lonesome one who climbs the highest mountains and leaps from peak to peak. As he inhales the rare and pure air atop the world, Zarathustra laughs at the sight of the thundercloud, the darkness and weight below him, and all the tragedies of life. He is courageous, unconcerned, and scornful of what makes life so difficult to bear. The protagonist of Nietzsche’s philosophical fiction is a brave warrior and the object of the Lady of Wisdom’s undying love. While he enjoys life, the madness of love consumes him. Pretty butterflies make him happy and inspire him to sing and dance. God dances in him. His flights of laughter and lightness enable him to defeat an overly serious demon: the spirit of gravity, who causes all things to fall (Nietzsche 2015h, pp. 2122–23).

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Zarathustra’s ascent recounts his lifelong wanderings in solitude, during which he experiences his own self, the only thing he can experience. The voyage takes him to the highest peak, which is also his last haven and the most dangerous abyss—a highpoint of existence that leaves all habits of self-indulgence behind. The ascent is heading for the impossible. He is learning to climb on his own head, or heart, as it were, in the hopes of seeing things far beyond, including his own self and his fateful stars. And when he had reached the top of the mountain-ridge, behold, there lay the other sea spread out before him: and he stood still and was long silent. The night, however, was cold at this height, and clear and starry. I recognise my destiny, said he at last, sadly. Well! I am ready. Now hath my last lonesomeness begun. Ah, this sombre, sad sea, below me! Ah, this sombre nocturnal vexation! Ah, fate and sea! To you must I now GO DOWN! (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2271)

The abyss is the chasm of all human fears. The overman has the courage and strength to face it (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2430). Endowed with anchorite and eagle courage, he knows the fear of the abyss but vanquishes it with pride, using all that is evil in him as his most powerful weapon. He does not succumb to moral courage or fear of fear (Nietzsche 2015n, p.  3960). Instead, he conquers the enemy, helps those who despair, and teaches them how to become better and also more evil. However, he will not suffer for the petty people who follow him. Nor will he bear the burden of their sin (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2441; 2015i, p. 2634). The moral path of self-sacrifice and suffering is not challenging enough. The higher man does not lead others on the straightforward path of life. If anything, he is a wayward “misleader” who dares to lose his own bearings and take others away from all paths, at their own peril. His soul seeks the consciousness of truth above all else, as terrible as it may be, and not the spirit of magic and deceit. He does not guarantee safety from fear or the dangers and horrors of life. Instead, he confirms what scientists say about fear: that it is man’s first and most basic feeling. Fear of wild animals has been instilled in man since the beginning of time, and this includes the animal that he conceals within himself. Zarathustra calls it “the beast inside.” In the end, fear explains everything, including the

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higher man’s virtue, that is, science. Beyond fear, there is adventure and the bravery of the wildest animals—a force at the core of man’s primitive history: “Thus only did he become—man.” “THIS courage, at last become subtle, spiritual and intellectual, this human courage, with eagle’s pinions and serpent’s wisdom” (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2460). Courage lifts the cloud of fear and deceit. It brings air, light, and the lightness of laughter back into the lives and souls of men. Zarathustra is a fearless wanderer and mountain climber who cannot sit still on the plains or in the land of butter and honey for very long. After reaching the highest mountain peak, he describes a vision or riddle for his kindred souls, those who enjoy embarking on far-flung journeys and sailing across terrifying seas. Only “the enigma-intoxicated, the twilight-­enjoyers, whose souls are allured by flutes to every treacherous gulf ” can make sense of the parable (Nietzsche 2015h, p. 2274). Instead of planning the future, the adventurers of life divine it, which puts them in a position to solve the riddle of the lonesome one. The vision begins with Zarathustra’s ascent along an evil and gloomy path covered with boulders but lacking any plants. His archenemy, a half-­ dwarf, half-mole spirit of gravity, perches on his shoulder, dragging him towards the abyss. The little devil paralyses Zarathustra by dripping heavy thoughts like lead into his ear and brain. One sombre thought concerns Zarathustra’s wisdom stones, which he throws at faraway stars, knowing they will fall back on him. The dwarf then remains quiet for a long while. The silence makes Zarathustra feel even more lonely and ill, as if he had awaken from one bad dream only to be tormented by another. This is when Zarathustra discovers he has something in him that he calls “courage.” With it, he can fight and defeat any low spirit or animal. He has the strength to overcome the vertigo he feels at the edge of the abyss—the abyss that lurks within himself and in the suffering that keeps him company, his “fellow-suffering.” Courage is the slayer of human misery and agony. Because of what he bravely endures, Zarathustra has the strength to overcome the spirit of gravity. The moment he realises this, Zarathustra is relieved of the weight of the dwarf, who springs from his shoulder and goes to squat on a stone. The vision that follows is the enigma. Zarathustra and the dwarf see a gateway with “This Moment” inscribed on it. Two endless roads meet at

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the gateway: one that goes backwards and another that goes forwards. Both lanes spread out for an eternity. Zarathustra warns the dwarf that the two lanes may be crooked, just like truth itself, and that time is a circle. He explains that if eternity lies behind, everything that could take place in the future must have happened and existed somewhere along that backward lane, including “This Moment” and the gateway. The same can be said for the lane heading forwards. “This Moment” is bound to happen and exist again, including the spider creeping in the present moonlight and the wanderer and dwarf now standing before the gateway, whispering of eternal things and their eternal return. Zarathustra, alarmed by these heavy thoughts, hears a dog howling. With a heavy heart, he recalls an incident from his childhood: a terrified dog howling at midnight, at an hour when even dogs believe in thieves and ghosts. The animal was barking at the full moon that stood still over his house, silent as death. Zarathustra then wonders whether his vision of the gateway was only a dream. Standing alone in the dreary moonlight, he sees a dog leaping, whining, and howling for help. He also sees a young shepherd who is pale with horror, choking and squirming in pain, with a heavy black serpent hanging out of his mouth; the viper crawled into it while he was asleep. Zarathustra attempts with all his strength to pull out the serpent, to no avail. Filled with feelings of hatred, horror, and everything that is good and bad in him, he yells at the shepherd to bite off the serpent’s head and spit it out. The young man does as he is told and is immediately transfigured. He is no longer a shepherd or a man, but a being surrounded by light, laughing like no man has ever laughed before, with a laughter that is not human. The vision concludes with Zarathustra yearning for the same laughter, a feeling without which he is not ready to live or die. Nietzsche’s parable is cryptic but not undecipherable. The spirit of gravity is the antithesis of the lonesome traveller and mountain climber who reaches lofty heights; he threatens and weighs him down. The spirit, depicted as half an underground animal and half a small man, represents the Christian flock and multitude, humbly bearing the burden of their earthly sufferings, belittled and “bedwarfed” by the weight of original sin and the fall. The wanderer rids himself of this lowly spirit and overcomes the abyss and barren life that lie behind and beneath him, within himself,

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and in the sharing of his suffering. His victory allows for a new perspective on the passing of time, no longer moving from the beginning of God’s creation to the Day of Judgement and eternal life or death. History no longer revolves around the unfolding of good and evil. The new vision of time is a paradox, conveyed through a shepherd and a serpent protruding from his mouth. It is as if Christ the Shepherd, or Verb, the one who speaks of good and evil, could only defeat Satan the Serpent by cutting it; the action serves to remove and silence all speculations about the evil snake that lives in man, his senses, and the realm of physis. Victory lies in letting man and the suffering of evil become divine and exist forever, with the implication that eternity is no longer God’s sole prerogative. What passes as human, earthly, and ephemeral becomes timeless. This means that every fleeting moment the enlightened man experiences belongs to both the past and the future. Since time that has passed or is to come is endless and infinite, it encompasses everything that may occur or exist at any given moment. Transfigured by this new wisdom, the highest man experiences the eternal return of the same, laughing and dancing with the lightness and exuberance of an immortal God.

Transvaluation of Nietzschean Courage Nietzsche’s radical plea for living life fully, freely, and shamelessly in our bodies and in the present world, through thick and thin, is the most compelling aspect of his work. It invites us to muster the courage we need to cultivate the soil we tread and the “humus” at the root of our humanity. Yet the body, the Earth, and the animal world he speaks of remain oddly surreal and abstract. Most of it is philosophising directed against the rule of the immaterial soul and the eternal God who dwells in heaven. Nietzsche is more concerned with exposing the unnaturalness of moral doctrines and religion than with increasing our knowledge and appreciation of Nature and the material world. The animal companions featured prominently in Thus Spoke Zarathustra and elsewhere are the first to pay the price for his intellectual crusade. They become pale reflections of themselves, mere metaphors and rhetorical devices tethered to higher

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intellectual achievements. The eagle is never a real eagle, but only an ersatz of human courage and strength couched in a manner of speech. Nietzsche’s lack of interest in Nature, the one that truly exists, is reflected in the way he approaches life in society, which admittedly comes naturally to man. The philosopher concedes in passing that it takes considerable skill and courage for any man to mingle with other men and digest their differences. Life in society is like being served a strange dish that inspires little confidence but makes you feel brave for tasting it (Nietzsche 2015g, p. 2011). He also acknowledges the important role of courage in all political regimes and parties. Ironically, leaders need it to lead those who are brave enough to follow them. The poor sheep say to their bell-wether: “Only lead us, and we shall never lack courage to follow you.” But the poor bell-wether thinks in his heart: “Only follow me, and I shall never lack courage to lead you.” (Nietzsche 2015f, p. 1636)

Leaving aside these remarks, Nietzschean courage is more about confronting the perils of social life. The will to power is a lonesome quest, and the future man must rely on himself and no one else when ascending to uncharted heights. He cannot trust anyone to instruct him on how to travel the path that awaits him, no matter how treacherous it may be. Those who seek education from others lower themselves to a level of joining the crowd and following the herd. Nietzsche reduces social life to its simplest form, namely animal domestication and herding in valleys and plains. This comes out clearly in his description of his highest-ranking animal and avian friends. Zarathustra’s lone lion and eagle companions are fictional creatures prone to flights from reality. Their solitary nature contrasts with the herding of sheep and lambs, social animals who are docile and easily tamed. Observations of Nature tell an entirely different story. Wild horses live in bands; lions form social units known as prides; foxes are fond of group living; and eagles are gregarious during the winter. This does not come as a surprise, as social living is a fact of Nature in the wild. Humans are no exception to the rule. Without the assistance of fellow humans, they cannot survive, let alone learn how to walk, speak, cook, or

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write. Nietzsche’s insistence on the lonesomeness of the higher man flies in the face of any basic science of social and natural history. Another troubling aspect is his misuse of the concept of species, which is to be expected of a man of his time. He assumes that if sympathy and bonding arise, they will largely occur within one’s community or society—within one’s own neatly classified people, class, tribe, nation, or race. All other interactions are predatory in nature, hierarchically organised, and devoid of any sense of fellowship or expectations of reciprocity. Humans as a species do not exist. Instead, every “human species” behaves like the lion, the king of beasts, the winner-take-all of the animal kingdom, capable of both protecting itself and preying on others. Even there, this is not how Nature works. Predation, competition, parasitism, and amensalism obviously exist, but relationships of mutualism and commensalism formed between organisms of distinct species are commonplace. Symbiotic relationships that span species boundaries are essential to life on Earth, beginning with humans. If the overman’s ascent to lonesome thinking on the mountain top could be reversed, it should not be towards the throng grazing and herding in valleys and plains, much less the desert’s solitude and desolation. Heading back to the jungle of life would be healthier and far more daring. Nietzsche’s overman maintains moral philosophy’s longstanding fear of the bewildering array of life forms and relationships that sustain our existence on Earth. His “higher man” is like the last remaining panther or tiger lost in the jungle, thinking that its will to survive and thrive as an apex predator will determine the fate of the entire forest (Nietzsche 2015b, p. 246). The lonesome beast believes it has no enemies and will never be extinguished, as does the higher man it befriends. In truth, when compared to the forest as a whole, both creatures are puny and vulnerable to attacks from all quarters, including the lowest forms of life. Viruses, as small as they may be, can feed on the strongest tigers and men and condemn them to certain death. In the global age, humanity is that massive forest with a tall and wide canopy that overshadows all aspects of our lives. Our tree-world is the most advanced and vulnerable ecosystem in recorded history. It calls for a long-overdue rethinking of “the law of the jungle,” particularly as it relates to measures of sustainable symbiosis. Champions of philosophical

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individualism who wish to climb the coldest mountains and leap from peak to peak use the jungle as a caricature for what they fear the most: having to bear the heat of living socially without the false security of hard edges and rigid walls. They fail to embrace our fate, which is to thrive in a web of countless symbioses, a tropical universe to which we owe our very existence. Instead, they bow down to apex predators and their insatiable will to power, endorsing the never-ending rule of misogyny, xenophobia, and classism, all masquerading as struggles for truth and justice. While his works contain many layers and contradictions, Nietzsche makes far too many allowances for the eternal return of chauvinism stretching back to the beginnings of moral philosophy. For Nietzsche, the modern ideas of equality and justice, inspired by classical Athens, are strong irritants. The philosopher acknowledges that, along with justice, temperance, and wisdom, courage is the most noble value and the gateway to a deeper understanding of humanity (Nietzsche 2015e, p. 1226). But other than upholding the superior rights and will of the “higher men” and rulers of this world, what does he mean by this? One could argue that Nietzsche’s purpose is not to advance a clear vision of the direction that modernity should take. Even so, his stance on the subject is a problem, raising more questions than it can possibly answer. According to Nietzsche, the men of today live in a world that is growing closer to comprehending and creating the best conditions for a healthy body. Progress in the material world through “lower spheres of intelligence” appears to enhance the value of life. On the other hand, he laments that uncertainty in the “higher spheres of intelligence,” especially with regards to the standard of valuation, has the opposite effect, namely a deterioration of life. Modern values like nationalism and science also fall short of providing a vision for humanity’s future. This is where the philosopher Nietzsche comes to the rescue, claiming to be the first immoralist to lead but not show the path. As a staunch immoralist, Nietzsche resists the temptation to provide any positive vision of what he believes to be higher values, based on a “Yea” to standards of passionate living (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 3428). As a result, the course he proposes is remarkably “up in the air.” Modern man should take his advice, let go of his low self-esteem, and rediscover the courage of his earthly existence. He should overcome the

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hypocrisy of pitting good against what is painted as the axis of evil. This must be done in all spheres of life where questions of power come into play, from politics to business and industry. But “what one can do” is the question that we must pose now more than ever (Nietzsche 2015n, p.  3436). Despite, or perhaps because of, his “pessimism of strength,” Nietzsche’s response to this pressing and daunting question remains astonishingly vague. Life in this world must be affirmed, but what kind of life is it? Is it nothing but a complete repudiation of the crass reality and beliefs of the multitude? Other than Nietzsche’s elaborate descriptions of the will to power, it is difficult to find satisfactory answers to the many questions he raised. In his works, the will to power is the driving force behind all efforts to overthrow established regimes of dominance, with the yearning for freedom becoming almost an end in itself. Nietzsche, however, has even greater expectations: the strongest and most courageous species distinguish themselves by desiring power rather than just freedom. As previously stated, their “will to overpower” goes beyond the “will to justice,” as when women or individuals fight for the same rights as the dominant gender or caste. Those craving for power may even try to overpower others and possess them through the gospel of love, truth, God, pity, and self-­abnegation. The follower can gain from his subjection as well, by becoming “part of a great mass of power to which one attempts to give a direction,” under the leadership of “the hero, the prophet, the Caesar, the Saviour, the bell-­ wether” (Nietzsche 2015n, p.  3910). The overman is nonetheless the model to follow and the one who gains the most, including Nietzsche’s highest regard. He is the one who soars higher by using the idols of freedom, justice, and love as means to bring others into his service. Nietzsche’s diagnostic valuation of social life and politics is a pessimism of strength, but of the ghostly and ghastly kind. In the end, the overman’s will to power is both invisible and terrifying. It has no substance other than the power of the will. The Nietzschean road to the affirmation of life is mostly abstract and steeped in negativity. It is a lonely search for the joy of repulsion—the pleasure of despising all moral systems and delving into their secret motivations and histories. For Nietzsche, any error in grasping the hidden truth and true value of philosophy is a sign of cowardice. Getting to

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know the hard truth requires courage and opens up “the possibility of the most fundamental Nihilism,” but not in the sense of an absolute will to negation, or “Nay,” to life. Rather, the aim is to develop a Dionysian affirmation of the world, as it is, without subtraction, exception, or choice—it would have eternal circular motion: the same things, the same reasoning, and the same illogical concatenation. The highest state to which a philosopher can attain: to maintain a Dionysian attitude to Life—my formula for this is amor fati. (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 4087)

This is the love of one’s fate and everything that happens in one’s life, past and present, good and bad, which the higher man embraces with enthusiasm because they are vital in life. An amor fati that calls for the affirmation of life, even in the face of sorrow, is both inspiring and long overdue. It celebrates the Dionysian instinct for the unity of all things that people have always kept separate: good and evil, creation and destruction, power and restraint, freedom and destiny, body and mind, human and divine, past and future, time and eternity. The impulse for unity differs from the Apollonian attitude of strength and dominance, which is regulated by logic, simplicity, clarity, progress, and individuation. The two attitudes are clearly distinguished and therefore suspect, one might think. But the higher man’s goal is to resolve the antagonism and, as in Greek tragedy, to dig deep enough so that Apollonianism can be planted in Dionysian soil (Nietzsche 2015n, p. 4091). Nietzsche praises the courage of the Greeks and their ability to conquer all forces—those of passion and logic, unity and individuality, rebellion and rule. The same is true of Nietzsche: the strength and salience of his philosophy grow out of the Dionysian energy he puts into dismantling prevailing systems of ideas and rebuilding them with his own values and principles. However, there is one dualism that Nietzsche overlooks and is reluctant to challenge: the basic chasm that separates individual lonesomeness from the endless symbioses of life on Earth. When all is said and done, the overman lacks the courage to live in this world and bear the joy and the heat of social living. His fear of rubbing shoulders with the multitude also hinders his search for truth in the plural. He is unprepared to engage with the bewildering diversity of human ways of

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living and thinking. Zarathustra may feel alone in exploring what lies beyond Christian morals and metaphysics. Yet he has no idea that his journey is merely one instance in a lengthy and rich history of various approaches to living, as well as making sense of good and evil, time and timelessness, the historical and the unhistorical, the physical and the divine. Looking back at the scene in which Zarathustra meets a shepherd with a snake in his mouth, the issue is not what the serpent and the shepherd stand for or how they can be used to undermine Christian principles. The real question is how many different outlooks on life and reality we should consider when answering the riddle. This is the secret hiding behind the enigma, the most daring of all. It lies in the countless conversations that continue to evolve across the boundaries of social history towards a deeper understanding of humanity’s place in the universe. The higher man, who forsakes and is forsaken by Christian civilisation, is just another expression of humanity’s relentless will to fully immerse itself in a universe that welcomes it, if only for a while. The idea that cowardice befalls the great majority, the commonplace, the superfluous, and the far too many, all of whom lack courage and exuberance, comes from a wanderer who has not travelled far enough and has yet to live in the strangest lands. Living in the company of his lonesome spirit opens very few doors and requires little courage and venturous wisdom after all (Nietzsche 2015h, pp. 2305, 2310). Nietzsche’s long-winded attacks on Christian morals and his fascination with the overman—his higher values, lonesomeness, and commanding will—leave us hungry for more rebellion against the rampant individualism and ethnocentrism of our age. They contribute little to overcoming the blatant rule of injustice in the service of the few, as well as our world’s glaring indifference to the broader physis of our planet Earth. To be sure, otherness exists within oneself, but encounters with Nature and otherness in our surroundings are always a part of our fate, worthy of our highest fear and love.

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References Nietzsche, Friedrich. 2015b. The Birth of Tragedy. Trans. W.A. Haussmann. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 220–379. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015d. Thoughts Out of Season. Trans. A.M. Ludovici and A. Collins. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 490–870. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015e. Human, All Too Human: A Book for Free Spirits. Trans. A. Harvey. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 871–1353. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015f. The Dawn of Day. Trans. J.M. Kennedy. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 1354–1719. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015g. The Joyful Wisdom. Trans. T. Common. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 1720–2054. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015h. Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book for All and None. Trans. T.  Common. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 2055–2555. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015i. Beyond Good and Evil: Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future. Trans. H. Zimmern. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 2556–2777. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015k. The Twilight of the Idol: How to Philosophise with a Hammer. Trans. T. Common. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 3039–3155. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015l. The Antichrist. Trans. H.L. Mencken. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 3156–3276. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015m. Nietzsche Contra Wagner: The Brief of a Psychologist. Trans. A.M.  Ludovici. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 3277–3328. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015n. The Will to Power. Trans. A.M. Ludovici. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 3329–4107. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015p. Ecce Homo. Trans. A.M.  Ludovici. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 4304–4448. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2015q. Friedrich Nietzsche by George Brandes. In The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, 4450–4581. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle.

18 Courage in the Body and the  Sociable Self

When it comes to understanding the moral aspects of life, English philosopher Shadworth Hodgson takes his distance from abstract speculations or moral philosophy. However, his thinking on the question of courage is considerably less pessimistic than that of Stirner, Nietzsche, and Shestov. The same can be said for Wilhelm Dilthey and William James. Both philosophers celebrate the joyful energy and willpower of courage, but they show greater optimism and hope in man’s pursuit of noble goals, his “ideal social self,” and the value of human fellowship on a global scale. The pragmatic aims of social life (polis) and well-being (physis) are given due consideration. James is also, from an epistemic standpoint, more open to reconciling the contending claims of science and faith. Physical training and energy may help people resist their coarser impulses. However, they should not rely solely on knowledge of the body and neglect the positive role spiritual experience and healing can play in their lives. The chapter concludes with a discussion of how James’ humanistic stance differs from contemporary denominational approaches to faith-based courage, such as Mary Baker Eddy’s Christian Science and Hermann Cohen’s neo-Kantian interpretation of Judaic monotheism. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_18

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 nergy of the Will and Social Sentiments: E Shadworth Hodgson and Wilhelm Dilthey Shadworth Hodgson (1832–1912), like many of his contemporaries, emphasises the emotional and energetic aspects of courage rather than its rational foundation. He downplays the relevance of abstract and universal definitions of courage, as if it were a singular and recognisable virtue that defines a person’s character. Reducing this quality, habit, or trait to a single emotion or passion ignores the fact that the words used to capture the idea are many, ranging from boldness to bravery, manliness, rashness, audacity, confidence, daring, impetuosity, and fearlessness. Courage is not among the “ultimate and simplest” emotions, actions, or passions. More to the point, it is a composite quality that belongs to one of three categories of men: the cool who despise danger, the sanguine who do not see danger, and the adventurous who court danger (Hodgson 1870, p. 207). Hodgson challenges the general concept of courage but has no issue advancing his own theory of heroic behaviour. As he sees it, all expressions of courage have two points in common. One is that they involve a high degree of energy and love of action, along with a high degree of hope or absence of fear. This resonates with the zeitgeist, or spirit of the time, as well as Nietzsche’s perspective on courage and the overman. The other point in common, however, is not praise for the “lonesomest one,” but rather a sense of duty and feelings of social sympathy and antipathy. According to Hodgson, courage is a variable phenomenon that can be broken down based on whether the danger or difficulty comes from impersonal forces and circumstances or from people who offer resistance and opposition. While the former situation raises emotions of fear and hope, the latter provokes antipathy. “In every case where we resist the will of another person, or assert our selves against him, some degree of hostility or ill will, though it may be very small, and even though we may struggle against it, is invariably included” (Hodgson 1870, p.  208). Feelings of hostility paired with a man’s active disposition expose the brave to the risk of injury. Hardships that may arise call for demonstrations of physical endurance and the application of practical means-end

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thinking to the satisfaction of human desires. But due consideration is also given to the concerns of justice and social sympathy (Hodgson 1870, p. 502). They help transform feelings of hatred, anger, and revenge into an impersonal sternness and love of duty, in which man sees himself as “the minister of some high and holy law.” When enhanced by courage, sympathy inclines the character of the whole man to be most loveable and admirable, strong, chivalrous, tender; where the poetically imaginative and religious feelings are added besides, there will arise a total character of the most completely heroic type which human nature can assume. (Hodgson 1870, p. 487)

Wilhelm Dilthey (1833–1911) and William James (1842–1910) also highlight the direct ties between courage and social sentiments. Both agree with Nietzsche that the best way to understand courage is through human emotions and the body, the exercise of willpower, and the pursuit of happiness through lofty aims. While the three philosophers have much in common, their differences are nonetheless striking. On the whole, Dilthey and James delve deeper into the physical aspects of courage. Also, they are more receptive to the idea that social ideals might assist people in finding the “keenest possibilities of zest” in life. Instead of harping on about higher men’s “pessimism of strength,” both authors suggest that positive energy of the pragmatic variety—as opposed to butterfly optimism and sentimentalism—is essential to unlocking the potential of a healthy mind (James 2018d, p. 3289). James expands on this by offering a broader perspective on how religious experiences and beliefs can heighten the intensity of people’s inner lives. Dilthey, in Ethical and World-View Philosophy, attempts to grasp the psychological foundations of virtue, which lie in “the joyful consciousness of power” and the intense feeling of life that goes with it. His thesis is that those who possess joyful self-esteem, enhanced by the affective judgement and sympathy of others, are more inclined to embrace the world and channel their “surplus power” and energy into active caring and communion with fellow humans. Dilthey’s analysis begins at the most basic level, describing courage as an instinctive effort to overcome an obstacle, an impulsive surge of energy crowned with success. Defensive

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instincts and workings of the body generate feelings of courage, anger, or hatred. Their intensity is such that animals may not hesitate to fight back or use their instinct for cunning to repel a stronger attacker. The same applies to human beings. In lieu of crouching, fleeing, and hiding, the more courageous defend themselves and threaten their enemies by raising their voices, clenching their fists, or exposing their teeth (Dilthey 2019, p.  77). Several expressions, including “having heart,” “being brave-­ hearted,” and “taking heart,” attest to the physiological basis of fortitude. The fact that physical pain, fatigue, drinking, and eating can affect the will’s available surplus of energy strengthens the argument. The psychological aspect of courage is equally, if not more, crucial. Calls for courage confirm that the decision to pursue happiness is a fundamental disposition of our will. Furthermore, efforts made to overcome obstacles on the road to happiness produce pleasure of their own, a feeling that comes from the movement of resistance. Courage, strength of character, perseverance, firmness, consistency, loyalty, [and] joyful energy in work, are the felt manifestations of these volitions that express the joy of the will in itself, a feeling accompanying the volitions that arise from our inner nature. (Dilthey 2019, p. 82)

Weakness of character foments gloominess, a heightened sense of danger, and a lukewarm response to life. Strong men exemplify the opposite: they experience and cultivate the joyful consciousness of a surplus of willpower. Their natural tendency is to scorn danger, shrug off misfortune, and ignore suffering. They are cheerful precisely when in peril, and their courage turns into boldness when they actively seek out and confront danger. Sacrifice is frequently associated with moral fortitude, and the experience of suffering is real. True courage, however, never allows pain and hardship to diminish the “heroic glow” and conscious enjoyment of life, a sensation that is rooted in man’s mental state and guides his active response to danger and adversity. The same can be said for work and planned activities: as with courage, they require efforts of the will as well as sacrifices. Man’s willpower and inner feeling of life grow stronger as force and power are used and concentrated towards a goal. However,

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courage differs in that it requires a heroic effort of will beyond demonstrations of steadiness and firm resolve (Dilthey 2019, pp. 84–85). Even though unpleasant feelings may be experienced, a sufficient display of willpower can generate a heightened state of joy and the consciousness of freedom and fulfilment. This, in turn, creates an increase in “volitional energy” beyond external manifestations of the body. Aristotle’s eudaemonia, the Stoic notion of moral strength, and Kant’s categorical imperatives are all “formulae for the volitional core.” However, they are better explained by the findings of human psychology (Dilthey 2019, p. 82). When properly understood, the laws of the human psyche contradict contending views, such as the utilitarian notion that courage is simply another means of achieving psychological happiness. The joyful expansion of the self through courageous activity transcends the will’s mechanical use of means designed to produce the desired results. “Those who reduce the feeling of the value of courage or strength of character to their utility will never have had any aspect of the heroic feeling of life pulsate within them” (Dilthey 2019, p. 88). Dilthey is equally critical of Kant’s social goals treated as ends in themselves. Ethical dispositions of the mind do not function independently of the heroic feelings and joy involved in exerting willpower. Moral endeavours rest on basic features of the will and their connections with feelings and pleasures that motivate people to act in specific ways and influence social life and history (Dilthey 2019, pp. 90, 112). Dilthey raises another few key questions pertaining to the ethics of courage. To begin with, what distinguishes human fortitude from animal life? How should we judge planned activities and careers that are solely “directed by a bold egoism,” as in the world of business (Dilthey 2019, p. 90)? Also, what should we make of courage that elicits public sympathy even when it serves criminal and immoral ends? On the distinction between human and animal behaviour, Dilthey contends that life and culture can be elevated by combining a sense of superior physical power and fortitude with mental power, craftiness, and the pursuit of spiritual goals. Courage, when considered ethically and earned through training, is a long-lasting emotion that attests to the victory of the mind and the rational will over animal instinct and impulse (Dilthey 2019, pp. 59, 77, 110). Another edifying aspect of courage is

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the pleasure it brings to others (Dilthey 2019, p. 83). Dilthey, however, has more to say about how courage fosters human fellowship, social well-­ being, and concern for others. Active benevolence rests on sentiments of “solidarity, active and energetic cooperation, common well-being, and the higher achievements of society” (Dilthey 2019, p. 90). Men of courage may seek the sympathy of others, but the actual or imagined judgements of spectators matter little to them. They derive greater pleasure from the energy they invest in expressing their feelings of solidarity and human fellowship (Dilthey 2019, p.  105). As daring as they may be, criminal activity and careers driven by bold egoism will never meet these standards.

 he Feeling Body and the Socius: T William James For William James, courage is also a moral feeling. This means it has no time-space coordinates and therefore no clear location in the body, not even the breast, contrary to what Plato claims (James 2018a, p.  314). When compared to the coarser feelings of pleasure and pain, the emotion is more subtle and of a secondary nature. Regardless, both subtle and coarse emotions thrive in the same soil, which is the body. They involve a wide range of physical responses, as when “the voice breaks and the sob rises in the struggling chest, or the nostril dilates and the fingers tighten, whilst the heart beats, etc., etc.” (James 2018a, p. 1653). As with intellectual and aesthetic feelings, moral sentiments such as courage and magnanimity trigger sensations that reverberate throughout the body. A state of mind that does not use the body as its sounding board cannot produce a moral sentiment, only the awareness of a moral quality. Since moral feelings are physically grounded, “any voluntary and cold-­ blooded arousal of the so-called manifestations of a special emotion ought to give us the emotion itself ” (James 2018a, p. 1644). Simply put, we do not act courageously because we feel brave. More to the point, we feel brave because we act with courage. This is so true that a passion fades if it is not expressed physically in the immediate moment. The corollary

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is that physically expressed courage gives more courage, just as repeated fits of anger provoke even more anger. This approach to moral sentiments has broad implications for all educators. One key lesson is that “if we wish to conquer undesirable emotional tendencies in ourselves, we must assiduously, and in the first instance cold-bloodedly, go through the outward movements of those contrary dispositions which we prefer to cultivate” (James 2018a, p. 1644). This is where willpower intervenes. When courage does not come naturally, the voluntary path, which consists of acting and speaking as if courage already exists, is an option. Adopting this behaviour will soon make us feel courageous. To feel brave, we must “act as if we were brave, use all our will to that end, and a courage-fit will very likely replace the fit of fear” (James 2018c, p. 3094). Uncontrolled fears, like all unpleasant emotions, tend to persist and, if we pay them too much attention, may lead to the development of bad habits. The reverse happens when moral actions and emotions are repeated; this helps people form the courage habit, which takes root in the body and becomes second nature to them. Education must take inspiration from this fundamental principle by making “our nervous system our ally instead of our enemy” (James 2018c, p.  2991). James’ insights call into question Dilthey’s all-too-familiar notion of a grand battle that pits the mind against men’s animal-like instincts. In retrospect, his approach to courage is a landmark in the annals of moral psychology, contradicting two thousand years of mind-­ body thinking. It suggests that using one’s will to move the body towards a desired state triggers a natural energy that is far more effective in developing moral inclinations than any conscious appeal to rational, ethical, or religious principles. However, exercising willpower is easier said than done. One cannot develop the habit of courage without exerting effort. This holds true for all moral habits. James considers moral emotion to be its own impulse, implying that it can arise spontaneously, like fear. However, some impulses are more stubborn and resistant than others. As the sluggard, the drunkard, and the coward can attest, well-ingrained behaviour is difficult to break. Moral habits, on the other hand, are difficult to form. To keep coarser motivations and inclinations at bay, some energy or active force must provide support for the will. Thus, the will releases deeper

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levels of moral energy so long as efforts are made to act on whatever the will commands. Working on converting the will into moral action helps in further developing the courage habit and the related energy. “A single successful effort of moral volition, such as saying ‘no’ to some habitual temptation, or performing some courageous act, will launch a man on a higher level of energy for days and weeks, will give him a new range of power” (James 2018f, p. 4793). Another problem is that no morally significant effort can be undertaken without an opposing force: the instinct to flee is more difficult to resist than the rarer impulse of moral courage (James 2018a, p. 1751). Thus, heroic behaviour is “in the line of the greatest resistance,” measured by the remarkable amount of effort that a man extends when coping with a world that keeps testing him. Living on the perilous edge, the worthy man sets an example for those who strive to reach a higher plane of existence. Unlike others who succumb to fear, melancholy, or sorrow, he can face terrible things if he must without losing control of the rest of life. The heroic man has the energy and strength needed to face the game of human existence. He can stand this Universe. He can meet it and keep up his faith in it in presence of those same features which lay his weaker brethren low. He can still find a zest in it, not by ‘ostrich-like forgetfulness,’ but by pure inward willingness to face the world with those deterrent objects there. And hereby he becomes one of the masters and the lords of life. (James 2018a, p. 1783)

James despises the thought of a future-age Homo sapiens who spends all his time digesting his food and pondering rather than working to achieve and live the good life (James 2018c, p. 3097). Putting in some effort to achieve one’s ideals in life is a core feature of being human. The growth of human intelligence and moral consciousness will always require the inhibition of man’s coarser impulses. However, too much inhibition has negative consequences. It makes it more difficult, among other things, for men to act on impulse and solve problems in their own way and more effectively than others. Many successful army leaders and revolutionary figures are of this “simple but quick-witted impulsive type” (James 2018a, p. 1737). Unlike most men, a genius gifted with an inborn

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passion can accomplish great things, if only because he lacks certain inhibitions that others do. He can also experience higher levels of excitement and therefore courage, the kind that comes from a ruling passion, whether it’s hope, love, wrath, a desire to inspire others, a sense of adventure, or the sheer pleasure of feeling alive when confronting death and risking one’s life (James 2018d, p. 3746). Heroic deeds bring joy. In fact, happiness attained through moral courage in pursuit of a noble goal is far more intense and fulfilling than fleeting pleasures, let alone feelings of gloom and thoughts of suicide (James 2018b, p. 2661). What is the role of religion in all of this? Is it antithetical to the development of courage in the body? Is there reason to believe that moral sentiments, like muscle movement and animal heat, have physical conditions and causes that may be researched and discovered using empirical science? Could we not describe vice and virtue as “products like vitriol and sugar” (James 2018d, p.  3187)? As is common knowledge, James firmly rejects the claims of medical materialism. He dismisses all scientific endeavours that aim to reduce what is higher to what is lower. In his view, the “nothing but” mentality of medical materialism undermines expressions of spiritual life and the ideals of social generosity (James 2018e, p. 3848). Scientism is also logically untenable and can be used against itself: if its claims are true, they should derive from a particular state of the body, just like everything else. James devotes some attention to the question of religion and its relationship to courage. From his perspective, some states of mind are considered superior for good reasons, including pragmatic considerations. While we value courage because the thought gives us pleasure, we may also believe it will have positive consequences in our lives. That is, it is “the character of inner happiness in the thoughts which stamps them as good, or else their consistency with our other opinions and their serviceability for our needs, which make them pass for true in our esteem” (James 2018d, pp. 3190–92). What is true of moral emotions also holds for religious experiences: we should assess spiritual visions against the benefits they bring. Saint Teresa stated that her visions did not reinforce her vices or send her to hell; they filled her with “masculine courage and other virtues instead, for I saw clearly that a single one of these visions was enough to enrich me with all that wealth” (James 2018d, p. 3197).

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She had such courage and passion for God that she feared not being able to suffer enough torment. She yearned to suffer and experience her spiritual energy to the fullest (James 2018d, p. 3596). Observations such as these lead James to question those who rely solely on science, as if its method and the evidence it provides could enable them to avoid uncertainty, the unknown, and all associated dangers in life. To be sure, exercising prudence brings real advantages, and people have much to lose by acting irrationally; soldiers do not win battles by fighting recklessly. Still, the lessons of courage never lose relevance. What should be preached is courage weighted with responsibility,—such courage as the Nelsons and Washingtons never failed to show after they had taken everything into account that might tell against their success, and made every provision to minimize disaster in case they met defeat. (James 2018b, p. 2558)

James does not support reckless thinking. Rather, he advocates the freedom to pursue personal convictions at one’s own risk. Religious faith, in its own way, is an act of courage directed against the tyranny of science. Those who choose to wait until they have a complete understanding of the path they must take are like the man who, out of fear of choosing the wrong road, stands still in a snowstorm on a mountain pass and freezes to death. Faith is not averse to risk. It is being strong and of “good courage,” hoping and acting for the best, and taking what comes (James 2018b, p. 2590). Moreover, science itself is an act of faith in an ethical idea that cannot be proven and reflects an adventurous spirit. It boldly assumes that careful scientific research may remove all sources of confusion in the world (James 2018b, p. 2703). Despite its dogmatic inclination, science is a risky endeavour, full of “courageous maybes,” just like life. Not a victory is gained, not a deed of faithfulness or courage is done, except upon a maybe; not a service, not a sally of generosity, not a scientific exploration or experiment or text-book, that may not be a mistake. It is only by risking our persons from one hour to another that we live at all. (James 2018b, p. 2619)

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It takes courage to face uncertainty and danger, take a leap of faith, and place one’s trust in a spiritual or scientific “maybe” that might be lifesaving. The overall feeling is uplifting and optimistic. Strict naturalistic and positivistic perspectives on life, as well as the related pursuit of absolute certainty, have the opposite effect; they are melancholy. Strict naturalism and positivism, in their pursuit of absolute certainty, have the opposite effect: they are simply depressing (James 2018e, p. 3848). They destroy all romantic spontaneity and courage. They also neglect a basic human inclination, which is to never abandon the realm of the possible. In essence, courage is staking one’s life on a possibility; faith goes one step farther by asserting that what is possible does exist (James 2018b, p. 2623). Both share a willingness to believe and act where doubt is still possible, knowing that life is full of unknowns and that risk will always add a certain zest to human activity. Belief in God persists because men need a pretext for living difficult lives and “getting out of the game of existence its keenest possibilities of zest” (James 2018b, p. 2772). Normal men must be able to believe something without proof and accept the risks that follow. This is easier for men with strong constitutions. They inspire others to see the world through the lens of man’s singular power: the feeling that he can bring to life “the actuality of the truth whose metaphysical reality he is willing to assume” (James 2018b, p. 2651). Faith plays such a positive role in our lives that it can withstand all the immutable laws intended to explain every phenomenon perceived by the senses (James 2018b, p. 2703). Thus, religion enables us to meet evil and tragedy with joy, energy, and courage. “For this reason the strenuous type of character will on the battle-field of human history always outwear the easy-going type, and religion will drive irreligion to the wall” (James 2018b, p. 2772). The world that appeals to most people is one of triumphant endurance, fortitude, moral energy, and generous trust (James 2018b, p. 2661). The effects and power of spiritual courage should not be underestimated. James extends this logic to his discussion of the efficacy of mind cure, a healing principle supported by numerous philosophical traditions and their disciples’ practical experience. Its followers believe in “the all-­ saving power of healthy-minded attitudes as such, in the conquering efficacy of courage, hope, and trust, and a correlative contempt for doubt,

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fear, worry, and all nervously precautionary states of mind” (James 2018d, p. 3277). Mary Baker Eddy (1821–1932), founder of the Christian Science movement, should be mentioned here. Eddy sees in Christian healing a proof of the superiority of spiritual strength over physical power. In her view, faith-based courage differs from natural or animal courage in that it affirms the true idea of God and the achievement of bliss through powers of the mind or spirit. Happiness does not lie in material wealth or the pleasures of the senses. Rather, it hinges on the mind and soul exercising mastery over matter and all forms of evil. The courage of the spirit is so potent that it gives the physical strength required to heal the body. Eddy contends that the cause of any physical ailment should be met mentally and courageously. As with fear and sin, a disease has no life, intelligence, or movement of its own. If disease moves, mind, not matter, moves it; therefore be sure that you move it off. Meet every adverse circumstance as its master. Observe mind instead of body, lest aught unfit for development enter thought. Think less of material conditions and more of spiritual. (Eddy 2000, p. 419)

A metaphysician, unlike a matter-physician, can use his mind to reach a patient’s mind. He is careful not to pass on his fear of disease and belief in its existence, which can be more dangerous than morphine and calomel (mercurous chloride). Failing this, the patient will hear the doctor’s verdict in the same way that a criminal hears his death sentence. A Christian Scientist plays the role of a doctor blessed with healing power and the ability to strengthen his patients by instilling moral courage and a sense of power in them. He uses his science to affirm the dominance of mind over matter, without fear. This means that “Spirit is God, and therefore cannot be sick; that what is termed matter cannot be sick; that all causation is Mind, acting through spiritual law” (Eddy 2000, p. 419). Those who stand firm in their understanding of truth and love may overcome all sicknesses. The Christian Scientist has the courage of honest faith and obeys the laws of the divine Science. Charity and love require the courage of conviction—one that “may suffer long, but has neither the cowardice nor the

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foolhardiness to cover iniquity” (Eddy 1900, p. 211). Any Christian who wishes to follow her teachings can have access to the strength she envisions. When it comes to standing up for the truth, Eddy nevertheless believes that women possess greater courage. In addition, she does not perceive any fundamental incompatibility between masculine courage and strength and feminine qualities of affection and tenderness. On the contrary, these qualities must be combined for a person to become whole. Love is essential in promoting the greatest good for the greatest number. It also opens the eyes of the blind and shows them the folly of believing that the “law of matter” is at work in a world that is basically harsh and cruel. This is an immoral law that subjects the innocent to sacrifice and hardship. It fosters fear and suspicion rather than courage and confidence. What must prevail instead is the immortal law of justice, love, and the soul, a law that exists only in the mind and not in matter. James is open to discussing the benefits of Christian Science (James 2018d, p. 3711). A more significant aspect of his approach to courage, however, is the positive role that social morality and fellowship play in people’s pursuit of happiness in this life. Social sentiments are the experience of human affinities and bonds of sympathy beyond distinctions of class, gender, or race. According to James, rather than the hallmark of a superior type of man, courage is a powerful sentiment and energy woven into the social fabric of human existence. This quality is not the preserve of the exceptional few. Heroism should not be “dead and embalmed, labelled and costumed, as it is in the pages of romance” (James 2018c, p.  3148). If it can be found anywhere, it is among the living, in the labouring classes, on construction sites, freight trains, vessel decks, cattle yards, mines, lumber rafts, and so on. Acts of courage are performed every day of the year in all spheres of human activity. They come with sweating, aching, and the powers of patient endurance demonstrated in both normal and dramatic conditions, as when people recover from disaster (James 2018f, p. 4638). Courage is a component of everyday life for most people. It is etched on the horny hands and dirty skins of hardworking peasants who are never honoured or recognised, despite being “the very parents of our life.” They are the ones who merit monuments of gratitude and reverence (James 2018c, pp. 3148–49).

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Fortitude and goodness exist everywhere. From James’ Talks to Teachers on Psychology and to Students on Some of Life’s Ideals, a passage addressing this topic explains how differences in social rank, education, and external appearance are insignificant in the grand scheme of things. While men take great pride in these “rarities and exceptions,” they matter little. If we ignore these superficial marks of distinction, all that remains is the fact that we are countless multitude of vessels of life, each of us pent in to peculiar difficulties, with which we must severally struggle by using whatever of fortitude and goodness we can summon up. The exercise of the courage, patience, and kindness, must be the significant portion of the whole business; and the distinctions of position can only be a manner of diversifying the phenomenal surface upon which these underground virtues may manifest their effects. At this rate, the deepest human life is everywhere, is eternal. (James 2018c, p. 3149)

As with decency and goodness, the virtue of courage is an elemental component of our humanity. Some of it can be found all over the world, in all societies and phases of social life, among all men and women (James 2018c, p. 3152). But, if this is true, does it imply that a man hewing wood and drawing water displays the same “functional utility”—i.e., the same amount of courage, kindness, and patience—as an educated man who bears huge responsibilities? Are distinctions established in the phenomenal world a massive fraud? James answers in the negative. “If it is idiotic in romanticism to recognize the heroic only when it sees it labelled and dressed-up in books, it is really just as idiotic to see it only in the dirty boots and sweaty shirt of some one in the fields” (James 2018c, p. 3155). Differences observed in real life should not be ignored. Courage is widespread and takes many forms. If that is the case, how can we judge that someone is acting with the utmost courage? To answer this question, James examines an important aspect of inner courage or endurance: the degree to which it is complete and valid. In his view, fulsome courage involves a lofty pursuit that is intellectually conceived, uplifting, and novel for others. Education is a means to multiply new

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ideals that make life even more meaningful. While he has no knowledge of baking, a philosopher can shed an entirely different light on the world and summon the courage to pursue goals that transcend the mere acquisition of material wealth. Those who take the vow of poverty and translate military courage into a religious calling deserve our admiration for walking on a noble path (James 2018d, pp. 3506, 3553; 2018e, p. 3842). Other ideals exist and are readily available to everyone. Everybody has them in some shape or other, personal or general, sound or mistaken, low or high; and the most worthless sentimentalists and dreamers, drunkards, shirks and verse-makers, who never show a grain of effort, courage, or endurance, possibly have them on the most copious scale. (James 2018c, p. 3160)

Although ideals differ widely, the defining features of moral courage are recognizable and bring us back to the centrality of human effort and active energy. A man should be praised if he displays courage, undergoes privations, and has dirt or scars that can attest to his effort in achieving his noble ends. Life is only worth celebrating when the mind’s ideal visions find support in what the labourers have: the harder stuff of manly virtue. For a man to have depth, or “anything cubical and solid in the way of character,” his mind must multiply the emotional surface of his visions by the size of his active will (James 2018c, p. 3161). When he chose to lead the all-black 54th Regiment at the Second Battle of Fort Wagner in July 186, abolitionist officer Robert Gould Shaw showed great civic courage. Monuments throughout the world should celebrate such bravery rather than glorifying the survival of the richest and fittest. Men who seek worldly fortunes and power above all else are enemies within the borders of any nation. To preserve itself against such foes, a nation must rely on the civic zeal and genius of its own people, who commit courageous acts daily. Citizens do so by speaking, writing, voting reasonably; by smiting corruption swiftly; by good temper between parties; by the people knowing true men when they see them, and preferring them as leaders to rabid partisans or empty quacks. Such nations have no need of wars to save them. (James 2018f, p. 4679)

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Qualities that enhance individual survival are universally sought after. But the qualities that people most admire are heroic, recklessly generous, and disinterested. They attract more attention everywhere for a simple reason: demonstrations of courage, pride, and self-sacrifice are beneficial to society as a whole (James 2018g, p. 5151). History shows that many ideas have the potential to unleash the energies of loyalty, courage, endurance, or devotion. Energy-releasing ideas never work for all people. Even so, there is one thing they have in common: all noble ideas and moral sentiments are social in nature. The fatherland, the flag, the union, the holy church, truth, and science all appeal to ideals of life in society (James 2018f, p. 4795). But how does one choose between one vision of society and another? Logically, the choice we make will shape our understanding and experience of courage. James’ response to this critical question focuses on the person’s ideal self as understood socially. In his view, the moral feeling of courage forms part of an “ideal social self ” that everyone pursues and is worthy of approval by “the highest possible judging companion,” an inner voice of conscience reminiscent of Adam Smith’s “impartial spectator.” This is “the true, the intimate, the ultimate, the permanent Me which I seek.” “This judge is God, the Absolute Mind, the ‘Great Companion’” (James 2018a, p. 450). We know from experience that the innermost self is always social. It can fluctuate over time; what people see as courage and fortitude at one time may be arrogance and stubbornness at another. Nonetheless, it is only in an ideal world, worth praying for, that the self can find its adequate “socius.” Others may help in defining and judging the ideal self. However, their judgement has limited value and may be misled by interest and prejudice. Only an ideal judge “can read my qualities, my willingness, my powers, or what they truly are” (James 2018a, p. 556). Courage is a universal emotion manifested in the body that can become a habit if the correct effort or energy is put into it, despite the danger of failure and self-harm to the individual. It entails a commitment to a noble cause that helps the person come closer to their “ideal social self ”

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and contribute to society as a whole. James offers important insights into the physis of energetic courage and the diversity of moral sentiments and real-world experiences. In addition, his work provides a novel perspective on how education and social life influence the development of moral sensibility and the “total self ” in all walks of life. His views nonetheless raise a difficult question that pertains to James’ own “socius”: How can the philosopher set aside his own ideals and “social self ” when advancing a universal definition of the moral feeling of courage? Should he not, if he is to persuade us of the social utility of his conception of courage, consider the “permanent Me” he seeks and the social order he believes is worth defending? Logically, all the concepts that James uses to capture the essence of courage bear his personal signature. They display a spirit of rootedness in the body, self-worth, generosity, sociability, and humanity. In the sphere of ethics, his ideas have left a distinct imprint that is not shared by all philosophers. In his defence, James might argue that this is where his own faith lies, regardless of what others think: in battles for human sociability, civic virtues, real justice, and genuine democracy. That is what his own conscience, or “Great Companion,” dictates—a better world for which he is prepared to take risks. The argument would be compelling except for one flaw: no single philosopher can define courage a priori, independently from the continuing struggles of social history. The ideal courage he advances is not the product of an exercise in self-consciousness, a moral proposition detached from the larger evolution of ethics and politics. If anything, “his” courage is the fruit of a long history of competing thoughts and energies aimed at defining and achieving an ideal world. Thus, the only way that the idea of courage can improve in clarity and evolve is for people to take a social stance on what it is and ought to be, fighting for it individually and collectively, with the understanding that success will never be attained once and for all. Courage viewed through the eyes of a lonesome and enlightened Socius is a poor substitute for the broader struggles required to discover and experience what it is and ought to be.

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A Suffering Humanity: Hermann Cohen Views on courage that emerged in the nineteenth century converge on an ethos of life-affirming energy and strength that strays from all previous conceptions of well-being and happiness in an unchanging world. For most leading intellectuals, teachings of long suffering and endurance for the sake of virtue or the blessings of heaven have lost much of their credibility. Nonetheless, the literature reveals a deep divide between two main orientations to the ethics of human energy and courage. As seen in previous chapters, most naturalists and social theorists underline the contributions of courage to the growth of science, the exercise of free will, the calculus of means and ends, advancements in social organisation, and the inevitable rule of order and dominance of some over others. Leading philosophers, on the other hand, express strong opposition to the tyranny of reason and morality, the subordination of the individual to the broader conditions of social life, and the idea that evil, tragedy, and fate have nothing positive to offer in life. If anything, courage lies in the pleasure of asserting oneself and the power of hoping against hope. For Emerson and Kierkegaard, blind faith should be pinned on God’s baffling love for man, to be trusted beyond reason and argument. For Stirner, Nietzsche, James, and Shestov, hope lies in man’s resolve to embrace his worldly existence and all that it entails, which includes not only his willpower but also his sufferings and failings. Man can even choose to believe in his own power to believe in God and his miracles if it proves useful, as James and Eddy suggest. The divide is deep and wide. Dilthey and James are among the few who attempt to reconcile two opposing outlooks on the world: the natural and social sciences’ perspectives on freedom, science, and society on the one hand, and the Existentialist movement’s perspective on the adventurous spirit of rebellious and solitary minds on the other. Nonetheless, the solutions they propose are limited by physiological and psychological frameworks that sidestep the larger issues of modernity and the global age. As I argue at the end of this book, courage is now required to strengthen human beings’ fellowship with one another and with Nature, combining the energy of willpower and reason with humility and

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due respect for the mysteries and forces that exist both within and beyond us. For all their merit, scientific and philosophical studies of the human body and psyche fall short of the mark. In Chap. 13, I mentioned Fichte’s broader vision of a non-confessional religion devoted to the whole human being and humanity as a whole. He envisioned “one, free, moral community,” propelled by man’s willpower of self-activity and struggle for lasting freedom from all forms of oppression and tyranny. Practical philosophy, in his view, is concerned with how the rational subject, acting freely and energetically, can shape the world based on his own goals and self-legislated laws. While the individual does not have complete freedom, he does have the ability to act upon the world since he, too, is a finite and embodied self. Fichte’s concept of freedom in a world order that is both changeable and divine is appealing. Nonetheless, it is a Kantian-like product of a priori philosophical thinking. His overly positive outlook on the ethics of courage is hardly compatible with either of the two competing mindsets of modernity and the global age: the optimism of moral scientism and the pessimism of moral individualism. Hermann Cohen (1842–1918), a German-Jewish philosopher, contributed to the development of universal moral thought by attempting to reconcile, in his own unique way, the laws of the intellect with a religious perspective on courage in the face of suffering. The co-founder of the Marburg school of neo-Kantianism approaches the ethics of courage from a rational perspective anchored in the history of religion going back to primitive times. In Religion of Reason: Out of the Sources of Judaism, Cohen observes that while mental and aesthetic advantages are unevenly and unfairly distributed, bodily strength and heroic courage are qualities that are useful to all men. “The primitive man, being a nomad and a hunter, lives in the magic of war; therefore, heroism is his first ideal of man” (Cohen 1995, p. 129). The emergence of religious consciousness, however, takes offence at the unequal distribution of the vital powers in man. This is where the Jewish notion of virtue comes into play, making room for the development of a universal morality. According to Cohen, Judaic monotheism is the earliest model of universal morality and must be defended with courageous suffering. As in Greek and Latin, the

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Hebrew word for “courage” evokes virtue in the human soul. Elevating war to a higher moral level, it teaches the battle of all men against the animal life at the core of humanity. Thus, a hero in the Sayings of the Fathers is someone who conquers his desires and does not succumb to the senses. Even if he lives an ascetic life, “he who conquers sensual desires rules them and accepts their slave services” (Cohen 1995, p. 437). In this regard, Jewish and Greek ethics share a strong belief in the primacy of reason over pleasure and passion. Both also stress the unity of virtue. Courage is a disposition of the mind that second-order virtues must keep in check; they include compassion and peace, understood as the longing for the good in man. Similarly, true courage seeks moderation and self-­ control rather than hatred and vengeance (Cohen 1995, pp.  452, 456–57). However, from a Jewish perspective, the virtue of courage cannot exist without the inspiration of religious faith. As with justice, it finds its true meaning in the soul’s faithfulness and gratitude to God. In keeping with this line of thinking, the heroic soul’s bridle of self-restraint is “equivalent to the rational knowledge of God” (Cohen 1995, p.  446). This call for a Judaic vision of wisdom and heroism is truly universal and, therefore, monotheistic. Judaism establishes its superiority by its belief in the existence of just one God. It advocates the practical idealism of messianic thinking for the good of all humanity. The prophets fought for the idea of all nations coming together, unified under one God, which is “a thought of the most daring human and world political courage” (Cohen 1995, p. 244). Rather than teaching a Platonic withdrawal of perfect souls from this world, which is a moral path that only a few people can take, Judaic messianism offers everyone the hope of eternal life as well as justice through redemption. The Talmud orders the Jewish people to resist a long and painful history of pressures to renounce pure monotheism; the worship of idols is even punishable with death. The Jewish martyr thus acts as a hero of the unique God of Israel, who stands not only as his own God but also as the God of his fathers, the God of his history, who therefore can also be thought as the God of mankind. Jewish courage is, therefore, simply an historical virtue, the virtue of the historical, not the individual, man. (Cohen 1995, p. 439)

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Given its universal character, Judaism extends the virtue of courage to both men and women. The term “hero,” originating from the word for “man,” denotes the fulfilment of duty by any person, regardless of gender. Similarly, Judaic courage is not the virtue of one nation alone. Instead, it is a historical virtue that supports a vision of humanity humbly serving a special God and dwelling in the nearness of his presence. “Surmounting the worldly life of actual history, the Jew took upon himself the courage to live and, if necessary, to die in joyous resolution for the deepest and most holy idea of the human spirit, the idea of the unique God” (Cohen 1995, p. 440). Rather than living for the sake of his own heroism, a path doomed to failure, the Jewish martyr lives in harmony with God and brings justice and the triumph of humanity. His courage is a dedication to the ideals of vicarious justice. By “vicarious suffering” and “justice,” Cohen means men’s suffering endured in the place of and for the benefit of others. Israel, as a sacrificial figure, stands for a suffering humanity pursuing the same path as God in the Scriptures—a long-suffering hero and awe-inspiring man of war. Cohen’s emphasis on struggles for the triumph of reason, virtue, and faith in the service of humanity is intended to be visionary. However, the role he attributes to Judaic monotheism in achieving these lofty goals suggests a narrow view of social history. It offers little to allay nineteenth-­ century concerns about religious sectarianism infiltrating moral philosophy, much alone the limitations of reason in comprehending and guiding moral behaviour. The appeal to martyrdom also clashes with the energetic and combative physis of mainstream scientific and philosophical thought. To close the growing epistemic divide between rational thinking and faith in everyone’s self-absorbed conscience and sectarian truth, other paths must be explored. On the political front, the search for courage has yet to tackle the growing gap between the weak and the strong, self-­ affirmation and life in society, liberty and necessity. Finally, discussions of courage cannot afford to overlook contemporary anxieties and fears about the meaninglessness of life, suffering, and death. In this regard, philosophy in the twenty-first century confronts arguably the greatest challenge of all time.

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References Cohen, Hermann. 1995. Religion of Reason: Out of the Sources of Judaism. Trans. S. Kaplan. Atlanta, Georgia: Scholar Press. Dilthey, Wilhelm. 2019. Wilhelm Dilthey: Selected Works, Volume VI: Ethical and World-View Philosophy. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Kindle. Eddy, Mary Baker. 1900. Miscellaneous Writings 1883–1896. Boston: J. Armstrong. ———. 2000. Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures. Boston: Writings of Mary Baker Eddy. Hodgson, Shadworth Hollway. 1870. The Theory of Practice: An Ethical Enquiry. Vol. 1. London: Longmans, Green, Reader, and Dyer. James, William. 2018a. The Principles of Psychology. In Complete Works of William James, 14–1960. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2018b. The Will to Believe and Other Essays. In Complete Works of William James, 2547–2885. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2018c. Talks to Teachers on Psychology and to Students on Some of Life’s Ideals. In Complete Works of William James, 2934–3166. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2018d. The Varieties of Religious Experience. In Complete Works of William James, 3167–3824. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2018e. Pragmatism. In Complete Works of William James, 3825–4020. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2018f. Memories and Studies. In Complete Works of William James, 4637–4890. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle. ———. 2018g. Collected Essays and Reviews. In Complete Works of William James, 5102–5538. Hastings, East Sussex: Delphi Classics. Kindle.

19 The Courage of Disobedience

Throughout the nineteenth century, considerations of human existence and physis shed light on how courage relates to matters of reason and faith, issues of freedom and fate, the use of power, and the relationship between self and society. However, a deep divide separates the perspectives of philosophers and scientists. As shown in the preceding chapters, Emerson, Kierkegaard, and Nietzsche dwell on the tragic aspects of human beings’ energetic struggle against fate, despair, and the powers that be. Natural and social scientists, on the other hand, view courage as the driving force behind the advancement of civilised society. The same divide continues in the twentieth century, but the contrast is less pronounced. Philosophers interested in the subject, most notably Paul Tillich and Michel Foucault, reject a world devoid of meaning and attempt to restore the epistemic dimension of courage. While Tillich overcomes despair through a leap of faith in life and the “courage to be,” Foucault investigates the courage of telling and living the truth without fear or shame. Chapters 20 and 21 discuss their contributions to the ethics of fortitude. Social theorists also review prior contributions to the social sciences. They still support the idea of progress and the central role of social life, but they are far more despairing of the promises of modernity and the so-­called civilised world. This is hardly surprising when we consider that © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_19

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the twentieth century is the bloodiest and most jingoistic time in recorded history. Albert Camus, Emmanuel Levinas, Erich Fromm, Paulo Freire, and Mahatma Gandhi may disagree on the role of God and rational thinking in human affairs. Yet they all take issue with the ideological optimism and complacency of social evolutionism. For all that, they do not embrace the individualistic and pessimistic leanings of Existentialist philosophy. Instead, they emphasise the role of courage in promoting peace, dialogue, freedom, and justice. Courage is an important lever for resisting systems of oppression and violence that undermine people’s freedom, their capacity for self-affirmation, their hopes for lasting peace, and their sense of humanity and ethical responsibility. The critical and progressive stance they take on the ravages of authoritarianism, colonialism, and imperialism in the modern era is a world away from Hitler’s sombre call for the “courage of aggression” and the atrocities of war that ensued. Mein Kampf, a dark stain on humanity’s collective memory, is part of this literature, i.e., political propaganda with no value for the advancement of social theory or moral philosophy. In his blueprint for Nazism, Hitler equates courage with nature’s ruthless struggle for self-preservation and national dominance achieved through military strength and heroic self-sacrifice (Hitler 1939, pp. 201, 384, 461). In his own chilling words, Nature “first puts the living beings on this globe and watches the free game of energies.” “He who is strongest in courage and industry receives, as her favorite child, the right to be the master of existence” (Hitler 1939, p. 174). A great leader achieves power by virtue of his “great magnetic attraction,” the “convincing force of unconditional belief,” and the “fanatical fighting courage” to stand up for his views. He represents the best of mankind and can be recognised by his eagerness to give his life for his country. He and others like him have every right to wield power over any nation’s lower strata, including the egotistical scum indulging in vice and criminal activity and the large middle stratum that “embodies neither brilliant heroism nor the basest criminal mentality” (Hitler 1939, p. 766). Courageous leaders on the world stage distinguish themselves by their ability to wage brutal attacks on their enemies, preferring military action to a defence inspired by weak and cowardly slogans (Hitler 1939, p. 570). Their glorious deeds and the blood they shed serve as evidence of their bravery, in stark contrast to the fancy words of

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overeducated intellectuals and cowards devoid of all energy (Hitler 1939, pp. 625, 643). Germany should reform its educational system to reflect these values. Its mission is to transform cowards into brave men by promoting the development of physical strength and abilities. This will contribute to the superior training of the German soldier in peacetime and awaken the “courage of aggression,” as displayed by the German army in the summer and fall of 1914 (Hitler 1939, p. 617). Hitler’s angry diatribe is reminiscent of Aesop’s fabled wolf, the predator who feels compelled to air absurd grievances against its prey before devouring it. The parallel is even more revealing when we consider what Hitler says about wolves: like other animals, they obey the iron law of Nature and mate only with members of their own species. They propagate and multiply within the limits of their own life form (Hitler 1939, p. 231). Similarly, the Germans constitute a distinct group in the natural hierarchy of species. They possess more courage than all other people and are justified in using it aggressively. Reflecting on this type of discourse, Pierre Bourdieu (1930–2002) explains that attributions of distinct qualities such as courage are inextricably linked to the imposition of a ruling order and hierarchy in society. When comparing themselves to those in power, dominated groups may also boast about their physical strength, manly courage, and moral character. However, the dominant groups use the same distinction between the weak and the strong to portray their own courage as more noble. Their strength is of the spiritual and intellectual kind, as opposed to “brute strength, passion and instinct, a blind, unpredictable force of nature, the unreasoning violence of desire” (Bourdieu 1984, p.  499; 1990, p. 13). Their higher souls and aptitude for self-control justify their position in society and the control they exercise over the masses, women, and the young. These social “distinctions” form part of an unspoken pre-reflexive doxa. It is never called into question and provides legitimacy to class inequality and men’s power over women. The ruling order appears entirely natural, free of the influence of social history and variations in laws and customs. Language subtly reinforces the logic of “natural distinction,” particularly in gender relations: specific attributes assigned to men’s virility (from Latin vir, man) are a monopoly, founded in fact and law, of what is

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eminently human and therefore universal. “Man” is socially authorised to stand for the entire human species (Bourdieu 1990, p. 7).

 he Faceless Wars: Albert Camus T and Emmanuel Levinas According to Albert Camus (1913–1960), the conscious speculations of philosophy must bear some of the blame for the modern world’s complacency towards oppression and tyranny. The pessimism of Malraux, Sartre, Nietzsche, and Heidegger is partly responsible for a discouragement of the mind that justifies practically anything. However, Camus concedes that events in modern world history provide ample justification for their pessimism. Despair now forms an integral part of people’s lives. It must be faced so that those who refuse to give in can demonstrate courage and uphold the love of life and the spirit of togetherness. In its own way, the courage of despair that France experienced during its war with Germany saved her people from defeat (Camus 1965f, pp. 300–302). Suffering and courage, the blood of the spirit, and the clashes of ideas are fuelling the revival of European civilisation (Camus 1961, p.  165; 1995, pp.  59, 261). A close reading of the Existentialist literature can thus show how a philosophy of negation contributes to positive morality. The corresponding developments in philosophy are not forays into total negation and absurdity, precluding any notion of duty and the ethics of freedom and courage. In all fairness, Existentialists deserve credit for addressing a problem of civilisation and asking “whether man, without the help either of the eternal or of rationalistic thought, can unaided create his own values.” Thus, “France and Europe must now create a new civilization or else perish” (Camus 1995, p. 58). Mother Courage and Her Children, a pessimistic play written in 1939 by the German dramatist and poet Bertolt Brecht (1898–1956), explores the dire consequences of people’s lack of moral courage and other virtues, such as honesty and altruism, in times of war and extreme despair. Even though only two passages address the issue of courage, they serve as a reminder of the grim reality of the impoverished, who must endure the

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cruelty and absurdity of war. They require an unnatural amount of courage to rise early, plough a field, and raise children who have no future and will kill each other under the rule of an Emperor and Pope (Brecht 1966, p. 77). Those living in misery are doomed to live in shackles and scream like dogs. In the end, they are better off without virtues, one might argue. Bravery in battle offers nothing to the soldier, who would be better off wetting his pants like a coward and staying at home. Courage, like honesty, does not fill a man’s belly, and there is no soup to be had. Neither does selflessness pay, especially for the impoverished, who have nothing to share in the first place (Brecht 1966, pp. 56, 77). But this is not the message Brecht intends to send with his anti-war drama. Rather, the point is that courage without a moral foundation causes devastation in people’s lives. Brecht regretted that audiences felt sympathy for Mother Courage and her sorrows, despite her crimes and blatant attempts to profit from the war business in any way possible. While Mother Courage was meant to represent the end of courage, the character became a heroine in the eyes of the public; the anti-myth turned into a myth despite itself, as Sartre notes (Sartre 1983, p. 50). The dramatist may have missed a dominating sentiment of the twentieth century, which is that suffering is ultimately unavoidable, and life is absurd, regardless of the moral ideas and hopes we conjure up to convince ourselves of the contrary. Camus is more direct in promoting strength that combines courage and intelligence. He discovers these positive values in Nietzsche’s writings, virtues that were eventually distorted and twisted into blind violence. The German philosopher may have confused freedom with the wisdom of “profound solitude at midday and at midnight,” as all proud and noble spirits do while seeking to better serve humanity (Camus 1965b, p. 813). He nonetheless cultivated a taste for classicism and aristocratic virtues, practising them instinctively rather than looking for reasons to justify his passion for honesty and integrity. He stubbornly defended the “supreme equity of the supreme intelligence that is the mortal enemy of fanaticism” and “cowardly subservience” (Camus 1961, pp. 74–75). Thirty-three years after his death, his countrymen betrayed him by making him a master of lies and terror capable of justifying the unspeakable violence perpetrated in concentration camps.

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Camus is not about to let Aesop’s wolf justify cruelty that lies beyond reason. He reproves men whose courage is founded on hatred and violence, which come more readily than thinking. Their lack of honour signals a wave of cowardice and a parody of greatness (Camus 1963, p. 142; 1965c, p.  1595). While they despise war, the truly brave do not shirk from going to war against Nazi Germany. Unlike their enemies, they accept losing everything for the sake of their idea of a higher civilisation guided by human intelligence (Camus 1995, pp. 2, 6, 19, 31, 37). Instead of thirsting for blood, they keep alive “the flame of an intelligence that makes courage more difficult and gives man complete fulfillment” (Camus 1995, p. 20). Theirs is the flame of lucid courage glowing for liberation, future liberty for all men, a fatherland extended to the whole of Europe, and its rebirth in the aftermath of a terrible war. Camus welcomes all instances of intelligence that inspire words and acts of courage and their champions (Camus 1965a, p.  955; 1965c, pp.  1534, 1555; 1965d, p. 1923; 1965e, p. 1372). “When that intelligence is snuffed out, the black night of dictatorship begins” (Camus 1995, p. 64). Admittedly, intellectual activity has its limits, particularly when it becomes abstract and pompous. It may not be able to change the course of history. It can nonetheless enhance cultural life and have an impact on those who shape history (Camus 1965g, p. 1326). Artists can make a significant contribution as long as their creations do not promote selfishness or sterile realism but rather brotherhood, freedom from servitude, and constant lucidity (Camus 1995, pp. 268–69; 1965f, p. 256). “Whatever the works of the future may be, they will bear the same secret, made up of courage and freedom, nourished by the daring of thousands of artists of all times and all nations” (Camus 1995, p. 270). When endowed with Promethean courage and the spirit of freedom, artists can give meaning to their own lives and use their strength of heart and reasoned will to stop fate and even reverse it (Camus 1995, pp.  106, 141; 1965b, p.  843). Their art is rebellious by nature; it is a brave and intelligent response to all manifestations of evil and tyranny throughout history. Courageous artists know that even in a perfect society, children will continue to perish unjustly. Yet they make no concessions when it comes to reducing human suffering and correcting everything that can be rectified (Camus 1961, p. 319; 1965h, p. 1094).

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To those with the courage to think lucidly and rebel, death is the ultimate injustice that no one can ever undo. The brave nonetheless live their lives to the fullest, “as if ” love and meaning could conquer the world while they dance and bask in the light of the beautiful Mediterranean sun (Camus 1965i, p.  49). Courage and honest reasoning do not support beliefs in the existence of God, the illusion of immortality, or the idea that eternal principles govern our lives (Camus 1965j, pp.  49, 156, 167–68; 1965k, p. 1711). Rather, they invite us to embrace everything that the great adventure of life has to offer, including full immersion in social history and the freedom to rebel against all forms of servitude. Camus extends his critique of violence in Reflections on the Guillotine to include state-sanctioned beheadings and the rule of terror. He questions the praise given to those who go to their deaths in silence, without making a sound, as if the violence inflicted upon them by the death penalty could elicit Stoic fortitude. If anything, the deafening silence observed under such circumstances is part of the mystification surrounding the death penalty. It also speaks to the immeasurable fear of a man about to die; the man’s silence is a sign of the fright that paralyses him, not heroism (Camus 1995, p. 203). His muteness eloquently reflects the experience of primitive terror and sheer brutality at the hands of a system of punishment that denies all morality, virtue, courage, or intelligence. The punishment is all the more inhuman when it is suffered in solitary confinement. “A man is undone by waiting for capital punishment well before he dies” (Camus 1995, p. 205). From a Sartrean perspective, the man sentenced to death cannot alter his fate, but he still has the freedom to experience and cope with his own death according to his will. Freedom is what humans do with what Nature and others do to them, with the implication that there is always a way out of the valley of despair. Similarly, the French philosopher Emmanuel Levinas (1906–1995) extols the courage involved in refusing to capitulate to forces that go against one’s will. Like Camus, he aims to reconcile Existentialism with the ideals of human fellowship and life in a face-to-face encounter outside the battlefields of war. In his view, far from being absolute, the courage of the embattled will holding its ground is a living contradiction: man’s solitary battle is a sign both of sovereignty and estrangement. It makes him a master of himself in a world that remains

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alien to him. The ethical encounter between self and others has yet to be given its due. On the one hand, the will has the power to claim complete independence from its own death, even it is inflicted by an assassin. It can demonstrate the courage to be, which is the source of all courage and moral consciousness. It achieves this by deploying energy to preserve itself and “for-itself ” against any external will or cause that threatens its identity, free will, and rational deliberation (Levinas 1992, pp. 29, 78, 82–83). Paradoxically, while the state can execute a man, it can also strengthen his sovereign will by isolating him and drawing attention to his manly demeanour. It can reward anyone who approaches death with courage and dedication to a cause. The hero can then fully accept the finite nature of time and welcome death as both an end and a gateway to immortality (Levinas 1971, p. 343). Thus, his brave struggle achieves sovereignty over the world and immunity from all external forces (Levinas 1971, pp. 263–64). The will’s decision to end one’s life may also bear witness to a man’s courage and power in assuming his being-for-death; he embraces the possibility of everything becoming impossible. The consciousness of the inevitability of death, the anxiety of non-being, and the courage of despair all contribute to enhancing the power-of-being. On the other hand, death inflicted by an external force, such as an assassin, continues to involve someone else’s will. “My refusal of the other, my will that, severing all ties with the outside, is resolved to die, cannot prevent its work from being entered into that alien ledger which my will, by its supreme courage, both defies and recognizes” (Levinas 1998, p. 28). Acceptance of death still finds itself at the mercy of another’s will and its murderous intent. As with everything else in life, including facing the anxiety of death with courage, the will can never escape its existential relationship to the other and its being “with” and “for” others, and hence its being-in-the-world (Levinas 1971, p.  255; 1998, p.  213). I might prefer death to servitude and cut all ties to the outer world. In doing so, however, I still acknowledge the alien will and its attempt to alienate my will. Whether I like it or not, my supreme courage is still playing someone else’s game. “In its effort to escape the Other by dying, it recognizes the Other” (Levinas 1971, p.  256; my translation). To paraphrase Shakespeare, I may “wish th’ estate o’ th’world were now undone,” but

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my death cannot undo everything in the vain hope of proving the absurdity of it all. The human will straddles the shifting line between invincibility and vulnerability. The will is always fallible, no matter how brave and unwavering its passion. It constantly exposes itself and remains vulnerable to what it contends with, namely the tyranny of propaganda, passion, seduction, torture, and corruption. When it surrenders, the will demonstrates how flexible it is by nature, capable of adopting opposite inclinations and convincing itself of their merit (Levinas 1971, pp.  263–64). Without sanctioning cowardice, Levinas downplays the heroic nature of man’s will. His goal is to emphasise the precariousness of courage, always on the edge of a great fall. All human beings, regardless of their courage and engagement in pure activity, are subject to irrational urges and rigid laws that are outside of their control. This includes the certainty of death and a meaningless existence, a life that is no more than “the vanity of vanities” (Levinas 1992, p.  85; see Ecclesiastes 1:2). In this fallibility, however, lies the marvel of time and what Levinas refers to as the deferment of capitulation. If we demonstrate courage and dedication to life and its ideals, it is always in opposition to death, an unknown future that may or may not cause us to flee from all responsibility. The existential relationship between self and others is an important theme in Levinas’ works. The Other does not merely act as a constraint on one’s will and liberty. Approaching the other in a face-to-face encounter delivers some level of mastery. But it is also a fundamental responsibility that all humans must bear. That is, to the extent that it receives a “command” or “command to command” from the Other, the “I” can attend to itself. It does so not as an objective being enlisted by the state and the totality of human history. The encounter acts rather as a question mark and a calling for which the “I” remain forever responsible (Levinas 1971, pp. 194–95). War is a denial of that responsibility built into man’s self-constitution. Then violence is inflicted on an enemy who is only free in the animal sense, behaving like a wild beast struggling against its own fear. One will attempts to ambush and eliminate another, converting it into inert matter that can be fashioned to meet one’s goal. Enemies at war never meet face to face in the sense of confronting each other as human beings (Levinas 1994, pp. 44–45).

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Levinas’ analysis of violence, fear, and face-to-face encounters between self and other is not merely theoretical. In his discussion of the robotic revolution in the twentieth century, Peter Singer (1946–) reflects on the introduction of computer technology in the business of war, a profound revolution that eliminates face-to-face combat, removing the factors of fear, courage, and steadfastness from the military equation. Battles no longer require soldiers standing firm in the face of approaching death and being willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. By removing warriors completely from risk and fear, unmanned systems create the first complete break in the ancient connection that defines warriors and their soldierly values. If you are sitting at a computer’s controls, with no real danger other than carpal tunnel syndrome, your experience of war is not merely distanced from risk, as with previous technologies, but now fully disconnected from it. And thus these new warriors are disconnected from the old meanings of courage as well. As one described his experience in the Iraq war, fought from a cubicle in Qatar, “It’s like a video game. It can get a little bloodthirsty. But it’s fucking cool.” (Singer 2009, pp. 331–32)

In the global age, courage gives way to the nameless and faceless victims of war.

 scape from Authoritarianism: Erich Fromm E and Paulo Freire The impact of technology on moral systems and regimes of violence brings me to the writings of psychoanalyst and philosopher Erich Fromm (1900–1980). His focus is on individual battles of reason and freedom against the death wish and illusion of power that lie at the heart of war and authoritarian rule. According to Fromm, people show courage when struggling to free themselves from violent men and institutions that claim to be all-powerful and all-knowing, lulling everyone into a false sense of security and invincible strength. But saying “No” to the state, the church, or public opinion masquerading as common sense is not enough. The

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courage to rebel and liberate oneself from the ruling powers, whether visible or anonymous, also hinges on a person’s overall development and capacity to think and feel for oneself. Disobedience must be rational if it is to be brave (Fromm 1981, pp. 21, 53; 1969, p. 190). This is not an easy task. It is particularly difficult when monopoly capitalism creates feelings of hopelessness and powerlessness, thwarting all efforts to achieve economic independence based on personal initiative, courage, and intelligence, especially among the middle classes. The inflation that hit Germany in 1923 and the American crash in 1929 “shattered for many the hope of getting ahead by one’s own efforts and the traditional belief in the unlimited possibilities of success” (Fromm 1969, pp. 144–45). Another broad obstacle to overcome is the rise of authoritarianism as both a political and psychological phenomenon. Fromm observes that those who develop an authoritarian character can display courage, but only in a weak sense. They typically try to overcome deep-seated feelings of guilt, inferiority, and powerlessness. Instead of affirming themselves as equals and competing on an equal footing, they surround themselves with people they feel are inferior and weak, as Hitler did (Fromm 1969, pp. 256, 306). At the same time, everything they do is accomplished in the name of something higher than themselves, such as Nature, God, an all-powerful leader, or the glorious past. Their apparent strength comes from a superior power they cannot challenge or change. They bravely suffer whatever their leaders or strokes of fate have in store for them without complaining. What they lack, however, is the “offensive potency” that “can attack established power without first feeling subservient to another and stronger power” (Fromm 1969, p. 195). Their courage is “the readiness to submit and to endure suffering, not the utmost assertion of individuality against power” (Fromm 1969, p.  306). In truth, they show more courage in dying than in living. Their death wish reflects a narcissistic tendency to ignore reality and put their lives in danger under the illusion that their courage makes them invincible (Fromm 1971, p. 103). Authoritarian men fear life and wish to control it at all costs, beyond reason. They uphold bureaucratic rule of law, order, and repetition over originality, the vitality of living beings, and adaptable structures. They are especially drawn to anything technical, mechanical, and therefore no longer alive. Given their reverence for death and decay, “they often gamble

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with death because they are not rooted in life; their courage is the courage to die and the symbol of their ultimate courage is the Russian roulette” (Fromm 1968, p. 44). Fromm adds that as modern science grows in complexity, feelings of powerlessness and isolation take over. Man loses his independence and the courage to think for himself and make decisions that reflect his full intellectual and emotional commitment to life (Fromm 1968, p. 50). Instead of seeking “uncertain certainty,” modern man longs for a dogmatic science that can deliver on the promise of absolute certainty and predictability. True courage is born of life affirmation and self-confidence, which cannot be taught by authoritative bodies of people or knowledge. To grow in strength and convictions, humans must look within and comprehend the unconscious forces lurking behind false justifications and rationalisations. Instead of forming shallow opinions, they must own all they learn by experiencing it and observing themselves and others in the process of testing their beliefs and making the right choice (Fromm 1971, p. 170). Beyond the word or concept, freedom is first and foremost the act of a man freeing himself through the courageous choices he makes, where each step strengthens his self-confidence and integrity, especially under difficult circumstances where the freedom to choose is narrow. Cowardice is the opposite: freedom is forfeited through repeated acts of submission (Fromm 1971, p.  175). As in Kafka’s novel The Trial, the person behaves like an old man who waits for days and years at the door of heaven, hoping that some bureaucrat will soon grant him permission to enter, in vain (Fromm 1968, p. 7). He lacks the courage to discover his own solutions to the problem of existence, preferring instead to rely on an authoritative person or teaching (Fromm 1968, p. 145). Fromm sees limitations in the word “courage,” which typically connotes a lack of fear in the face of death. He prefers the term “fortitude,” as used by Spinoza to emphasise the courage to live and surmount all obstacles in man’s heroic quest for meaning (Fromm 1968, p. 15). The hero is the one who has the courage to go to the frontier without succumbing to fear and doubt. The average man is a hero even in his unsuccessful attempt to be a hero; he is motivated by the desire to make some

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sense of his life and by the passion to walk as far as he can to its frontiers. (Fromm 1973, p. 267).

The man with fortitude has hope and confidence in life and its mutable structures. But he is cautious not to let his optimism turn into a hollow and irrational outlook on life, one that never dares to say “No” to a world that only wants to hear “Yes” (Fromm 1968, p. 7). Furthermore, if he has the strength to rebel without fear, it is not because life is worthless and may be risked in every perilous situation. Nor does his courage stem from a decision to blindly follow a leader, an idea, or an institution, identifying with it, and doing whatever it commands out of fear of being alone. The fearlessness of a fully developed person is entirely different. It expresses the love of life and freedom from all idols, irrational fantasies, and compulsive desires. Every step towards enlightened fearlessness awakens a sense of strength and joy. It triggers a movement towards feelings of hope and faith in what lies beyond the status quo, on both a personal and social level. We grow either stronger or weaker, wiser or more foolish, more courageous or more cowardly. Every second is a moment of decision, for the better or the worse. We feed our sloth, greed, or hate, or we starve it. The more we feed it, the stronger it grows; the more we starve it, the weaker it becomes. (Fromm 1968, p. 17)

Since nothing stands still, society and the individual either grow or decline. Men who grow in confidence and moral fortitude affirm their mental and moral selves in the name of life, the unborn, the future, and the powerless. Rather than giving up their freedom, they fight to alleviate suffering in the world and defend people’s inherent and inalienable rights. Black freedom fighters and civil rights activists set good examples in this regard (Fromm 1969, p. xiv). Pacifists and humanists who support unilateral disarmament and nonviolent resistance also demonstrate genuine courage, even more so as they are devoted to a profound spiritual and moral transformation within themselves (Fromm 1981, p. 114). Similar calls for resistance to systems of oppression and injustice can be found in the writings of Brazilian educator Paulo Freire. In Pedagogy of

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the Oppressed, Freire debunks the myth that some men have more possessions than others because it is their inalienable right, which they acquire through their own effort and the courage they show in taking risks. True courage is demonstrated more by people who overcome their feelings of dependence and powerlessness vis-à-vis the dominant elites. They become agents of their own history by acting in ways that are consistent with their words and boldly confronting their existence as a permanent risk (Freire 1996, pp. 41, 43). But they also embrace the courage of love. Far from tolerating the rule of injustice, they strive for the liberation of all humanity (Freire 1996, p. 157). According to Freire, dialogue is essential for this liberating process to take place. It allows the oppressed to name things, give meaning to the world, and humanise it. This precludes a simple exchange of ideas to be “consumed” by the participants, let alone authoritative people “depositing” ideas in other people’s minds or trying to impose their own truth through confrontation and hard-hitting polemics. No one can name the world on behalf of others. Genuine dialogue must reign and overcome fear, dominance, and the pathology that results, namely sadism in those who dominate and masochism in those who submit. Above all, dialogue is a creative expression of deep love for people and the world. It is a commitment to others and their freedom from all systems that treat human beings as mere objects. And this commitment, because it is loving, is dialogical. As an act of bravery, love cannot be sentimental; as an act of freedom, it must not serve as a pretext for manipulation. It must generate other acts of freedom; otherwise, it is not love. Only by abolishing the situation of oppression is it possible to restore the love which that situation made impossible. If I do not love the world—if I do not love life—if I do not love people—I cannot enter into dialogue. (Freire 1996, pp. 70–71)

Revolutionary leaders play an important role in fostering dialogue and the ethics of struggle, courage, daring, and love (Freire 1996, p.  145). Through “their humble, loving, and courageous encounter with the people,” they show a spirit of unwavering solidarity instead of sectarianism or rigidity (Freire 1996, p. 110).

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Resistance and Nonviolence: Mahatma Gandhi Gandhi approaches the idea of courage in the same spirit, focusing on twentieth-century battles for freedom and justice. His innovative ideas in progressive politics revolve around his concept of nonviolent resistance to injustice, combined with a patriotic, ascetic, and spiritual ethos suited to the circumstances of India under British rule. The Indian lawyer makes a vibrant plea for the people’s patriotic protest and struggle against colonial injustice under British rule, towards achieving democratic reforms and the full rights of British citizenship and swaraj (self-governance) for India (Gandhi 1999, 6:486; 9:5; 10:221; 16:397; 29:504; 74:194). From his perspective, real courage is expressed through non-cooperation, such as calling a strike or boycotting schools and courts when justified (Gandhi 1999, 21:165, 22:248, 386). “Civil disobedience is a total denial of the authority of the State, and is permissible only when the State has proved itself corrupt beyond redemption” (Gandhi 1999, 23:352). The policy of mendicancy gives way to “dignified self-assertion and civil defiance of authority that has entrenched itself behind arrogant repression” (Gandhi 1999, 26:10). Outbursts of violence and aggression are nonetheless condemned. The law that might makes right and the reign of fear that follows must never take precedence over the rule of reverence for life. Even when they pose a threat to one’s life, as do serpents, tigers, wolves, scorpions, or monkeys, all animals and fellow humans deserve respect (Gandhi 1999, 42:423; 91:7, 62). The Jain, Buddhist, and Hindu doctrine of ahimsa is an all-­ embracing love that upholds the sanctity of life and promotes charity, kindness, innocence, gentleness, forgiveness, compassion, and regard for all living things. Everyone is worthy of receiving ahimsa love, even the enemy or stranger accused of wrongdoing (Gandhi 1999, 7:230, 274; 22:32, 148, 239; 48:165, 169; 95:208). “The Shastras describe these as the virtues of the brave.” “This courage is not physical but mental” (Gandhi 1999, 32:273). Becoming one with every creature eradicates man’s desire to injure or kill. It represents the highest and noblest form of courage, as displayed by perfect practitioners of nonviolence (Gandhi 1999, 15:169; 17:109; 21:273; 24:190). The power of nonviolence—the

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atman soul-force that distinguishes humans from animal life and the law of the jungle—lies dormant in every human heart, and in it lies our very humanity (Gandhi 1999, 73:38–39; 85:82). True courage does not consist in returning a kick for a kick. Brutality and organised violence, characteristic of British rule, are borne of hatred, cowardice, and fear (Gandhi 1999, 6:312–13; 10:241; 15:169). They are the weapons of the weak. The rule of nonviolence admits of no exception. There is no patriotism that justifies killing, violent protests, going to war, or promoting reckless bravery on the battlefield (Gandhi 1999, 15:169; 21:280; 31:379; 71:405; 74:384; 95:171). Using violence to overthrow an imperialistic regime plays right into the hands of the opponent, replacing one monster of government with another at the expense of the poor and the innocent (Gandhi 1999, 23:285; 48:329–30). When attacked, people should learn to accept blows without retaliating (Gandhi 1999, 8:329–30; 25:293). The principle of nonviolent resistance is a means of pressing for political reform in South Africa and ending colonial repression in India. Gandhi views it as the soul force of India and the final arbiter of all disputes (Gandhi 1999, 17:408). Protesting through passive resistance, in accordance with the policy of satyagraha, requires moral strength, which is more powerful than the use of animal-like force and brutal violence (Gandhi 1999, 7:156; 10:472–73; 73:38–39). The satyagrahi is more fearless and courageous than the man who relies on his physical strength to defeat his opponent (Gandhi 1999, 9:340; 53:55; 84:49, 348). However, a man’s peaceful response to injustice and cruelty should not be confused with the passivity and nonviolence of the weak and helpless. Cowardly fear never leads to full independence. Civil disobedience is the active expression of non-violence. Civil disobedience distinguishes the non-violence of the strong from the passive, i.e., negative non violence of the weak. And as weakness cannot lead to swaraj, negative non-violence must fail to achieve our purpose. (Gandhi 1999, 24:440; see 23:228; 74:298; 48:167; 73:38–39; 74:298; 90:65; 93:219; 96:50)

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The Dutch and British despise Indians because of their cowardice, unmanliness, and pusillanimity. Gandhi deplores the Indian habit of lying down and remaining passive when kicked. Indians submit to humiliating laws and flee their responsibilities, mostly because of their fear of violence and suffering (Gandhi 1999, 6:312–13; 7:156; 8:329–30). Some cowards become willing tools in the hands of tyrants (Gandhi 1999, 24:42). Although inherently strong, Indian society is emasculated under British rule and policies (Gandhi 1999, 21:411, 455; 26:93; 73:38–39; 95:56). Its lack of courage is reflected in its everyday lexicon, which includes many terms that imply excessive humility (Gandhi 1999, 16:73). While Englishmen lose character after spending time in India, Indians lose courage and manliness through contact with Englishmen. “This process of weakening is good neither for us, two nations, nor for the world” (Gandhi 1999, 21:280). Being a coward is the worst thing a man can be accused of. Gandhi would rather see an enraged man use self-defence, arm himself, fight honourably, and perish for himself and his country than succumb to cowardice or do nothing out of fear of being killed by evildoers (Gandhi 1999, 32:245; 43:119; 93:331). The coward is nonviolent in his own way, one might argue. But the mouse that refrains from attacking a cat because of its own weakness has no merit. To carry out the duty of ahimsa and serve others, one must be fully capable of inflicting violence, even when abstaining from it out of love (Gandhi 1999, 33:82, 273; 61:102; 82:51). Nonviolent courage hinges on a man’s capacity for self-sacrifice and renunciation for the sake of the country (Gandhi 1999, 21:165, 281; 22:276, 323; 23:440; 24:274, 315; 25:196, 361). The more a man suffers, the closer he is to achieving his goal. Sacrifices made for the advancement of swaraj include leaders and protestors going to jail for acts of civil disobedience (Gandhi 1999, 6:342, 429; 8:8; 9:5, 11, 20, 23; 10:134; 12:204; 25:236, 286, 380). Other threats include deportation, confiscation of goods and property, and loss of money, job, and titles (Gandhi 1999, 7:24, 282; 8:330, 359; 9:143; 16:289, 396; 24:315). A satyagrahi must be afraid neither of imprisonment nor of deportation. He must neither mind even being reduced to poverty, nor be frightened, if it comes to that, of being mashed into pulp with a mortar and pestle. A

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satyagrahi will shine the brighter and grow the more courageous the more he is crushed. (Gandhi 1999, 10:133)

Gandhi defines courage as the degree of risk involved in fighting injustice without making contingency plans (Gandhi 1999, 23:442; 43:479). The greatest act of bravery is risking one’s life by refusing to submit to the British, saving another person’s life, or confronting a gang of criminals and thieves (Gandhi 1999, 21:387; 90:260; 97:56). While cowards die many times, heroes of swaraj, ahimsa, and satyagraha die only once. Endowed with more strength than soldiers fighting on the battlefield, they hold their ground and, if necessary, hang from the gallows (Gandhi 1999, 6:468; 15:169; 24:462; 74:461). Instead of drawing the sword and killing to his death, the Kshatriya-­ like warrior dies protecting defenceless women, children, and the weak from brutal men. He accomplishes his mission without killing anyone, frightening the aggressor with such bravery in the face of death (Gandhi 1999, 25:247, 292–93; 30:148; 32:245; 90:65; 93:11; 95:18). The brave warrior’s dharma is to die and not to flee (Gandhi 1999, 24:28). He has mastered the mantra of living by dying (Gandhi 1999, 27:274–75). Rather than blowing others to pieces from behind a cannon, he approaches the cannon, the firing guns, and the hail of bullets with an uncovered chest and a smile on his face, marching for the freedom of his country (Gandhi 1999, 10:295, 472–73; 25:87–88, 473; 61:167). He sacrifices his life willingly, not under duress (Gandhi 1999, 21:160). Since the fear of death does not touch him, he has no need of weapons to protect his life (Gandhi 1999, 9:340; 54:284). His nonviolence “laughs at the might of the tyrant and stultifies him by non-retaliation and non-retiral” (Gandhi 1999, 24:440). The brave man learns the art of suffering violence and dying, not the art of killing and making others suffer (Gandhi 1999, 23:285; 96:57). He would rather perish for his honour and freedom than slay and be killed in the process (Gandhi 1999, 90:115). This level of bravery is not for everyone. Those who cannot meet the challenge can fall back on the art of killing and being killed for a noble cause, which is far better than fleeing danger as cowards do (Gandhi 1999, 24:448). They can also provide their support or provide financial

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aid to the satyagrahis as an alternative (Gandhi 1999, 10:321; 15:252–54; 17:422). Gandhi believes that, ideally, the state should renounce the protection of an army and its weapons, including the atomic bomb (Gandhi 1999, 95:350; 96:18). However, he admits that a police force may be necessary to protect people from thieves and robbers, a requirement that reflects a limitation of his nonviolence doctrine (Gandhi 1999, 54:16; 79:138). Furthermore, the spirit of ahimsa love should not discourage men from joining the army and undergoing military training. Since they can show how good they are in combat, they can more effectively promote the mission of peace. A nation cannot demonstrate the virtue of not fighting if it is unfit to fight. “I do not infer from this that India must fight,” Gandhi adds. “But I do say that India must know how to fight” (Gandhi 1999, 8:329). Campaigns of civil disobedience and the struggle for swaraj call for high levels of discipline, the ability to use the strength of arms, and the courage not to use it. Achieving this kind of strength takes time. Through military training, the frailest of men can learn to control their anger, obey commands, remain calm in the face of danger, and fight with discipline, intelligence, and courage (Gandhi 1999, 21:62; 22:212). Proper preparation prevents the heat of anger from taking over and eroding people’s strength, with their self-confidence fading as soon as the anger subsides. Those who learn self-defence and train the body, mind, and soul will no longer feel helpless as they gain the strength to fight without revenge or resentment (Gandhi 1999, 17:109, 171; 22:327, 358; 24:440, 448; 27:274–75). While the satyagrahi has the fearlessness of a child, he is fully aware of the dangers he faces. He trains himself to endure suffering patiently and face injury and death lovingly (Gandhi 1999, 22:32; 32:245; 60:14). He enhances his manliness by treating his body like a stone, sitting still and in silence in order to move the entire world. Will anyone want to hit a stone? You may crush it to powder, but it will never apologize, nor will it act and build a house for you. You will merely spend yourselves hitting at it. The more you hit it, the more obstinately it will refuse to work for you and build. Who can ever vanquish one whose body has been toughened in this way. (Gandhi 1999, 24:394)

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The man of courage is a stone endowed with consciousness. Hinduism teaches the same thing: how to achieve victory by mastering one’s body and fighting in silence. Under British rule, Indians are slaves because they have lost the courage to forego physical comforts and have become slaves to their own bodies. They do not have the rock-like strength to stand firm for peace and justice (Gandhi 1999, 24:440; 95:102). The Indian system of education is likewise deficient. Students spend too much time learning English, causing them to lose the manhood and discipline they require for political reforms and swaraj (Gandhi 1999, 7:202, 268). They are a frail and ineffective bunch, without the capacity for original thought and the spirit of entrepreneurship, let alone perseverance, courage, and fearlessness (Gandhi 1999, 16:143). Gandhi teaches how ahimsa courage is dependent on renunciation of worldly pursuits and sexual activity. Brave men preserve their manliness against pleasures of the flesh, using their inborn capacity to become “kings of the forest of the senses.” They subdue their five senses and conquer their sexual urges and passions, regardless of whether they are felt within or outside of marriage (Gandhi 1999, 6:312–13; 11:93; 39:436; 46:222; 50:45). The yogi who keeps his body pure sets an example in this regard (Gandhi 1999, 18:273). Other virtues that the brave must practise include trusting others, even the enemy (Gandhi 1999, 29:513; 93:73; 98:100). Another way is to follow the hard path of duty and make the most of life in this body by being brave in the face of adversity and misfortunes (Gandhi 1999, 95:167). Gandhi praises hand-weaving as a means of promoting self-­ sufficiency and domestic production (swadeshi), with the understanding that the hand-spinning charkha wheel represents power and courage (Gandhi 1999, 24:362; 92:229; 98:53). More broadly, brave men keep their word, maintain their self-respect, and protect the honour of their people in all circumstances (Gandhi 1999, 7:10, 73; 15:169; 16:8–9, 453; 97:372). In the battle for swaraj, women can also demonstrate manly courage (Gandhi 1999, 16:397; 24:448). Among these women is Kasturba Gandhi, Gandhi’s wife (Gandhi 1999, 95:223). On the question of gender, Gandhi remarks that evocations of the “weaker sex” are part of men’s injustices to women. A woman’s moral power and sense of ahimsa and self-sacrifice far outweigh a man’s physical

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strength (Gandhi 1999, 74:154; 94:278–79, 320). “If non-violence is the law of our being, the future is with woman” (Gandhi 1999, 49:57). However, in their quest for equality, women must be careful not to lose sight of their responsibilities. This includes supporting their husbands and ensuring that their sons develop feminine gentleness, simplicity, and humility. Men must develop these softer qualities if they are to endure imprisonment and free themselves and their country from cowardice and submission to tyranny (Gandhi 1999, 21:331, 455; 25:403; 37:468). The doctrine of satyagraha is even more demanding on women and girls, who must struggle to defend their honour. Gandhi insists that the most effective way for women to protect their chastity and purity from rapists is to embrace the art of dying and commit suicide, with the name of God on their lips (Gandhi 1999, 56:67; 74:181, 355; 89:104; 93:331; 96:388–89, 411). Gandhi’s courage is pacifist, patriotic, and ascetic. It also has spiritual overtones (Gandhi 1999, 98:396). God protects the weak and gives man his moral strength and the opportunity to be tested and die with courage (Gandhi 1999, 25:87, 426; 73:244; 93:66; 94:161, 320; 96:411). The ultimate purpose of the courage of nonviolence is to humbly serve God and celebrate his glory and the universe he created (Gandhi 1999, 33:172; 43:16). In essence, truth and nonviolence are divine paths, which are trodden by the brave and not the cowardly. While the satyagrahi fears nothing and no one, he fears God and is brave enough to admit his flaws (Gandhi 1999, 95:59, 79; 96:430; 97:97, 116). He has the courage to exercise self-restraint and engage in fasting as well as prayer, which is the first and last mantra of the art of dying (Gandhi 1999, 71:118; 94:398; 96:412). Ultimately, his pledge to act peacefully and achieve inner peace (shanti) is a matter of religious conviction (Gandhi 1999, 22:327; 24:362). A satyagrahi takes comfort in knowing that the soul never dies and that he can save his life by giving it (Gandhi 1999, 29:455). This helps him commit to the divine force of truth, no matter what. Instead of remaining silent, the man is brave enough to speak his mind and act accordingly (Gandhi 1999, 90:65; 95:59). He never shies away from saying “No” and telling the whole truth, openly and without the cover of anonymity (Gandhi 1999, 7:10; 29:494; 33:172). He has absolute and unwavering

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faith in the justice of his cause (Gandhi 1999, 9:340; 16:397; 23:413; 83:189). A man who upholds the truth of satyagraha arms his humility and meekness with the spirit of faith and courage (Gandhi 1999, 16:341; 26:93). His heroic truthfulness touches men’s hearts and conquers everything: “One man ready to live a life of non-violence to perfection will be able to subdue the entire world” (Gandhi 1999, 21:273; see 22:276; 48:228). Every satyagrahi demonstrates the worth of one genuine coin, which is far greater than the value of all counterfeit coins (Gandhi 1999, 23:76). Gandhi, on the other hand, is realistic enough to recognise the power of numbers and the presentation of a united front. When combined with heroic nonviolence and the sufferings and deaths that follow, truthfulness and discipline displayed by masses and millions of nonviolent men and women against a brutal regime are bound to inspire respect. They inspire others to join the struggle while also garnering international attention and widespread support for a just cause and its associated demands (Gandhi 1999, 6:342, 468–70; 7:231; 10:320; 24:145; 54:286; 74:298; 82:302; 94:289; 97:64; 95:163). Victory over injustice and organised violence is ensured wherever there are numerous people determined to fight till death with a resolve to never give up (Gandhi 1999, 7:282; 8:467; 10:412; 24:165; 25:426; 26:231). Satyagraha, in the end, can never be vanquished. It provides the kind of hope that inspires courage and that all people can use to overcome oppression, including Jews against Hitler’s godless rage (Gandhi 1999, 28:480; 48:169; 73:40; 74:241). Even though the focus is clearly political, Gandhi’s philosophy highlights the spiritual character of courage. The next chapter turns to the writings of Paul Tillich, another influential twentieth-century thinker for whom courage has a spiritual dimension, but this time with a focus on the most fundamental anxieties of human existence.

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———. 1998. On Thinking-of-the-Other, Entre nous. Trans. M.B.  Smith and B. Harshav. New York: Columbia University Press. Sartre, Jean-Paul. 1983. Between Existentialism and Marxism: Sartre on Philosophy, Politics, Psychology, and the Arts. New York: Pantheon. Singer, Peter Warren. 2009. Wired for War: The Robotics Revolution and Conflict in the Twenty-First Century. New York: Penguin.

20 Paul Tillich and the Courage to Be

In The Courage to Be, the Lutheran theologian Paul Tillich (1886–1965) criticises modern Cynics for rejecting all standards of truth, participation in social life, and the meaningful foundations of human existence and being. Adepts of “non-creative Existentialism,” he claims, preach the rule of individual freedom and believe in nothing else. As a result, they are easy prey for neurotic anxiety, unable to create meaning and find their place within larger wholes. The negative stance they take on the possibility of establishing the truth and living it with others is somewhat paradoxical. Cynics cast doubt on every answer to the question of meaning in this world, but they never doubt their own practice of doubting. Furthermore, while they insist on leading independent and solitary lives, they rely on the public eye and the company of others “in order to show their loneliness” (Tillich 1952, p. 150). Tillich credits the Existentialist movement with acknowledging the uniqueness of the individual and the freedom to doubt. In keeping with these principles, he emphasises the link between courage, self-­affirmation, and the search for truth, at a distance from the concrete fears and battles of social and political history. Nonetheless, the German-American theologian is critical of philosophies that lack the courage to cultivate meaning and a sense of belonging. For him, at the root of ethical thinking is a © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_20

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challenge that every human must face: “the courage to be.” His general thesis is that it takes courage for the self to embrace and rise above three anxieties implanted in the human condition: the ontic anxiety of fate and death, the moral anxiety of condemnation and guilt, and the spiritual anxiety of nonsense and emptiness in the world. In less abstract terms, humans demonstrate courage by embracing the whole of life with full awareness of the fact that they are fated to suffer and die, to experience the consciousness of ethical wrongdoing, and to entertain doubts about the meaning of life. Ultimately, the “courage to be” calls for a leap of faith, an act of believing in which the self affirms and surpasses itself despite the threefold threat of nonbeing—a threat rooted in the finite and fallible structure of human existence. It is “the ethical act in which man affirms his own being in spite of those elements of his existence which conflict with his essential self-affirmation” (Tillich 1952, p. 3). To these fundamental anxieties, Tillich adds the constant possibility of a negative correlation between the self and the world—a disconnect that gives rise to one of two pathologies: chronic collectivism or radical individualism. The self losing itself in the whole is one threat. The other involves the self losing the power to transcend itself and participate in something larger than itself. On this last point, the concept of participation serves as a pivotal link between the “courage to be” and Tillich’s perspective on spirituality and faith. The capacity of the self to fully accept itself while transcending its finite nature is religious in character. Faith is a vital force and commitment to the power of being that prevails over threats of nonbeing and radical despair. In it lies an encounter between the self and the “God above the God” of theism. By this, Tillich means a process of self-affirmation that says “Yes” to the infinity of being and its power to conquer the anxieties of nonbeing, unconditionally and without any assurances.

Death, Condemnation, and Meaninglessness According to Tillich, anxiety is not the same as fear of illness, pain, hunger, poverty, or loneliness. Unlike fear, anxiety has no definite object and nothing it can wrestle with (Tillich 1952, pp. 36, 80). The feeling points

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to the consciousness of a threat that cannot be defined and from which there is no escape. Since it has no object and offers no exit, anxiety calls for the “courage to be,” a self-affirmation that varies depending on whether the feeling is ontic, spiritual, or moral. Ontic anxiety is the awareness of one’s own death, an absolute threat that gives a taint of finitude and arbitrariness to everything that one experiences in life. It serves as a constant reminder of the vicissitudes of fate and explains the immediate sensation that whatever happens to the self has no ultimate necessity. The courage to overcome this anxiety consists in striving for security and safety, knowing full well that every gain is limited and temporary. The anxiety becomes pathological when the consciousness of death and fate is suppressed. Security is then sought unrealistically by dreading absolutely nothing or imagining all kinds of actionable fears. For lack of courage, the self ignores danger where it exists and sees it where it is not real (Tillich 1952, pp. 44, 75). Spiritual anxiety is the awareness that not everything in one’s life and world is known and makes sense. Basic questions about oneself and the universe cannot be answered fully and definitively, without any lingering doubt. A taste of meaninglessness in life and the more immediate experience of emptiness inevitably follow. The spiritual courage to be expresses itself when the self participates and seeks fulfilment in the process of creating meaning, even in small ways. The individual acts on and reacts to cultural life and engages with the creations of artists, scientists, and statesmen. Participation includes the exercise of doubt through the formulation of questions and the search for creative solutions. The anxiety becomes pathological when all attempts to answer the question of existence end in failure. The self becomes sceptical of everything and doubts even the most obvious answer. Another pathological response is to cling desperately to established traditions, convictions, and preferences, defending them with zeal even if they are no longer effective. Unhinged self-assertiveness rules out the possibility of dissent. Imaginary castles of certitude replace creative doubting and questioning, searching for closer encounters with reality. This is spiritual despair, which can develop into ontic despair; the individual loses the will to live and succumbs to the instinct of death. Nonbeing triumphs over being (Tillich 1952, pp. 46, 48, 77).

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Moral anxiety is also part of our being. It is the awareness of the ambiguity between good and evil that permeates our existence. The self realises it is imperfect and destined to experience self-rejection, condemnation, and guilt. One of two things happens when anxiety becomes pathological. The first possible outcome is anomism, in which the individual rejects any self-condemnation and associated feelings of guilt. The second is legalism, wherein the individual adheres to strict ethical rules; the anxiety of guilt is repressed and concealed beneath a thick layer of unattainable perfection, in the hope that the person will always be above reproach. Ethical judgement and responsible actions are rendered impossible. The self ends up seeing possible faults where none exist and foregoing its power to face guilt as part of one’s existence. Such responses weaken the ability of the self to reach its full potential and create meaning through reasoned questioning and doubting. While one can escape ontic anxiety through death, there is no exit for the anxieties of guilt and spiritual meaninglessness; they are qualitatively infinite (Tillich 1952, pp. 52–56, 76–77). Fears and anxieties are interdependent. The anxieties of death, guilt, and meaninglessness add to the sting of whatever the person fears and tries to overcome. Knowing the exact time and circumstances of our death, for example, is even more frightening since it reminds us of the possibilities of uncontrollable pain and pure nothingness. But fears alleviate the sense of helplessness that we feel in the face of nonbeing. They fill the unknowns of fate and death with precise objects on which we can act, such as images and thoughts about what occurs when life is about to end. To combat the ghostly nature of anxiety, the mind turns into a factory of fears (Tillich 1952, pp. 35–37). The interweaving of concrete fears and existential anxieties is nonetheless part of the human condition. Together, they invite us to narrow the distance that lies between two distinct professions and faculties, those of medical healing and priestly guidance. Physicians, psychotherapists, and ministers should cooperate and bridge their differences if they are to help people find the courage to be (Tillich 1952, p. 78). It is important to note that for Tillich, the self is not an actual “substance” that exists apart from the power of movement and becoming. Nor does the overcoming of anxiety eradicate nonbeing, as if we could

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remove finitude and self-estrangement from our lives. Trying to reduce the threat of nothingness to nothing is futile. The primary goal of the courage to be lies elsewhere: in unleashing the living creativity of man, a power that enables the self to continuously conquer its own negation at the same time as it embraces it (Tillich 1952, pp. 32–34, 40). The unity of being and nonbeing, as well as the priority of self-­ affirmation over “the primordial night of nothingness,” are crucial to understanding what Tillich refers to as the philosophy of life, an existential attitude reminiscent of Nietzsche’s will to power. This is the will that strives to both preserve and surpass one’s being. Using the power it has over itself, the self prevails over that which negates its being and belongs to it. It commands itself to obey the law of life and self-transcendence. “Self-affirmation is the affirmation of life and of the death which belongs to life” (Tillich 1952, p. 28). To achieve the highest potential affirmation and fullness of human existence, the self must be negated. This is the only way to combat cowardice and surrender of one’s being to nonbeing. The self keeps struggling to ensure that it does not capitulate to the threefold anxiety of death, condemnation, and meaninglessness in the world (Tillich 1952, pp. 29–30).

Individuation, Participation, and Periods of History In Chapter 4 of The Courage to Be, Tillich adds another layer to the structure of the self: the tension between individuation and participation (see also Tillich 2012). Human courage, on the one hand, is the affirmation of the self-centred self—a separated, individualised, indivisible, and incomparable being that acts freely and is self-determining. Given its finitude, the self-as-self is inherently vulnerable. “The threatened loss of it is the essence of anxiety, and the awareness of concrete threats to it is the essence of fear” (Tillich 1952, p. 87). The self, on the other hand, exists as part of the structured universe to which it belongs. It is shaped by every man’s ability to effectively participate in this world and leave his mark, however small (Tillich 1952, p. 89).

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Self-affirmation unites the will to exist as oneself and the will to participate in a larger whole. As is to be expected, the path to reaching this synthesis is fraught with peril and guaranteed to instil fear and anxiety. Each side of the self threatens the other side with nonbeing. As a member of the whole, the self risks losing its separate self and individuality. But it may also lose its self-relatedness to the world while asserting its individuality. According to Tillich, the courage to be takes in both threats of nonbeing. This is the only way to avoid two commonly observed pathologies: collectivism, in which the self can no longer be itself, and individualism, in which it can no longer be part of its world. Tillich applies his comprehensive theory of courage to major periods of history, beginning with Greek antiquity. This allows him to investigate different levels of courageous self-affirmation and participation, as well as varied approaches to death, condemnation, and meaninglessness associated with fate, guilt, and feelings of emptiness, respectively. The analysis includes times when established forms of self-affirmation are in crisis and undergo profound transformations. Despair and hopelessness take over, and the pole of nonbeing prevails over self-affirmation and participation. Each period of despair takes on the hue of the dominant anxiety or crisis. Tribal collectivism, Stoicism, and mediaeval Christianity, each in their own way, severely limited the potential for self-affirmation, critical and creative thought, and the acceptance of guilt and its consequences. In the twentieth century, the meaninglessness and emptiness of individualism and radical Existentialism exacerbate the lack of social belonging, creating ideal conditions for the rise of totalitarianism in Europe and conformism in America’s liberal democracy (Tillich 1952, p. 63). Tillich relies on his theory of the “courage to be” to explain far-­reaching differences between societies and periods of history. The approach runs the risk of distorting history through oversimplification. Furthermore, the analysis leaves out alternative worldviews and definitions of courage that span the lengthy history of moral philosophy. What Tillich says about courage in “primitive forms of life” illustrates the problem. In tribal societies, the courage to face the anxiety of pain and death is a test of full membership in the group. Since collectivism rules, man does not experience the anxiety of losing oneself in the group (Tillich 1952, pp. 92–93). The anxiety of meaninglessness is also suppressed. Using publicly

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sanctioned forms of expiation and punishment, the tribe eliminates the individual’s awareness and anxiety of remorse. Since the individual feels guilty only when violating collective norms, there is no autonomous sense of self-criticism and condemnation. In hindsight, these sweeping generalisations about primitive courage (or lack thereof ) must be recognised for what they are: a mirror inversion of the courage that the modern world wishes to cultivate at the expense of simpler forms of social organisation. According to Tillich, tribal collectivism is eventually undermined by the experience of personal guilt, as illustrated in the biblical tradition. Unfortunately, the analysis reveals little about the biblical account of faith-based and God-fearing courage. More is said about the practice of individual question-asking and search for truth in antiquity, which is another key development in history. Socrates had the courage to affirm his essential, indestructible being and surpass his mortal self at the cost of his life (Tillich 1952, p. 169). In the nonconformism of the Cynics and the Sceptics of late antiquity, the affirmation of “self as self ” assumes an even more radical form. Stoicism opens a less radical path to courageous self-affirmation and participation. It emphasises man’s self-affirmation in resisting the material realm and facing the tragedy of human suffering, the perils of life, and the inevitability of death. The Stoic formulation of ontic courage highlights feelings of vulnerability caused by several factors, most notably the fall of the independent city-states and aristocratic-­ democratic structures of classical Greece, as well as the expansion of Republican Rome, the reign of Caesar and Augustus, and the tyrannical regimes that followed (Tillich 1952, p. 57). When assessed against the courage to be, Stoic fortitude is clouded on two points. It promotes an attitude of resignation towards fate, limiting man’s creative self-affirmation and participation in the world. The Stoic is also prone to suppressing deep-seated feelings of moral anxiety. He knows how to affirm and care for himself by finding meaning in life and remaining strong and humble in the face of death and fate. But his sense of moral superiority and command of philosophical wisdom prevent him from recognizing and overcoming his moral imperfection and feelings of guilt. Unlike Hamlet, the man refuses to accept that conscience makes cowards of us all.

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He does not see the universal fall from essential rationality to existential foolishness as a matter of responsibility and as a problem of guilt. The courage to be for him is the courage to be as oneself in spite of fate and death, but it is not the courage to affirm oneself in spite of sin and guilt. It could not have been different: for the courage to face one’s own guilt leads to the question of salvation instead of renunciation. (Tillich 1952, p. 17)

At the end of antiquity, Stoic courage loses currency and effectiveness. It gives way to a mediaeval regime of self-affirmation and participation that primarily reflects Christian anxiety about condemnation and guilt, a threat that colours all speculations about fate and death. As in primitive collectivism, efforts to acknowledge and address issues of meaninglessness and emptiness are suppressed. There is no independent asking or doubting, and the truth and meanings conveyed by traditions and group symbols are set in stone. Lessons of the fall and original sin shape the fate of every devout Christian, which can be mended through participation in sacraments, the faith community, and the Roman Catholic Church. Nonetheless, the process of self-identification with the broader community and all humanity clashes with the denial of death and hopes of personal redemption and immortality in the imagined heaven (Tillich 1952, p. 169). This fosters an anti-collectivist spirit, which takes the form of mysticism, monastic seclusion, and the inward soul-searching of Christians coping with problems of loneliness, demonic possession, guilt, contrition, and penance (Tillich 1952, pp. 93–96). Attacks on universal categories and essences, led by mediaeval nominalists and theologians such as Duns Scotus and William of Ockham, underline the freedom of the individual mind or soul created in the image of God’s will (Tillich 1952, pp. 95, 129). The unbroken courage to take part in a collectivist world of tribal membership is long gone. But the courage to be oneself is still not dominant and has a long way to go yet. The courage to be continues to serve an all-encompassing whole: “the heavenly realm, the Kingdom of God, divine grace, the providential structure of reality, the authority of the Church” (Tillich 1952, p. 131). Similarly, despite concessions made on matters of individual conscience, Protestant confessions create their own authoritarian structures and rules of conformity. Overall, in the Middle

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Ages, self-affirmation takes the shape of a semi-collectivist way of life, combining pathological manifestations of both the courage to be oneself and the courage to be at one with other members of the larger community and society as a whole. As insightful as it may be, the analysis ignores a long history of early Christian and mediaeval attempts to reconcile the fear of God and his gift of courage with the exercise of free will, rational thinking, eudemonic living, and political might, all of which are principles directly borrowed from classical antiquity (see Volume 1). Tillich is correct, however, in arguing that the Christian mode of moral self-affirmation and participation reaches its limits at the end of the Middle Ages. In his view, factors contributing to its decline include the breakdown of feudal institutions, as well as internal and external challenges to the authority of the church and its protective unity. Reformers criticise the way death and guilt are addressed on a personal level. They also question the self that lacks the unconditional confidence and courage required to encounter God directly in a personal relationship free of church control (Tillich 1952, p. 162). Unfortunately, the analysis sidesteps the doctrine of predestination and God’s sovereignty over granting or refusing the “gift of god-­ fearing courage” to the elect. The theologian pays more attention to reproaches levelled against the Roman Church and its overall failure to address issues of personal guilt, penance, and contrition. The flaw creates a generalised anxiety disorder where individuals seek all possible means to appease God’s wrath. Measures to avoid divine condemnation range from the sale of indulgences to holy pilgrimages, the cult of relics, almsgiving, extreme asceticism, harsh punishments by the clergy, and compulsive participation in prayers and masses (Tillich 1952, pp. 59, 94–96). Throughout the Renaissance and Enlightenment, the revival of analytic enquiry and ancient philosophical knowledge also contributes to the decline of the Christian courage to be. However, Stoic fortitude is now revised to include a forward-looking movement into struggles for self-­ affirmation. Under the influence of Christian humanism and its positive outlook on creation, neo-Stoicism promotes an attitude of creative energy and hope for a better future world guided by reason, a far cry from the ancient teachings of “resignation to circular repetition” (Tillich 1952, p.  19). This new synthesis of the courage to be proposes an active

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wrestling with death and fate, different from the original attitude of Stoic excellence and acquiescence to an immovable cosmos. All these developments pave the way for the modern individual who has the courage to be himself while also being part of a larger creative process of universal scope: the progress of humanity, spearheaded by the New World and Western civilisation (Tillich 1952, pp. 104–106). Individual potentials become infinite and can be harnessed through achievements in productive activity and technical ingenuity in a world that is complex, uncharted, and without limits. Once again, Tillich fails to do justice to the wide array of theories of courage and associated debates that span the post-mediaeval period up to the industrial age. He paints the whole period with broad strokes and an emphasis on beliefs in the rule of harmony in the universe. Individual thought and action conform to the laws of Nature and generate truths about the world and the common good that most people can freely embrace. The individual can be free and self-determining without undermining life in society. Liberal democracy reinforces a Leibnizian view of individualised monads participating in a world governed by order. Its functioning showed that the freedom of the individual to decide politically does not necessarily destroy political conformity. Scientific progress showed that individual research and the freedom for individual scientific convictions do not prevent a large measure of scientific agreement. Education showed that emphasis on the free development of the individual child does not reduce the chances of his becoming an active member of a conformist society. And the history of Protestantism confirmed the belief of the Reformers that the free encounter of everybody with the Bible can create an ecclesiastical conformity in spite of individual and even denominational differences. (Tillich 1952, p. 115)

During the Age of Enlightenment, the courage to be oneself blends with the individual participating in the world as an active bearer of universal reason, in support of a general movement from lower to higher states of rationality. Despite the inescapability of death, the individual develops a fighting and daring attitude towards the hazards of fate and

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ways to transform himself and reality. The threats of meaninglessness and guilt are duly acknowledged: personal and social errors, shortcomings, and misdeeds are deemed unavoidable and may be remedied through proper education (Tillich 1952, p. 116). Tillich delves deeper into early and advanced modernity, using the opposition between collectivism and individualism as his organising principle. His interest is not in the history of arguments on courage and related issues in philosophy and social theory. Instead, he paints broad strokes of successive movements and their overarching orientation towards the courage to be. The existential courage developed during the Enlightenment, ruled by principles of universal harmony, comes to an end, in his view, with the rise of the bourgeoisie (Tillich 1952, pp. 113–16). In the twentieth century, the reign of reason loses ground to various forms of neocollectivism. Nazism and fascism foster the mystique of self-identification with the collective and the we-self spirit of the nation and its Führer. Despite the value placed on technology, the self relinquishes its capacity for rational thought. Similarly, Russian communism reverts to a primitive form of self-affirmation through participation in a totalitarian society. Compensating for the erosion of older community traditions, it promotes blind faith in its anti-bourgeois culture and dogmatic principles applied in all spheres of life. The individual abandons the courage to be himself and disappears in a tribal universe dedicated to eradicating fate and death (Tillich 1952, pp.  97, 101–102). Neocollectivism transforms the anxiety of guilt into an actual or potential crime against the social body. Society as a whole assumes the god-like authority to judge and punish anyone, as well as to forgive or reinstate those willing to sacrifice their lives for the good of all. Spirituality gives way to the cult of “superior men” and aristocratic leaders claiming to possess higher biological vitality (Tillich 1952, pp. 78–79). Nazism and other variants of fascism embrace this idea and promote a barbaric notion of courage, equating it with lower forms of animal vitality. This leaves out man’s relationship to the meaning of life and the power of human intentionality, interpretive freedom, self-­ transcendence, and technical ingenuity. Tillich rejects biologism on the ground that every cell of a man’s body “participates in his freedom and spirituality, and every act of his spiritual creativity is nourished by his

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vital dynamics” (Tillich 1952, p. 83). This view is reflected in the ancient Latin word virtus, which is masculine strength combined with moral being and intentional nobility. In the end, there is nothing merely animal or biological about man. Nor is there anything strictly spiritual in him. The “courage to be” developed in American industrial democracy contrasts starkly with European neocollectivism. It stands as “one of the great types of the courage to be a part,” replacing the Renaissance synthesis with a healthy balance between liberal individualism and democracy. “Its self-affirmation is the affirmation of oneself as a participant in the creative development of mankind” (Tillich 1952, p.  107). Invigorated by this new synthesis, the typical American never relinquishes the power to confront the anxieties of death and guilt and partake in the forward march of humanity. He can withstand extreme adversity and numerous setbacks while continuing to build the foundations of a new life for himself and the nation. Productive activity has no bounds and may be blamed for concealing the absence of ends with an excess of material means employed for their own sake. But “the means are more than means; they are felt as creations, as symbols of the infinite possibilities implied in man’s productivity” (Tillich 1952, p. 109). Each man takes part in a creative process that seems divine. Pragmatism, the ethics of growth, individual creativity, progressive education, and crusades for democracy are so many expressions of a down-to-earth philosophy of life that transcends any metaphysics of progress. In the New World, the anxiety of fate and death is “taken into itself ” by the individual. He contributes to a brand-new world while also navigating the ups and downs of life, making his way in a society that is fiercely competitive and where people can lose their livelihood or employment in times of crisis (Tillich 1952, pp.  110–11, 119–20). Unlike Stoicism, which derives courage from individual wisdom, the modern courage to be arises from the individual’s capacity to mirror the universe and show enthusiasm for it. The anxiety of guilt and condemnation also takes a new turn. It remains a core feature of American culture, primarily due to the influence of puritanism and evangelical-pietistic movements. Remorse and retribution are nonetheless woven into a fresh synthesis of self-affirmation and participation in the productive sphere, paired with a commitment to creative activities and ways of thinking. The

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overwhelming fears of death, judgement, and hell are put aside, and the courage of self-affirmation is no longer “shaken by the anxiety of guilt and condemnation” (Tillich 1952, p. 121). The driving force underlying America’s liberal democracy is a socially progressive form of ontic courage. Concerns about the spiritual value of infinite productivity, on the other hand, loom large on the horizon. The question “for what” keeps coming up. Conformism also poses a threat to the American affirmation of individual selfhood. Industrial society evolves into a gigantic machine of production, consumption, and public communication with fixed patterns that mould individual thought and become increasingly difficult to evade (Tillich 1952, pp. 111–12). This is where the courage of Existentialism comes into play and speaks out, denouncing and despairing over man’s estrangement in the modern world. Twentieth-century man has lost a meaningful world and a self which lives in meanings out of a spiritual center. The man-created world of objects has drawn into itself him who created it and who now loses his subjectivity in it. He has sacrificed himself to his own productions. But man still is aware of what he has lost or is continuously losing. He is still man enough to experience his dehumanization as despair. He does not know a way out but he tries to save his humanity by expressing the situation as without an “exit.” (Tillich 1952, p. 139)

Modernity transforms humans into lifeless things and docile subjects that science and society can manipulate in the service of the ruling order and technical control over Nature. Marxist and Nietzschean philosophies of life oppose this dehumanisation and self-objectification process. They seek to free the courageous self from attacks on its inherent creativity and individuality. Their rebellious spirit is directed against a world where “man, for whom all this was invented as a means, becomes a means himself in the service of means” (Tillich 1952, p. 138). However, revolutionary philosophies worsen a problem that is not going away: they do not address the anxiety of spiritual emptiness and meaninglessness (Tillich 1952, p. 41). Their limited approach to self-affirmation foreshadows the spiritual disenchantment of the modern world—the collapse of absolutes and radical doubts regarding God and the achievements of advanced

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technology, liberalism, and democracy. Other threats, such as death and guilt, are present, but they do not dominate people’s awareness and experience of hopelessness and despair (Tillich 1952, pp. 61–62, 139–41). The Romantic movement anticipates this crisis by challenging the Renaissance spirit of universal harmony. It allows for anxieties about the presence of evil in the self and the universe (Tillich 1952, p. 122). Later expressions of Romanticism eventually remove the obligation on the part of the individual to “participate in anything serious” (Tillich 1952, pp. 117, 125). Under the influence of twentieth-century Existentialism, the limits of the “courage to be part of something” become more apparent, and theories of structure and causation begin to lose validity (Tillich 1952, p. 142). The emptiness of being is felt more intensely than ever before. In Heideggerian philosophy, the individual breaks free from God as well as human conventions, eternal principles, and rational thought; they no longer compel man to conform to the expectations of society, infringing on his conscience and ability to decide for himself. As Sartre puts it, “the essence of man is his existence,” implying that he has the power to create what he is and wishes to be (Tillich 1952, pp. 149–50). The plea for absolute freedom, however, reduces the self to an empty shell, a mere possibility cut off from the world. The process of self-­ affirmation is stripped of all forms of participation in the creation of meaning, providing fertile ground for the rise of totalitarianism in the twentieth century. The courage to be was undermined in innumerable people because it was the courage to be in the sense of the revolutionary movements of the 19th century. When it broke down, these people turned either to the neocollectivist system, in a fanatic-neurotic reaction against the cause of their tragic disappointment, or to a cynical-neurotic indifference to all systems and every content. (Tillich 1952, p. 153)

Tillich is forthright in allocating blame to modern Cynics and non-­ creative Existentialists. He faults them for dismissing all criteria of truth in favour of what is most valuable to them: their freedom to reject any solution to the problem of meaning. While they have the courage to be themselves, their loneliness and lack of spiritual vision isolate them from

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the rest of the world, making them easy prey for neurotic anxiety (Tillich 1952, pp. 151–52). Their way of thinking is symptomatic of the greatest threat facing modern man, which is radical doubt and meaninglessness in our lives. It undermines our courage to acknowledge and confront the threats of nonbeing at the core of our being. Tillich is preparing his reader for a thesis that no longer places ontic, moral, and spiritual forms of anxiety on an equal footing. The argument shifts in a new direction: the primacy of questions of faith and spiritual truth over issues of wellness in life and power in society.

Transcendence and the Acceptance of Acceptance Stoicism and Christianity provide means to affirm and preserve meaning and some sense of certitude in this world, even when despairing over death and self-condemnation. The modern outlook on human existence, on the other hand, is more sombre. Man’s power to find meaning in the face of death and guilt is severely limited. “If life is as meaningless as death, if guilt is as questionable as perfection, if being is no more meaningful than nonbeing, on what can one base the courage to be?” (Tillich 1952, pp. 174–75). A major factor that accounts for the crisis of meaning and despair in the twentieth century is the loss of God, widely celebrated by advocates of radical Existentialism (Tillich 1952, pp.  142, 185). Tillich deplores this, convinced as he is that the courage to be has its roots in religion. The role of faith is to affirm the power of being-itself, which overcomes the threat of nonbeing and transcends the finite self and its world (Tillich 1952, pp. 123, 155). The experience of faith in being-itself is the only lever that can counteract the radical expression of nonbeing. The leap of faith that Tillich has in mind does not call for converts to embrace any well-defined doctrine. Nor does it suggest that people should suppress all feelings of despair and negativity. Faith based on the courage to be offers man another path, which consists in making the courage of despair possible by accepting it. It enables self-affirmation and participation to

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overcome negation by letting being rise above nonbeing, even when it is in the grip of nonbeing. For Tillich, every act of courage expresses the faith we have in our power to participate in the self-affirmation of a living and loving God. Faith in him makes the self-affirmation of our being possible, allowing it to prevail against threats of death, condemnation, and meaninglessness. The infinite thus encompasses the finite, and being-itself reveals itself as the grounding of man’s dynamic courage to be. “He who receives this power in an act of mystical or personal or absolute faith is aware of the source of his courage to be” (Tillich 1952, pp. 180–81). Man’s courage to be is a manifestation of being-itself and an absolute faith in the “God above the God of theism.” Tillich uses this idea in the final pages of his book to examine the roots of faith beyond any theistic God and to challenge Existentialist assaults on all forms of spirituality. He links the “God above the God of theism” to man’s faith in being-itself and his courage to be. This is the only path for courage to overcome the meaninglessness of our age. Absolute faith is the experience of the power of being and our acceptance within being-itself, which we have the power to accept. It alone can conquer nonbeing and meaninglessness, both of which are essentially dependent on the experience of being and meaning. Even despair presupposes being and the quest for meaning. The God above theism has no distinct content or existence apart from the rest of reality (Tillich 1952, p. 181–82). Likewise, faith has no concrete name, place, church, cult, or theology. It does not coincide with people’s belief in universal reason, the hand of Providence, immortality in heaven, or a judging and forgiving God. Tillich’s non-theistic God is rather a state of being that gives us the power to raise questions and yet say “Yes” to being. It is rooted in the God “who appears when God has disappeared in the anxiety of doubt” (Tillich 1952, p. 190). The divine lends itself to mystical moments of self-surrender and union with God, which allow anxieties to be conquered for as long as the experience lasts. Mystical experiences highlight the principle of participation inherent in every act of self-affirmation, regardless of how problematic and uncertain the act may be (Tillich 1952, p. 160). But the God above theism transcends mysticism, which cannot address the element of doubt or the

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threat of losing oneself through participation in a larger whole (Tillich 1952, pp. 177–78). Faith that allows for the encounter of self-as-self and God points to man’s heroic confidence in the spirit of divine forgiveness, as reflected in the teachings of the Bible and the Protestant Reformation. Tillich has more to say about this approach to faith and what it offers for a better understanding of God above theism. He explains that the courage promoted by the Protestant Reformers is not the heroism of risking martyrdom, of resisting the authorities, of transforming the structure of Church and society, but it is the courage of confidence which makes these men heroic and which is the basis of the other expressions of their courage. (Tillich 1952, p. 162)

Confidence in one’s unique and personal encounter with a forgiving God transcends the opposing poles of selfhood, dominant in Existentialism, and participation, characteristic of mysticism. It conquers the two anxieties of losing oneself and losing one’s world. Faith also addresses the anxieties of guilt and condemnation, which are key to understanding genuine Protestantism. Although he is unacceptable, man is accepted by God and has the courage to accept forgiveness and moral healing. “Accepting acceptance though being unacceptable is the basis for the courage of confidence” (Tillich 1952, pp. 164–65). God is the ultimate source of this healing process. He is the infinite being-itself, an unconditional power to deal with the threats of nonbeing, self-­ condemnation, and absolute despair. Luther fully understood this. Through his trust in divine Providence and participation in the eternity of an accepting God, he overcame the anxiety of death, guilt, and meaninglessness. His faith was deep enough to allow a mystical union with the ground of being-itself as well as the experience of absolute trust in God’s providence and forgiveness. Because he was steeped in faith, the courage to be helped him overcome frightening moments and feelings of satanic assault and radical meaninglessness in this world (Tillich 1952, p. 171). Tillich sees limitations in the personal divine-human encounter, most notably the temptation to imagine God as “somebody” to whom we can speak, despite his presence in ourselves. Absolute faith is not based on

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religion. Rather, it is founded on being-itself and its power to conquer all the anxieties of finite existence and nonbeing. Another risk is that our individualised encounter with God will immerse us in the life of a small community, making it difficult for being-itself to act through the power of the individual self. The narrow boundaries of collectivism and conformism end up thwarting the experience of being part of the larger ground of being (Tillich 1952, p. 187). As opposed to this, faith in “God above the God of theism” points to “the accepting of acceptance without somebody or something that accepts” (Tillich 1952, p. 185). Courageous acts are required to transcend the two poles of individualisation and participation. They confer upon man’s relation to being-itself the character of faith, understood as the state of letting oneself be seized by the courage to be and the power of being-itself (Tillich 1952, p. 172).

A World Above the World of Cynicism Tillich’s richly textured analysis touches on all the ramifications of the root cor system introduced at the beginning of this research on the ethics of courage stretching back to Greek antiquity. His insights have a direct bearing on the epistemic issues of reason and faith, as well as the existential matter of wellness and suffering. They also shed new light on the politics of self in society, on the one hand, and freedom as it relates to fate and the unavoidable anxieties of human existence, on the other. Nonetheless, his coverage of the subject and its many facets is uneven and favours a religious perspective on courage. The intellect shifts some of its responsibility for thinking, knowing, and believing to what is essentially an act of trust and faith in the existence of God. Ultimately, belief in the power of faith and being over nonbeing is the overarching principle underlying the courage to be. Existential considerations assume second place. They are addressed through such themes as the promise of life and the prospect of death. The discussion remains nonetheless abstract and provides little guidance on the goodness of life and ways to cope with whatever threatens it. Fate and the certainty of death encourage, at best, an accumulation of negative wisdom, as in “being could not be the ground of life without nonbeing”

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(Tillich 1952, p. 179). Rephrased in a positive way, being combined with nonbeing is the ground of life; death must be squarely and honestly confronted if life is to be lived fully. But what does this fullness of life actually entail, positively speaking? We are told that “life, willing to surpass itself, is the good life, and the good life is the courageous life” (Tillich 1952, p. 29). But what does that mean, aside from avoiding neurotic efforts to resist nonbeing (Tillich 1952, p. 146)? While many contemporary thinkers address this question, Tillich ignores it and keeps the focus on anxieties that have no definite objects, negative or positive. Reflecting on the primacy of being over nonbeing matters more than dwelling on the personal and social history of courageous battles and hopes for better lives in a better world. The ghostly aspect of anxiety taints Tillich’s discussion of the good life and leaves it largely undefined, with no assurance that it will flourish in real-life settings. In a way, his “courage to be” is a forerunner to the age of resilience, a downhearted era in which people worry mostly about the inevitable predicaments of life and how to contend with them (see Chap. 22). His leap of faith in “God above the God of theism” is dedicated to a “World above the World of Cynicism,” which remains elusive and nebulous. Although not fully developed in his writings, considerations of political history are less vague. According to Tillich, periods of history dominated by tribalism, totalitarianism, collectivism, or conformism are seriously lacking in courage. In the modern era, radical nonconformism has a negative impact on the potential for the individual to affirm its sense of self, develop a consciousness of guilt, and participate in community life and the world. Using these principles, the author provides many examples of partial pathologies or mass neuroses that undermine the power and freedom of the individual to affirm itself “in its individual selfhood” and “as part of an embracing whole” (Tillich 1952, p. 155). His analysis of different periods of history provides an overview of systems that reduce or deny the twin powers of individual freedom and meaningful participation. The capacity to recognise errors, shortcomings, and misdeeds is thwarted, and threats of self-loss or social isolation weigh heavily on people (Tillich 1952, pp. 66–70, 121–23). The politics of individual freedom, self-affirmation, and the capacity for guilt loom large in The Courage to Be. This is not surprising given the

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broader context of a mid-century book that should be read against the backdrop of the horrors of two world wars, the rise of totalitarian regimes in Europe, and the promises and limitations of American liberal democracy. The book surprises nonetheless with its tendency to gloss over contemporary battles for freedom, justice, peace, and human fellowship. The author does not delve deep into the existential and political ramifications of courage. His primary interest resides elsewhere, namely in finding a solution to the spiritual crisis and associated anxieties plaguing the modern world. At its highest level, the “courage to be” is an act of faith in one’s relation to the ground of being; it involves accepting being “accepted by that which infinitely transcends one’s individual self ” (Tillich 1952, p. 165). Reflections on this act of faith echo Heidegger’s contemporary statement on the subject: “All our heart’s courage is the echoing response to the first call of Being which gathers our thinking into the play of the world” (Heidegger 1975, p.  37). Tillich proposes his own non-theistic form of courageous being and thinking, in support of the meaningfulness of life and the possibility of forgiveness beyond the experience of death and guilt. Faith that overcomes fate and meaninglessness transcends all religious doctrines. It rises above all political and existential considerations of personal and social history. It also surpasses the exercise of reason, which, when left to its own devices, subordinates the creative self to a commanding intellect. The “risk of faith,” understood as a creative and adventurous form of courage, is well illustrated in certain Protestant interpretations of the Bible. It is also part of the Existentialist movement, which otherwise lacks a positive direction (Tillich 1952, p. 7). Tillich aims to make Existentialism more spiritual by tying it to the law of self-affirmation through self-­ transcendence. The strategy has its problems. One is that the goodness of life and the politics necessary to attain it are relegated to the domain of finite beings and the vagaries of history. Another is a riddle that cannot be solved. Tillich’s “absolute faith” in the idea that “nonbeing belongs to being” (Tillich 1952, p. 179) contains not the slightest trace of anxiety, the kind that could have prompted reasonable doubts, self-critical analysis, and invitations to open-ended creative thinking. His thesis is so broad and universal that it excludes the possibility of emptiness and meaninglessness at the heart of his courage to be. His framing of the subject seems

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extensive and thorough, to the point of precluding any possible dialogue with competing systems of ethics. Ironically, The Courage to Be suppresses the anxiety of having to join and confront the long list of theories of courage dating back to Greek antiquity. Past and present views on the topic are neither here nor there. All future dialogues to better comprehend one another’s perspectives on death, emptiness, and guilt are met with the same resistance. They are pre-empted by the timeless wisdom of philosophy. Tillich argues that the courage to be cannot flourish unless it takes part and expresses faith in something larger than itself. Nonetheless, the theologian opts out of larger conversations and debates regarding the ethics of courage. To engage in these discussions and catch the tide of history, his theory would have to confront present reality and address a major challenge of our day: more than ever, the courage to think through the ethics of courage as well as the courage of ethics is on the verge of disappearing from our lives.

References Heidegger, Martin. 1975. Poetry, Language and Thought. New  York: Harper & Row. Tillich, Paul. 1952. The Courage to Be. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. ———. 2012. Systematic Theology. Vol. 1. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

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Cynicism and Truth: Michel Foucault Gandhian heroes of swaraj, ahimsa, and satyagraha engage in civil disobedience and peaceful protest against colonial injustice. They do so in a spirit of self-sacrifice, personal discipline, and spiritual faith. While questions of knowledge and truth-telling play a central role, they are not the focus of Gandhi’s analysis of courage. The politics of freedom, self-­ affirmation, and human fellowship have primacy over the quest for truth and moral enlightenment on their own. The same is true of Fromm’s plea for rational thinking and Freire’s call for critical consciousness and dialogue: truth-telling is of paramount importance, but the main battle is in the realm of politics and its impact on everyday human existence. Similarly, Camus and Levinas propose a lucid gaze on our being-in-the-­ world and being-for-death, but with the primary goal of confronting all forms of tyranny and fostering a sense of human responsibility. As for Tillich, he emphasises the search for meaningfulness in life, yet man’s relationship to God and the ground of Being takes precedence over his consciousness and battle for truth. The “courage to be”—the affirmation of self through participation in something larger than itself—is more spiritual and relational than rational or intellectual. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_21

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Twentieth-century advocates of peace, freedom, justice, and humanity do not adopt a wisdom-based approach to courage, let alone a Cynic view of truth. Michel Foucault (1926–1984) is an exception to the rule. In the last lectures he delivered at the College de France, a few months before he passed away, Foucault examines “the courage of truth” in antiquity, mostly from a Socratic and Cynic perspective. His thinking on the subject revolves around the concept of parrhēsia. This is the ethics of telling and hearing the truth about oneself in accordance with one’s thoughts, as well as the courage required to confront the peril of never yielding to untruth, no matter what. The danger ranges from losing a friend to losing one’s life at the hands of those who take offense. The parrhesiastic game of free-spokenness involves “the courage of the truth in the person who speaks and who, regardless of everything, takes the risk of telling the whole truth that he thinks.” It also points to an “interlocutor’s courage in agreeing to accept the hurtful truth that he hears” (Foucault 2008, pp.  12–13). Most teachers, men of wisdom, and prophets are also expected to speak the truth as they see it. However, their approach to “veridiction” and the sharing of knowledge, wisdom, or visions of the future does not put themselves or others at risk (Foucault 2008, pp. 25, 89–91). When it comes to city business, Plato, Demosthenes, and Isocrates all have mixed feelings about the game of parrhēsia. Speaking one’s mind in public and going against the opinions of an assembly or a ruler is a sign of great boldness. But it also threatens democracy by enabling virtually anyone to say anything. True discourse that promotes justice can give way to the public airing of flatteries and lies that undermine established laws and institutions (Foucault 2008, pp. 35–36, 38, 40). This is Plato’s concern, leading him to the conclusion that demagogy and democracy are obstacles to truth-telling and effective governance (Foucault 2008, p. 46). In a similar vein, Socrates does not view city politics as a suitable setting for speaking the truth. The philosopher does not lack the courage to “give a contrary opinion before an Assembly which sought to silence him, hound him, and possibly punish him” (Foucault 2008, p. 79). But this is not his primary mission. His task is to master the game of ironic cross-­ examination and use it to probe and test the souls and minds of others, including friends, princes, and members of the Athenian Assembly

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(Foucault 2008, pp. 73, 85, 233–34). His God-given mission is to help people rethink what they say and believe they know. This is Socrates’ way of taking care of his own soul and guiding others who wish to do the same (Foucault 2008, p. 158). All participants in the exercise attend to their own truth and make decisions based on reason, rather than yielding to the pressures of rhetoric, false opinions, and careless thinking. Socrates’ “courageous veridiction” is not the same as political truth-­ telling. Since freedom to speak the truth is restricted in all regimes, democratic or authoritarian, parrhēsia must distance itself from political discourse. Truth-telling outside the political arena is nonetheless of great value to the city. As Socrates argues, By encouraging you to take care of yourselves I am useful to the whole city. And if I protect my life [by not engaging in city politics], it is precisely in the city’s interest. It is in the city’s interest to protect the true discourse, the courageous veridiction which encourages citizens to take care of themselves. (Foucault 2008, p. 90)

In the Laches, Socrates explores the courage of self-examination and truth-telling. He also posits a direct connection between courage, self-­ care, and caring for others through education. While all characters in the dialogue are known for their courage in civic and military life, they also exhibit “the courage of the dialectic” and the spirit of caring. Their concern for understanding true courage gives way to the courageous pursuit of truth for the benefit of all; Socrates’ courage is “repaid with the courage of those who accept his parrhēsia” (Foucault 2008, p. 143). Importantly, the sought-after truth is not of a metaphysical nature. Unlike Socrates’ dialogue with Alcibiades, the Laches promotes a philosophical and moral way of thinking, as well as a historical and critical approach to the experience of life. It poses the question of “another life,” as distinct from queries into “another world,” and suggests ways to care for one’s soul through lofty speculations of the mind (Foucault 2008, pp. 245–47). Reflections on courage are essentially practical and ethical, with an emphasis on the present moment (Foucault 2008, pp. 127, 161). They converge on an art or manner of living and caring that should be investigated and tested throughout one’s life. The art in question lies in

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“this symphony, this harmony between what Socrates says, his way of saying things, and the way in which he lives.” It validates what matters the most: the “practice of a true, free, and frank discourse” (Foucault 2008, p. 148). True living and telling the truth to oneself and others are inseparably linked (Foucault 2008, p. 164). In classical antiquity, philosophical thinking prized honest living and truth-telling pursued without fear or shame, even if it meant mocking established ways of thinking and living. Foucault goes on to argue that the founders and early followers of Cynicism take this “courage of truth” to extremes. They transform it into a dramatic and heroic existence that speaks for itself, without the need for a complex doctrine or theoretical framework. Parrhēsia turns Socratic irony into a Cynic scandal: risking one’s life by the way it is lived, displayed, and exposed to public scorn and contempt (Foucault 2008, pp. 217, 233–34). Truth-telling morphs into a provocative art of being that resembles a dog’s life, an obscene exaggeration of Greek virtue. Like a dog, the Cynic hides nothing and does everything in full public view, shamelessly. His life in the open maintains complete independence from everything superfluous. The animal-like philosopher is content with whatever is thrown at him so long as it satisfies his basic needs. He can identify good from bad and friends from foes, and he will bite and bark at anything that threatens his loved ones or master (Foucault 2008, pp. 297–98). In its own way, “the life of the guard dog, of combat and service, which characterizes Cynicism, is also the continuation and reversal of that tranquil, self-­ controlled, sovereign life which characterized the true existence” (Foucault 2008, pp. 243–44). Cynics push the logic of pure and self-sufficient living to its limits and thrust the scandal of “another life” in the public’s face (Foucault 2008, p.  269). They become visible messengers of extreme poverty, ugliness, and naked animality (e.g., masturbating in public), delivering a stinging critique of dominant beliefs and conventions of beauty, well-being, independence, loyalty, and honour. One account of Diogenes has him picking up a bone hurled at him at a dinner and then returning to urinate on the guests. The dog-like conduct expresses the man’s will to embrace a life of humility and constant humiliation. However, whereas the Christian

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rejects authority in this life, “the Cynic asserts his sovereignty, his mastery through these humiliation tests” (Foucault 2008, pp. 261–62). Foucault portrays the unmasked and shameless life of the Cynic as a dramatised expression of the “unalloyed” and independent life promoted in ancient philosophy, an extreme version in which poverty is fully embraced through voluntary destitution, begging, and disgrace. The wisdom of the “straight life,” based on the laws of Nature, is exaggerated by the practice of animality outside the norms of social life. With the Cynics, a naked, begging, and bestial life, or a life of shamelessness, destitution, and animality looms up on the borders of ancient philosophy—on the borders of what, in a sense and in a way, ancient philosophy was more or less accustomed to thinking, since all these themes are basically only the continuation, the extrapolation of some fairly common principles of that philosophy. (Foucault 2008, p. 269)

Cynicism is philosophy staring into a cracked mirror and grimacing at itself. It proposes a level of sovereignty over oneself and the world that surpasses the precarious power of kings sitting on their thrones. In the end, the Cynic is the true king, the one who wears the mantle of destitution, endurance, constant self-testing, and ridicule. His struggle against his own desires and the vices of established customs and institutions outweighs all others and benefits all of humanity (Foucault 2008, pp. 275, 280–81). Cynics dramatise the naked truth by going nude, independence by stripping themselves of all material possessions, natural straightness by observing the laws of animal life, and sovereignty by embracing “the life of battle and struggle against and for self, against and for others” (Foucault 2008, p. 283). They embrace the life of the barking dog and its radical critique of prevailing “conventions, laws, and institutions which rest on the vices, faults, weaknesses, and opinions shared by humankind in general” (Foucault 2008, p. 4). The philosophical mission and militant lifestyle of Cynicism are directed at everyone, including its adversaries. While it educates people, it cannot meet the criteria of formal education and training. It expresses itself aggressively, out in the open, and in the present moment. It seeks the good of all human beings, beyond the

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confines of city life and state politics. It wages war against the entire world on behalf of an entirely different world (Foucault 2008, pp. 285, 298, 301–303). Foucault’s interest in Cynicism is symptomatic of our time, a period of history that speaks of courage in the past tense with a focus on a philosophical tradition that has no interest in developing a full theory of courage. Late modernity welcomes Cynicism in its own unique ways. It wastes no time philosophising about courage, braver forms of social living, or bold ways to overcome the ineptitudes of our time. Political struggles and efforts to reinvent ourselves exist, but they shy away from spelling out what courage is or ought to be. The same criticism can be directed at ancient Cynics and subversive truth-tellers like Socrates. Foucault may consider them brave, but we cannot say that the truth they told or showed was inspired by an explicit theory of courage. The teachings of the Cynics remain silent on the subject, as they are on every other moral issue for that matter; explanations of courage are scant at best. Cynics may praise those who speak boldly and frankly, at some risk of offending and angering those who care to listen. But passing references to moments of brave speech never add up to a theory of courage. In the absence of words, the abstract quality of courage cannot be addressed, and deeds alone cannot reveal its meaning. Foucault fails to recognise that a discourse on courage is necessary for the courage of discourse to take form. Gestures such as stripping oneself of clothing and all material possessions, living in a barrel, and behaving like a dog that urinates and copulates in public are bound to spark a scandal, one might argue. But taking courageous action is an entirely different game, one that is far more complex and abstract. Discourse is required to “tell” actions that are brave apart from those that are not. In the absence of any explanation to that effect, no one can say whether the Cynic is courageous or not, let alone how his life speaks volumes about the matter at hand: “the courage of the truth,” as Foucault dubs it. Epictetus offers an explicit reflection on Cynic courage in his writings, one might reply. The Stoic philosopher portrays the Cynic as having the courage to speak freely and reveal the truth, particularly to his loved ones. The passage cited by Foucault emphasises the importance of speaking openly and honestly with one’s siblings, children, and relatives (Foucault

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2008, pp. 262, 313). But there is no specific mention here of the danger that the Cynic confronts when telling the truth. Foucault also recalls what Philo of Alexandria said about the Mysteries and other doctrines that conceal the glorious works of Nature: they lack the courage to utter things that would be beneficial to all—“things to be said by certain people whose pure hearts, courage, and noble souls facilitate this parrhēsia” (Foucault 2008, p. 326). What Foucault leaves aside, however, is Philo’s actual discourse on courage, which puts the emphasis on a well-trodden theme: the necessity for man to endure and rise above all of life’s sufferings and embrace the study and practice of wisdom. Foucault’s use of New Testament references is also somewhat misleading. Paul asks the Ephesians to pray for him so that he may speak openly of the mystery of the gospel, we are told (Foucault 2008, p. 331). The problem is that the passage is rather brief and does not provide a full view of the courage he preaches. The same problem arises in Foucault’s analysis of the Laches. His reading of the dialogue revolves around the practice of truth-telling and the courage to face the consequences of speaking boldly and hearing the truth. The danger he has in mind is real; Socrates died for speaking his mind. Even so, the courage of telling the truth is not what Socrates has in mind when he reflects on courage and debates its true meaning. His line of thinking is better reflected in Foucault’s passing remark on the sacrifice, suffering, or battle that one must face in the difficult process of arriving at the truth (Foucault 2008, p. 124). When it comes to Socrates, this is the correct way to phrase the question posed in the Laches. As I explain in Volume 1 of this work, the Socratic way lies in having to persevere in the search for truth and endure the pain of not finding it. Courage is required in the pursuit of truth, not in telling it to others once it is known. The lesson imparted by the Laches, if only subtly and with a healthy dose of irony and silence, is this: it takes courage for humans to keep searching while not being able to master and tell the truth, other than the truth of searching and not knowing. The courage of truth-seeking guides the overall dialogue. Foucault’s lectures shed light on the Western leitmotif of “speaking boldly,” a phrase dating back to the beginnings of philosophy and abundantly used throughout the history of philosophy. Although sketchy, the parallel he draws between the Cynic stance and the development of

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Christian and modern ethics is particularly insightful. In the New Testament, preaching the gospel is the sign of great courage, the apostolic virtue par excellence (Foucault 2008, p. 330). Early Christian calls for confessions of faith in times of persecution followed the same parrhesiastic principle. To use the imagery of John Chrysostom, watchful followers and soldiers of Christ speak with tongues that are full of “courageous boldness.” Martyrs are the parrhesiasts par excellence, on a mission to save themselves and anyone else they might be able to persuade with their words and demonstrations of true faith. Despite its theoretical poverty, the Cynic tradition had a lasting impact on later developments of Christian asceticism and struggles to purge one’s soul and the whole world of its many vices (Foucault 2008, pp. 210–11, 286–87). Mendicant orders of the Middle Ages and militant movements of the Reformation shared the core messages of Cynicism: a commitment to telling the truth, living it, and taking care of one’s soul and self as part of another life and in preparation for another world (Foucault 2008, p. 315). Cynicism eventually finds its way into the revolutionary struggles of the nineteenth century. Movements to topple existing regimes are political in nature, but they also promote a revolutionary way of life and militancy subject to well-defined rules (Foucault 2008, pp. 183–84). In their own way, militants become the sovereign leaders, soldiers, and athletes of “an other life for another world” (Foucault 2008, p.  287). As guard dogs for a better existence, they display combative endurance and take significant risks in fighting the many evils of this world for the good of all (Foucault 2008, p. 284). Foucault sees in modern art the same kind of courage. Artists are entrusted with the truth-­ telling mission of exposing the fundamentals of life while opposing all forms of established art and cultural consensus (Foucault 2008, pp. 188–89). Cynicism, in retrospect, is the matrix of a fundamental ethical experience in the West (Foucault 2008, pp. 286–87). The analysis offers a fresh perspective on Cynicism, otherwise relegated to a footnote in the history of ideas. But it has its problems. If Cynicism is the matrix, why is there so little philosophical interest in advancing the courage of scandalous truth-­ telling and living? Stories of boldness in speech abound, and references to it are commonplace. Still, they do not add up to a well-developed,

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recognisable understanding of courage as it evolves over time. Why is that? Why do philosophers evoke the courage of speech so often but give it so little theoretical consideration? With a few exceptions, moral philosophers have much to say about courage and ways to arrive at the truth, but not about the actual link between courage and speaking the truth. Foucault’s views on the ambivalence and fading of parrhēsia since Greek antiquity provide part of the answer to this riddle. Three factors account for the misappropriation, reversal, and disappearance of Cynic thinking and living over time: the proliferation of opinions vying for attention, the anti-parrhesiastic expectations of religious obedience, and the modern-day normalisation of the “courage of truth” through the institutionalisation and professionalisation of science and philosophical teaching. The first factor is the individualisation of truth, which caused some ambivalence among Greek philosophers—an uneasiness exacerbated by Christian ascetics in the first century. The absolute freedom of truth-telling is a hinge virtue that allows everyone to approach others with courage and “try to bring them back from error to the truth.” With it nonetheless comes “the freedom of speech, disorder, and anarchy of everyone being able to say everything and anything” (Foucault 2008, pp. 331–32). In classical antiquity, it was often thought that the democratisation of truth and the means to express it could undermine the rule of law, public wisdom, moral virtue, and effective government. Obedience to God and the church is the second obstacle on the path of subversive parrhēsia and true living. According to Foucault, the rise of Christianity shifts the burden of truthfulness in both words and actions from horizontal human-to-human relationships on Earth to a vertical encounter between humans and God in heaven. Parrhēsia begins as a transparent soul offering itself to God’s sight and communing with the Almighty, who reveals his wisdom and love to man. This mystical face-to-­ face encounter between the moral soul and its Maker differs markedly from the “courage of truth” of a lone Cynic confronting others and pointing out their errors in this life (Foucault 2008, pp. 326–29). However, both the mystic praise of parrhēsia and its Cynic dramatisation fade with time, giving place to the rise of church institutions and ascetic teachings. The anti-parrhesiastic pole in Christianity comes to dominate church history, establishing a regime of pastoral truth, self-abnegation, fear before

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God, and humble listening and silence before his priestly messengers who speak on his behalf (Foucault 2008, pp. 320–21). Christian courage is then less about facing the consequences of preaching and confessing the truth and more about bearing life’s difficulties out of love and fear for God, in the hope of gaining entrance to another world. Christian parrhēsia was first understood as “that openness of heart, that relationship of confidence which brought man and God face-to-face, closest to each other.” Its mediaeval mutation devolves into fearful obedience, self-restraint, resisting the temptations of sin, and putting one’s trust in God’s love and heavenly salvation. Imposing the rule of obedience and self-distrust is at odds with preserving the Cynic scandal of truth-telling, self-care, and true living. It compels the faithful soul to regard the truth about itself with constant suspicion, which is a prerequisite for entering another life in another world. Thus, Christian asceticism completely transforms “an ancient asceticism which always aspired to lead both the true life and the life of truth at the same time” (Foucault 2008, pp. 337–38). According to Foucault, modern education and science further seal the fate of Cynic parrhēsia by taking away its subversive nature and normalising it in the name of disciplinary truth. Cynical thinking and living lose validity the day that philosophy becomes a teaching profession, with its focus on the history of doctrines. Moral thinking is no longer an ethical and heroic adventure in search of another life in this world. “Philosophical heroism, philosophical ethics will no longer find a place in the practice of philosophy as a teaching profession, but in that other, displaced and transformed form of philosophical life in the political field: the revolutionary life” (Foucault 2008, pp. 210–11). The rise of positive science, which institutionalises truth-telling, pushes another significant wedge between truth and life, placing the final nail in the coffin of parrhēsia (Foucault 2008, p. 235). The centralisation of truth-telling by the ruling powers, whether political, religious, philosophical, or scientific, undermines the courage to speak and live contrary to prevailing norms and standards. This framing of Cynic courage vanishing into the margins of history would be appealing if it ever existed. Historical evidence to support a Cynic matrix of courage, based on the clear perception of dangers posed by the practice of

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speaking and living freely and subversively, is thin. Even more problematic is the omission of a wide range of competing theories of courage developed over the centuries, of which few hinge on the ethics of parrhēsia. Furthermore, contrary to what Foucault suggests, some early formulations of Christian mysticism simply dismiss the issue of courage in this world as irrelevant to the pursuit of divine truth and communion with God. For most Church Fathers, truth-telling matters, but the main emphasis is on advancing the principles of devotional fortitude.

Osho’s Farting Dog The spirit of self-centredness and anti-conformism is still alive and strong today. The debt owed to the origins of Cynicism is nonetheless of little significance and poses no threat to new regimes of power. The radical form of courage that Diogenes advocated and scarcely defined has long since disappeared. Modern-day followers of Diogenes may continue their search for truth on their own, off the beaten track of mainstream thinking, but they rarely forego all the material and social advantages of normal life. The cultic milieu of the late twentieth-century New Age movement provides a good illustration of what happens to Cynicism when subversion keeps people secure and everything is in good taste. Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh (1931–1990), better known as Osho, is the author of Courage: Osho Insights for a New Way of Living. The Indian mystic and founder of the controversial Rajneesh movement uses the story of a man farting at a dinner table and blaming a dog for it as a metaphor for everything that life offers. Wisdom lies in discovering pleasure in every aspect of life, from the most mundane to the unexpected and the risks that may follow, and accepting it without blame or shame (Osho 2011, p. 171). In this perspective, there is no reason to renounce the blessings of material wealth, including advances in technology. Osho illustrates this by imagining Diogenes as a philosopher carrying a lamp who travels to Paris, London, and New York in search of the truth but never finds it. When his voyage takes him to New Delhi, a place that makes it impossible for him to discover the truth and save “his lamp,” he becomes

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depressed and even enraged. The stupidity of Indian politics and morality is to blame for this. Gandhi and his followers erred when they preached poverty and celibacy and condemned advances in science and technology. These beliefs are obstacles in man’s search for spiritual wisdom and truth. A hungry man cannot be interested in meditation. But Gandhi thinks that poverty has something spiritual in it. It is just ugly. It is the most unspiritual thing in the world, because it is the source of all crime and sin. (Osho 1982, II p. 136)

Courage is defined as a man’s willingness to remain in the uncertainty of life and take chances, which does not imply that he must embrace pain and loneliness. Wealth and pleasures of the senses should not be feared. Rather, the courageous is someone who, like the coward, is afraid of the unknown, except that he presses on instead of retreating. If he repeatedly accepts the challenge, he may ultimately overcome all his fears. Then, his strength develops to the point where he can experience the joy and ecstasy that come from seeking adventure and taking risks in life. This is how a man awakens from his slumber: by relinquishing the security and comfort that come from what he already knows and is familiar with (Osho 2011, p. 50). Courage is only required when man is unsure whether he will make it or not. “It is gambling, but only the gamblers know what life is” (Osho 2011, p. 1). The gambler escapes the prison of certainty and breaks the chain of boredom. His life philosophy is that of a mountain climber, glider, and surfer, not an insurance firm (Osho 2011, pp. 123, 166). The pleasure he takes in welcoming uncertainty is anchored in a real world that is constantly changing, making life dynamic and infinitely mysterious. Because change is permanent, any map we use becomes obsolete as soon as it is ready for use (Osho 2011, p. 23). The rule of becoming never ends, not even with death, which is man’s greatest fear. Yet his final hour is just another time to start a new lesson, a movement towards a new identity worth embracing with courage and no fear. The brave man welcomes the unknown of the hereafter and defeats death by refusing to let others carry him to his grave. He puts on his shoes and walks on his own, as part of his journey through life and into the beyond. The way to die is the same

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as the way to live: with sharpness, intelligence, courage, clarity, and awareness, not with confusion, misery, anguish, clinging, and desire (Osho 2011, pp. 127–28, 145–48). Osho draws inspiration from the origins of the word “courage,” from the Latin root cor. The term evokes the man who follows his heart by allowing love and trust into his life, even if it makes him feel unsafe and exposes him to the unknown. If you feel there is fear in your being, love more. Be courageous in love, take courage. Be adventurous in love; love more, and love unconditionally, because the more you love the less will be the fear. (Osho 2011, p. 64)

The weak, on the other hand, submit to the rule of hate. They are incapable of sacrificing their ego in order to flee the prison and hell that it creates (Osho 2011, pp. 96, 128–30). They also allow the mind to take control, finding refuge behind the closed doors and prison walls of established religion, concepts, language, and theories (Osho 2011, p. 6). When it is guided by the heart, human intelligence becomes alive, spontaneous, and open to doubt and the risk of error. Everything that is not based on experience is treated as purely hypothetical (Osho 2011, p. 151). “With courage comes sharpness, intelligence, openness, an unprejudiced mind, the capacity to learn—they all come together” (Osho 2011, p. 149). The mind maintains its vigour and avoids mediocrity so long as it refrains from providing answers that are falsely reassuring (Osho 2011, p. 15). The meditation technique of folding one’s hands in one’s lap, with the left hand on the right, helps the mind establish harmony with the heart. While the left hand is linked to the right brain, the source of courage, the right hand is linked to the left brain, the origin of fear (Osho 2011, p. 177). Courageous minds follow the path of the heart. Everything else follows, including the self-confidence required to exercise doubt, delve into the unknown, and explore the uncharted waters of reality (Osho 2011, pp. 26–27, 191). Man is born with this kind of courage and can allow it to grow without limit, as opposed to feeling miserable, behaving like a coward, and pinning all his hopes on his bank account or personal fame (Osho 2011, pp.  32, 52, 60). Another direct implication of

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self-confidence is that men should not rely on powerful men to show them the way. Courage comes from believing in oneself and becoming a whole individual capable of facing the entire world if necessary. Osho invites everyone to become themselves and nothing else, even if it means acting like a coward. As the ancient proverb says, “Many a hero is a man who did not have the courage to be a coward” (Osho 2011, p.  113). People should never rely on the strength of politicians or priests to surmount their own weaknesses; they are the enemies of humanity. Their goal is to control men’s bodies and souls, eliminate their capacity for rebellion, and establish a reign of fear (Osho 2011, pp. 90, 104). There is greater strength in being alone, such as when meditating in silence, which helps one feel alive and stimulates the mind. One should practise meditation without joining a particular church. Churchgoers, whether Hindus, Muslims, or Christians, have a propensity to abandon the quest for meaning and behave like cowards by claiming to possess the truth (Osho 2011, p. 102). Osho’s view of courage underscores man’s willingness to assume total responsibility for whatever he is, rather than feeling responsible towards Moses, Jesus, Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Zarathustra, Kabir, or Nanak (Osho 2011, p. 172). Accepting responsibility for oneself is the first and most courageous move. Failing this, man behaves as the victim of an oppressor or some external force, regarding misery as his closest and most loyal companion, a shadow that accompanies him wherever he goes. “That I call the great courage—to divorce misery, to lose the oldest habit of the human mind, the longest companion” (Osho 2011, p. 61). Elsewhere, Osho modifies his stance on courage as a necessity and the source of everything. The real challenge is recognising the emptiness and immense frustration that result from concealing the truth and fabricating lies. In the end, understanding that a man dies and is reborn into the future at every moment of his life requires more clarity than courage (Osho 2011, pp.  31–32). Equally, if not more vital, is preserving the child’s innocence and sense of wonder in a universe of endless possibilities (Osho 2011, p.  55). When viewed closely, Osho’s descriptions of clarity and innocence are very similar to his concept of courage, which he defines as the willingness to remain in the uncertainty of life. This makes the overall logic of Courage somewhat circular and unclear. Be it as it may,

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the crux of his remarks centres on the total acceptance of one’s “ordinariness and living it joyously,” hence being “thankful to the whole existence” (Osho 2011, p. 189).

Reasons to Lose Heart While admiring Diogenes, Osho transforms his views beyond recognition and takes the bite out of his scandalous display of truth. As previously stated, Foucault’s treatment of Cynicism in the history of moral philosophy is likewise problematic. Nevertheless, the issues he raises have a direct bearing on our understanding of the Cynicism that characterises our global era, which I define as the abandonment of two things: philosophical concerns about the ethics of courage, on the one hand, and the art of social living and human fellowship aiming at creating a better world, on the other. Both converge on the profound discouragement of our age, which is a direct consequence of the centralisation of all forms of power, including the current production and distribution of wealth and knowledge. But the disheartenment of the cor roots of Western ethics is also the outcome of a lengthy process of human individuation dating back to Greek antiquity—a self-absorption of the soul and mind pursuing all possible means of self-fulfilment in this world or in the afterlife. This is the two-sided matrix that now prevails: regimes with unmatched power on a global scale coexist alongside the sovereign “I,” free from any art of brave living and struggling against the countless injustices and ravages of our time. Today’s world is confronted with inequalities and crises at a scale and speed never seen before. It is also shaped by the legacy of far-reaching ideals and battles of the twentieth century, such as socialism, democracy, decolonisation, pacifism, feminism, genderqueer pride, and the civil rights movement, not to mention the fight for a sustainable Earth. Pursuing these causes without losing heart in the face of innumerable obstacles and setbacks requires a great deal of courage. But this begs the question: what kind of courage do we need to move forwards? Should we prioritise bold steps to achieve global justice and ecological sustainability? Can we still learn from the valour of citizens who carry out their duties

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or defend their freedom and country? Can we draw inspiration from the fortitude that people display when they master their impulses and emotions and endure hardship for their own sake or in the name of God? Should we follow Socrates’ lead and boldly seek the truth in all circumstances, no matter what? Or, should we encourage individuals to fully embrace life in this world, pursue their own objectives with energy and determination, and, if necessary, climb above the rest in the game of life? These are pressing questions. Current efforts to answer them, using the language of courage, are nonetheless few and far between. One would expect some guidance from philosophers, psychologists, and social scientists eager to reflect on how courage ties into the future of humanity. But this is not the case. Theoretical debates over the concept of courage and its moral and social implications presently receive little attention. Battles never end, and hopes never die, but not in the power of courage as a guiding principle for both individual and collective behaviour. The latter statement lacks nuance, one might argue. As discussed in the two previous chapters, the twentieth century is rich with appeals for courage in the sphere of politics. Camus, Fromm, Levinas, Freire, and Tillich, each in their own way, regard courage as an important lever for resisting systems of oppression and violence that undermine people’s freedom, capacity for self-affirmation, sense of humanity, and ethical responsibility. Their perspective is diametrically opposed to Hitler’s wolfish or hound-like conception of man’s “courage of aggression.” In keeping with the metaphor, Fromm reflects on Hitler’s relationship to his dog, the only true friend he had. The Third Reich’s chancellor trained dogs to execute his orders blindly, like machines with no will. He expected both his dog and his wife to die by his side. Unlike dogs and wolves, who kill for food or self-preservation, the dictator and his lackeys found joy in torturing and killing for no cause (Fromm 1973, pp. 23, 100–101, 400, 408, 424). Other contemporary philosophers also use the dog metaphor to make a case against the rule of violence and oppression. For Brecht, the dog keeps howling because it is held in chains, which is an apt metaphor for people living in poverty and marked by the maelstrom of war and the cruelties of history. In The Stranger, Camus portrays the dog as a companion animal that Salamano both mistreats and loves (Camus 1967). Both the ill-tempered master and his dog suffer from old age and comparable

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ailments. They are caged up in the same room and take turns tugging each other when going for walks. The absurdity of everyday life, the feeling of togetherness in suffering, and the ambiguity of abuse and love all demonstrate the complexity of life at the brink of death and despair. In Levinas’ work, the anguish of one’s own finitude and death is likened to the fear of the “big bad wolf.” The imagination, on the other hand, is free to conjure up a scenario in which the wolf ends up cohabiting with the lamb, ideally in a real world where people come face-to-face and seek reconciliation (Levinas 1989, pp. 94, 27). Gandhi’s use of dog imagery is equally revealing. The animal evokes life in a state of poverty and submission to the will of a master, to be fought with methods that are effective but also moral. But the dog is also a symbol of courage and nonviolent resistance to oppression and injustice. Every Gandhian is steadfast, like a stubborn dog that one girl attempts to push from behind while another girl pulls it with a string tied around its neck. The animal will not budge under any force other than its own free will. The animal, on the other hand, remains humble and perfectly harmless; it will not use its strength to attack and bite the young girls. It behaves as a lamb that chooses to face the tiger or lion and never succumb to fear (Gandhi 1999, 7:290; 26:157; 33:172). Gandhi’s dog, as brave as it is, heralds the demise of eagle-like representations of the will to power. The latter include Nietzsche’s celebrated “anchorite and eagle courage” as well as the heraldic eagles of the Holy Roman Emperors, the Second German Empire, the Weimar Republic, Nazi Germany, and imperial Russia. The eagle, as an apex predator, becomes an appropriate target for critiques of the idea of survival of the fittest and its heinous Hitlerian formulation, the “courage of aggression.” The bald eagle, a symbol of the pride and strength of America since 1782, invites philosophical criticism as well. Intriguingly, the dog is well-suited to represent the hopes of our current era. In the writings of Gandhi and Existentialists, man’s best friend is a fitting symbol for the underdogs in society, i.e., the downtrodden who exhibit “doggedness” in their resistance to oppression by foreign rulers and holders of power. In a similar vein, Foucault’s study of courage conjures up the image of the dog as an emblem of the spirit of self-­ affirmation and biting criticism promoted by the ancient Cynics, from

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the Greek word “kunikos,” originally an adjective meaning “doglike,” from kuōn, “dog.” Even Osho has positive things to say about the lessons learned from the canine species. A dog that sits still in front of a rock will start barking and jumping as soon as someone starts pulling the rock with a string. As with a man searching for truth, “movement makes him sharp; then all dullness is gone” (Osho 2004, p.  37). In addition, a dog will never lose its inherent or natural self when left alone; domestication, on the other hand, turns the animal into a servile shadow of its owner and master (Osho 1982, I pp. 79–80). However, there are issues with using dogs as metaphors for moral behaviour. For one thing, dogs are not the bravest animals. They typically flee out of fear, and their intelligence is limited. Citing Hegel, Tillich reminds us that dogs may have feelings, “but man has thought” (Tillich 1972, p. xxxvi). According to Hegel, the use of physical symbols, such as Sirius or the Dog Star, degrades the god of Thought. “A man cannot by imagination or conception enter into the nature of a dog, whatever resemblance he himself might have to it; it remains something altogether alien to him,” he says. “It is in two departments that the so-called Incomprehensible meets us—in living Nature and in Spirit” (Hegel 1956, pp. 211–12). The German philosopher is especially critical of the early Cynics, who lived like shameless dogs, without dignity and honour. They deserve little consideration in the history of philosophy (Hegel 1892, I pp. 486–87; 1896, p. 96). But Hegelian idealism is no longer in vogue. Lofty systems of ethics have gone to the dogs, so to speak. When it comes to displaying courage and awareness of what it is, the investigations of moral philosophy have lost much of their credibility. The study of courage generates little interest. Cynicism about philosophising over courage is so extreme that not even the courage of Cynicism is worth promoting as a moral theory or way of life; Michel Foucault is an exception to the rule. In the global age, extreme scepticism and concerns about how real dogs are treated attract more attention than grand speculations or ideals meant to address the hopelessness of our time. In retrospect, twentieth-century thinking on courage is a failed attempt to bridge the gap between two legacies of the previous century: scientific optimism and philosophical despair. One approach, informed by the

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natural and social sciences, overstates the significance of active and energetic courage in the march of history. Marxism is part of this forward-­ thinking literature; despite its critique of modern capitalism, it is a doctrine of inexorable progress. The philosophical legacy, more pessimistic in character, opts instead for existential “courage of despair,” nurturing it in opposition to rational wisdom and church doctrine. It lays the groundwork for a “pessimism of strength” that uses willpower to deepen faith in all parts of human existence, including life in the body and creative self-affirmation in this world. The twentieth century continues to address these twin concerns of social progress and personal despair, but with an emphasis on bringing the two poles closer together. On the brighter end of the spectrum, progressive intellectuals tone down the naive optimism and complacency of evolutionary science. Influential thinkers such as Mahatma Gandhi, Erich Fromm, Paulo Freire, and Albert Camus, to mention a few, condemn all forms of dominance and aggression and advocate for civil disobedience to oppose the rule of tyranny and social injustice. Counter-hegemonic courage is promoted despite the prevailing climate of oppression and war, or rather because of it. At the darker end of the spectrum, existential pessimism and moral disillusionment continue to thrive in a troubled time. Nonetheless, some leading thinkers attempt to shore up the foundations of courage by raising the hopes of truth-telling and self-affirmation in life. Tillich, as discussed in Chap. 20, proposes a faith-based understanding of “the courage to be,” with a mind to acknowledging and transcending the deep-seated anxieties of death, guilt, and meaninglessness in human existence. Instead, Foucault focuses on the courage of parrhēsia, which he defines as the art of Cynic truth-­telling and living, freeing oneself from conformity and the fear of shame. However important they may have been, efforts to salvage the ethics of courage from the dustbin of history have failed. A new concept has now become so widespread that it is supplanting the many ideals of courage developed over the centuries: resilience, which we as humans require to cope with our present world and lives. To break out of our moral impasse, we must learn to bounce back from suffering and adversity, a form of strength accessible to all life forms, including dogs. The following chapter examines this new mindset that heralds the end of the ethics of courage,

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along with what is even more troubling: the passing of the courage of ethics.

References Camus, Albert. 1967. The Stranger. Trans. S. Gilbert. New York: Knopf. Foucault, Michel. 2008. The Courage of the Truth. Trans. G. Burchell. New York: Macmillan Palgrave. Kindle. Fromm, Erich. 1973. The Anatomy of Human Destructiveness. New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston. Gandhi, Mahatma. 1999. The Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi. Electronic Book. 98 volumes. New Delhi: Publications Division Government of India. Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich. 1892. Lectures on the Philosophy of History. In Three Volumes. Trans. S. Haldane. London: Kegan Paul. ———. 1896. The Philosophy of Right. Trans. S.W. Dyde. London: G. Bell. ———. 1956. The Philosophy of History. Trans. J. Sibree. Toronto: Dover. Levinas, Emmanuel. 1989. The Levinas Reader. Ed. S.  Hand. Oxford, UK: Blackwell. Osho (Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh). 1982. The Secrets of Secrets. In Two Volumes. Rajneeshporm, Oregon: Rajneesh Foundation International. ———. 2004. Meditation for Busy People. London: Hamlyn. ———. 2011. Courage: Osho Insights for a New Way of Living. New York: St. Martin’s. Kindle. Tillich, Paul. 1972. A History of Christian Thought, from its Judaic and Hellenistic Origins to Existentialism. New York: Touchstone.

22 Risk and Resilience

Imagining and Risking: Bertrand Russell and Paul Ricoeur Tillich published The Courage to Be in 1952, and Foucault delivered his lectures on The Courage of Truth in the early 1980s. Admittedly, these major contributions to our topic have not reversed the general trend, which is to abandon virtually all efforts to investigate and debate the foundations of courage. New Age attempts at rescuing the concept from oblivion have likewise proven fruitless. The word “courage” and its corroot meanings continue to be expressed in ordinary language and everyday settings through multiple usages and rich evocations that vary in purpose and context. Calls for courage, however, are no longer aiming high. They make no claims to serving higher causes, such as explaining and promoting moral goodness and wellness in this world. Courage has lost its standing as a general principle or sentiment that can guide conduct and is worthy of debate. This discouragement of moral thinking is largely attributable to the disillusionments and anxieties of advanced modernity and the global age. The general waning of the ethics of courage has left a vacuum that new value systems can fill, with a focus on the self, its own battle for truth, and the feelings of anxiety, solitude, and risk involved in facing the challenges of our time. In Foucault’s account of cynicism, looking for truth outside © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_22

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of established certainties is a risky venture that calls for courage. According to Osho, it takes courage to embrace the unknown and all that one’s quest for spiritual wisdom and truth has to offer. Tillich likewise emphasises the courage of living truthfully and creatively, which means taking the risk of experiencing “a tragedy, a destructive fate, the breakdown of convictions, even guilt and momentary despair” (Tillich 1952, p. 107). Humanity’s élan vital cannot resist and overcome despair without struggling to overcome the threat of meaninglessness in the world. The implication here is that the object of one’s fear is less significant than the threat it poses to maintaining hope and faith in the meaning of life. This idea finds its way in Paul Ricoeur’s existential phenomenology (1913–2005). In his view, the will demonstrates courage when it pursues a moral idea with such faith and passion that it withdraws its attention from the imagined peril or suffering anticipated by the mind (Ricoeur 1966, p. 466). The courageous response to fear and the anticipation of pain becomes a matter of skill and discipline where the risk of suffering is fully accepted. The approaching danger is endured or scorned for the sake of an idea that demands it. Fighting pain takes second place to the will’s battle against what is deemed evil, embracing hardship as the difficult path to achieving goodness in this world. The martyrs of duty, science, faith, the pioneers of the polar regions, of deserts, glaciers, of space, or the fighters and heroes of liberty confront at the same time a body which is not a bundle of reflexes but of impeti and an imagination made to the measure of willing and of the body. (Ricoeur 1966, p. 108)

Courage is a response to an imaginary situation created in the mind, a possibility that precedes the actual experience of pain. The idea that courage is inextricably linked to the creative mind finds an echo at the other end of the philosophical spectrum in the writings of Bertrand Russell (1872–1970), a leading figure in the Anglo-American movement of analytic philosophy. Some of Russell’s remarks are tinged with Stoicism. In his study of mysticism and logic, the author evokes the courage we need to accept our fate, not have regrets, and suffer the inevitable misfortunes of poverty, sickness, and death. The path to wisdom consists of resigning

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ourselves to our tragic condition and supporting fellow sufferers in moments of despair. In the endurance of intolerable pain and in the irrevocableness of a vanished past, there is a sacredness, an overpowering awe, a feeling of the vastness, the depth, the inexhaustible mystery of existence, in which, as by some strange marriage of pain, the sufferer is bound to the world by bonds of sorrow. (Russell 1910, p. 54)

But showing indifference to hardships and misfortune is not enough. If humans are to escape the world of hard facts and disappointments in their lives, they must gain insights into the beauty of tragedy. They must keep their distance from the world of desire and eager will. They can accomplish this by pursuing noble aims and demonstrating high levels of energy and vitality. In this aspect, the Chinese do not serve as an example. While they have great courage in the face of pain and death, their reasons for putting up with torture and death are selfish and unedifying (Russell 1922, pp. 210–11). For courage to shine, it must overcome the rule of fear and the instinct for material possession (Russell 1917, pp. 13–14). Preaching peace and love in the name of Christ may be a step in the right direction. But the nobility of courage calls for a higher, more forward-looking energy. It requires a “morality of initiative” that strives for a better world, as opposed to a “morality of submission” based on older religious ideals such as escaping God’s wrath (Russell 1920, p. 222). Russell argues that it is within man’s power to make the most of his life, which means showing reverence for others and, more importantly, respect for his own impulses and creative hopes. A religion worth embracing must therefore draw its inspiration from a vision of what life should become. It must spread the joy of creativity that comes from “living in a large free world of initiative and hope.” Instead of being built on of superstitions and strict norms, the religious life that we must seek should recognise that “the world is our world, and it rests with us to make it a heaven or a hell.” “The power is ours, and the kingdom and the glory would be ours also if we had courage and insight to create them” (Russell 1920, pp. 222–23).

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The life that strives to create a better world instead of possessing it is the source of great happiness, an inner joy that provides freedom from any external power and the reign of fear. This creative energy provides the courage and vision necessary to make the right decisions and overcome all obstacles and feelings of discouragement (Russell 1917, pp.  3–4). Dogs and other animals lack this forward-looking and hopeful energy. As Russell puts it, “no dog goes mad from choice” (Russell 1919, p. 126). While cerebral activity causes them to experience emotions, they act purely on impulse, without a sense of purpose, foresight, or moral goals. They never behave heroically by anticipating and accepting the consequences that follow. Instead, the brave are like Macbeth: when he “realizes that he is doomed to defeat, he does not shrink from the fight” (Russell 1920, p. 9). Dogs will naturally put efforts into chasing hares and fighting the enemy, but they lack the instinct for “constructiveness” or creative foresight and imagination that humans possess. This higher instinct must grow and withstand the pressures of social history. It is thwarted by capitalism, which prevents workers from having “any share in the purpose for which the work is undertaken” (Russell 1920, p. 146). In a better world, all humans create, work, and struggle with a sense of purpose in pursuit of life as they imagine it. Language plays a central role in the development of moral courage. What differentiates dogs from humans is their lack of an active understanding of words. For example, they are unable to comprehend the meaning of the word “dog,” which necessitates an understanding of the similarities and differences between animal species. They cannot imagine something to be “this-rather-than-that,” much less consciously trigger images of their absent master or the rabbits they would like to hunt (Russell 1921, pp. 228–29, 249). Humans, on the other hand, can imagine what does not exist, including the ideals that inspire them. They can even use the dog metaphor to condemn inaction, cruelty, and despair. In Problem of China, Russell comments on the difference between man’s ability to feel affection for a dog and the cruelty of the Chinese who laugh at the sight of a suffering dog hit by a car. He also contrasts his ability to develop feelings for animals with the distance he felt when he encountered a “strange assemblage of human beings, half-nomads” on the Volga’s shore in 1920. These people were “the very soul of Russia, unexpressive,

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inactive from despair” (Russell 1922, pp. 18–19, 210). All remarks and metaphors point to Russel’s view of courage as a manifestation of hopeful and life-affirming energy. Ricoeur and Russell provide a vision of courage that tips the scales away from the philosophical mood of existential despair and, equally important, from the false promises of science and technology aimed at “a brave new world.” The two philosophers, each in their own way, shift the emphasis to the positive aspects of uncertainty as well as the creativity and venturesome spirit of our time. Nonetheless, both face the same issue as Foucault and Tillich: they are unable to reverse the trend and defend the ethics of courage from science’s hegemonic claims and the disillusionments of late modernity. The root system and ideals of courage appear incapable of bouncing back and recovering from the upheavals and turmoils of the last century. They lack the resilience required to persist, adapt, evolve, and thrive. A new mode of thinking is taking its place as the cornerstone of moral thinking, or a substitute for it: namely, resilience talk, understood as the science of coping with despair and pursuing wellness in all forms, primarily in the realm of physis.

From Despair to Resilience The analytic philosopher G.  E. Moore (1873–1958) predicted, in his own way, the end of courage as early as 1903. The argument he put forward to abridge all speculations about courage was that the concept is so obvious as to require little explanation. In Principia Ethica, he comments that courage is intrinsically good and therefore self-evident. Since goodness is grasped intuitively, courage does not need to be derived from practical reason, as in Kantian philosophy. It requires no special analysis that leads to further enquiry. Therefore, the concept does not merit an examination of the means required to attain the desired outcomes. Moore nonetheless develops his own theory of courage. At its core, courage is an intrinsically desirable and admirable state of mind, an abstract sense and emotion of rightness that exists by itself and guides human action and behaviour. More precisely, it is the internal disposition to carry out one’s duties and accept the suffering that follows. Given its

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inward focus, the quality cannot be directly tied to an external object or action (such as fighting for one’s country). This is the fallacy of ethical naturalism, characteristic of hedonism, egoism, utilitarianism, and evolutionary ethics. They all treat virtues incorrectly as statements of observable facts that may be examined in non-moral terms. Courage is a moral sentiment that points to the autonomy of ethics, a “mixed good” that combines love of what is truly good with knowledge and aversion of what is intrinsically evil or ugly (Moore 1982, pp. 181–85, 216–22, 262). Courage is a moral and abstract disposition of the mind that goes beyond the purview of hard scientific enquiry. The statement is hardly surprising: most present-day intellectuals concur that courage is of little or no scientific interest. This is a sign of the times we live in. Charles McMoran Wilson (1882–1977), alias Lord Moran, the British physician who later became Winston Churchill’s doctor, is one of the very few who persist in using science to investigate the topic. His work is worth revisiting, if only as a missing link between older moral philosophies and a new science that will eventually eclipse almost all references to the ethics of courage: namely, the science of resilience. In his 1945 book The Anatomy of Courage: The Classic WWI Study of the Psychological Effects of War, Moran uses his observations of soldiers under stress to develop his own theory of courage. In general, the study is consistent with the traditional teachings of virtue-based ethics. Its originality lies in its endeavours to identify the factors responsible for the waning of courage in wartime situations. Findings may help determine what can be done to delay or prevent the “using up” of courage and youthful “resiliency” (Moran 1967, p. 99). Moran views “the martial spirit of a race” as a crucial measure of manliness or virility, by which he means the honour and moral character of a people forged in both war and peace (Moran 1967, Preface, 2nd ed.). Courage is a repeated demonstration of moral resolve and the willpower not to give up in the face of adversity (Moran 1967, p. 67). While bravery is a rare attribute, it is not confined to men who are naturally fearless, as was the case in ancient times. In the past, armies recruited soldiers who felt no fear because they lacked the intelligence and imagination to anticipate danger. Their courage was rooted in phlegm, apathy, and “a vacant mind” (Moran 1967, pp.  6, 11). Men with stronger imaginations are

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more likely to feel both fear and the fear of fear. They are more apt to understand that success is contingent on their willingness to undergo many trials, including the effects of monotony over extended periods of time. But they also have the strength of character required to control their imagination, which is essential in times of war (Moran 1967, pp. 13–14). Some men noted for their strength of character will nonetheless squander or lose their courage, much like a bank account or capital that is emptied or closed due to a sudden withdrawal (Moran 1967, p. 26). Situations and factors that sap a soldier’s courage include bloody battles, heavy or intensive bombing, physical exhaustion, war casualties, the wrong attitude towards danger, drab monotony, and losing the support of stronger spirits (Moran 1967, Preface, 1st ed.). Another contributing factor is the prolonged practice of self-control with no rest to combat nervous fatigue (Moran 1967, p. 81). But the most important factor that accounts for the absence or waning of courage is selfishness, whether in times of war or peace. This raises the issue of pre-war recruitment and how to select brave men who have no prior experience in combat. Moran’s view is that recruitment should be based on men’s moral character, which is the root of fortitude and must be developed before a war starts. The actual battle in the field is only one more test, the ultimate and final one. The man of courage in war is the man of character in peace. He stands out for his unselfishness and his habit of allowing his beliefs and sense of right and wrong to guide his behaviour, as Aristotle once taught. Man’s fate in battle is worked out before war begins. For his acts in war are dictated not by courage, nor by fear, but by conscience, of which war is the final test. The man whose quick conscience is the secret of his success in battle has the same clear cut feelings about right and wrong before war makes them obvious to all. (Moran 1967, pp. 169–70)

The meaning of “courage” is essentially social. It lies in selfless men fighting for their freedom and the moral foundations of their own and their children’s life. The willpower of the brave is their dedication to a great cause (Moran 1967, Preface, 1st ed.).

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Moran combines elements of moral psychology with qualitative field data to cast light on British soldiers’ courageous and youthful resiliency during times of war. Studies of resilience that have proliferated since the early 1970s address similar issues, but with one important difference: moral assumptions are left out, as is the discourse on the concept of courage. Science makes a clean break from moral philosophy. The extensive use of resilience theory in a wide range of disciplines assumes that humans, animate life, and physical objects can all be studied using the same overarching concept, with value-free adaptations to each field of enquiry. In 1818, engineer Thomas Tredgold used the concept to describe various types of wood that do not break under sudden and heavy loads. Four decades later, the notion of “modulus of resilience” emerged as a measure of the ability of building and naval construction materials to sustain severe shocks or heavy loads without breaking. To this day, resilience, understood as the ability to absorb and release energy within a certain “elastic range,” forms part of the design codes of naval architects and civil and mechanical engineers. Since the 1970s, the concept has been extended to a wide range of disciplines, from environmental studies to child and adult psychology, organisational and business sciences, community studies, public administration, and international relations. Holling was the first to adapt and apply the concept to studies of ecology and evolution (Holling 1973). His research focused on ecosystems that are profoundly affected by external change, as well as their ability to persist and return to an equilibrium state. Other ecologists have since questioned the equilibrium concept and put more emphasis on a system’s ability to evolve over time, sustaining its present and potential functions under complex and ever-changing conditions (Klein et al. 2004; Walker and Salt 2005). However, there is still no widespread consensus on the notion of ecological resilience or its operational definition. Consensus is even more difficult to achieve when we consider the complexity of existing socio-ecological systems and the functions they serve, which include contested societal goals and the value of Nature on its own. Also dating back to the early 1970s is the literature on the psychological aspects of human resilience. Studies examine how well children and adults respond to highly disruptive or traumatic experiences such as violence, death, war, fatal accidents, and natural disasters. These are

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high-stress, potentially life-threatening situations that may compromise the maintenance of optimal psychosocial and physical functioning (Garmezy 1971; Rutter 1979). While there are disagreements on several key issues, most theories highlight the fact that temporary dysfunction or distress is a normal response to an abnormal event. In addition, they underline the ability and willingness of individuals to adapt and reduce their exposure to highly disruptive situations and their negative impact. Studies of community resilience raise similar concerns at a broader level. They discuss the “social capital” or “sustainable livelihoods” required to demonstrate resilience in the face of significant social and environmental hazards (Adger 2003; Moser and Dani 2008). Research on organisational resilience is more about the dynamic adaptation of businesses to complex and rapidly changing environments, as well as the “agile” measures required to reduce the size, frequency, and impact of disruptive events or crises. Effective measures include flexible staff, product diversification, adaptable supply chains, risk assessments, and continuity planning (Hamel and Välikangas 2003; Seville et  al. 2006). Finally, the concept of resilience has made significant inroads into discussions of state-level security and defence. The focus is on evaluating and preparing for hazards like terrorism, natural disasters, chemical and biological attacks, as well as crises in communications, infrastructure, and transportation security. The concept of resilience has blossomed and become a rallying point for discussions of adaptation and evolution in a changing world when individuals, social communities, and natural systems face unprecedented challenges. Recurring issues that help frame most studies and debates revolve around events or situations that pose serious threats to the individual or system, the ways in which different factors protect or jeopardise the ability to achieve positive outcomes over time, and general guidelines on interventions that may foster or strengthen long-term resilience. The overall reasoning touches on the three fundamental aspects of courage that have shaped the ethics of courage throughout history: existential, political, and epistemic. Below, I examine these three aspects of resilience and the ways in which the resilience ethos, which is primarily eudemonic, individualistic, and scientific, competes with earlier visions of courage.

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Discussions of human resilience revolve primarily around issues of existential well-being in the face of suffering and adversity. This is reflected in the word “resilience,” which first appeared in the early seventeenth century. It comes from the Latin verb resilire, “to rebound or recoil,” from salire, “to leap.” The word “salient” comes from the same root. It denotes something that leaps or points outward, a prominent or striking object. Aristotle’s “salient point” (punctum saliens) is the “starting point” of everything as well as the first trace of the heart in an embryo, a pulsating point that seems to leap. The imagery brings us back to the heart symbolism at the root of courage. Salire, on the other hand, has political and social undertones. A salient or bulge is a military position that projects into the position of the enemy. The French term “résiliation,” in use since the sixteenth century, refers to the termination of a contract or treaty. The resilience literature’s starting point is mostly concerned with issues of functioning and adaptation to existential threats as they pertain to materials, ecosystems, individuals, and social organisations. The rational or religious pursuit of knowledge and truth is not a primary consideration. Applying resilience thinking to politics and battles for freedom against injustice and enemies of the country is not a subject of central interest either. Studies of resilience instead continue a long tradition of eudemonic thinking dating back to Hippocrates’ analysis of factors that increase people’s capacity to withstand hardships in life. The approach echoes some of the principles of Epicurean philosophy, with its emphasis on well-being in the here and now. It owes some of its ideas to the rise of individualism and utilitarianism in the early modern era. It also contains traces of Darwinism, except that the concept of adaptation is now tainted with fears of existential “despair.” This brings us to a key feature of resilience: the concept supersedes all previous visions of the courage required to attain moral excellence or ensure future progress. Historically, theories of courage have always advocated for some ideal existence or future world worth imagining and fighting for. The overall tone of the resilience literature is considerably less optimistic or idealistic. If it shows buoyancy, it is only in the sense of supporting the capacity of people and systems to remain afloat, recover, and adapt during challenging times. As an example, when it comes to explaining the resilience of children growing up while facing adversity,

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the most frequently stated positive outcomes are normal competence development and the absence of pathology, such as depression and anxiety. The standard for happiness is based on markers of normality. In essence, “resilience talk” abandons all ambitions for the self, society, and humanity to surpass themselves, transcend current limitations, and evolve beyond functional adaptations to life and the world as we know it. Resilience theory reflects the global age’s scepticism towards outmoded narratives of moral excellence, spiritual redemption, and evolutionary progress. If there is ray of hope to be found in the teachings of resilience, it is in their appreciation of everything that life has to offer, regardless of the challenges. This idea is not altogether novel. The Epicurean wisdom of simple and natural living comes to mind here. But the current implications of simpler ways of living are vastly different. Resilience lessons today call for a humbler attitude with respect to our place in Nature, the fragility of our species, and the fundamentals of human existence. More respectful and appreciative forms of living are more pressing than ever. This is where the concept of resilience comes into play: an affirmation of life that transcends the current fixation with what is lacking and sought in the satisfaction of limitless wants. Many stories of resilience are moving and inspiring. They illustrate paths to discovering the richness of life in terrible and seemingly hopeless circumstances. However, while edifying, each story told serves a limited goal: to demonstrate what people must and can do to attain some measure of happiness. Resilient people show how to thrive and be well in the face of adversity and trauma. The problem with this approach is that some people disprove the theory by rushing into danger for reasons other than their own well-being. Remarkable people tend to focus less on themselves and their own thriving and more on what has intrinsic value and is worth “thriving for.” They recover from adversity by committing to a purpose larger than themselves, a cause that extends beyond resilience as a goal. Paradoxically, if they are resilient, it is because they do not aim for resilience. Their perspective on life is at odds with the principles they are meant to illustrate. Resilient people demonstrate courage, one might say. They commit to moral and social goals as ends in themselves, not as means to their own survival or happiness. This brings me to the politics of resilience, which

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are generally dedicated to achieving high levels of self-affirmation and sociability. While some theorists emphasise the impact of genetics and biology (e.g., early malnutrition) on variations in levels of resilience, the majority reject the idea that resilience is an inherent trait or quality. As Cyrulnik puts it, “resilience is not just something we find inside ourselves or in our environment.” “It is something we find midway between the two, because our individual development is always linked to our social development” (Cyrulnik 2009, p.  284). Accordingly, everyone has the potential to develop a strong sense of agency, responsibility, and determination. In their own way, stories and statistics on expressions of agency and self-efficacy among resilient people follow the well-trodden path of theories of free will and choice dating back to antiquity, with one important difference: they overlook the inherent issues and merits of moral life. The role of “healthy” social settings and feelings is another recurring theme. Studies of protective and risk factors attach great importance to family ties and cohesion, school support, social relationships, community solidarity, and socioeconomic status (where poverty is a risk factor). Positive outcomes of resilient behaviour include the development of social competence (e.g., warmth, expressiveness, spontaneity, friendship) and the normal functioning of individuals in society. Non-conformity, disorder, conflict, deviant behaviour, civil disobedience, and acts of protest and rebellion can all be opportunities for showing resilience. But they are not generally viewed as positive outcomes. This emphasis on the benefits of sociability raises two issues. One is that resilience theory does not allow for courageous battles against injustice, particularly if they end up being costly; conflict and strife are not conducive to happiness. Another issue is that no clear justification is provided for excluding supervillains and oppressive systems from resilience analyses. The hidden assumption is that immoral aims and conduct will negatively impact people’s potential for wellness and survival. Life is such that cruel people and regimes inevitably plant the seeds of their own destruction. Conversely, the goodness of human nature is certain to be rewarded. Epicurus believed that the courage of natural living could both make a person happy and serve the common good. He recognized, however, that securing peace and living “with one another most pleasantly” might

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necessitate the use of force against external threats. Socrates maintained a similar view in his discussion of the wisdom of courage, as did contract theorists in their focus on private interests and life in society: sociability never comes without strife and battles over the good life. Darwinists trusted the laws of evolution to reconcile personal selfishness and happiness with life in society and the good of all. This, however, did not deter them from investigating the laws of competitive reproduction, selection, and survival. Resilience theory is vulnerable to accusations of sociological naiveté. Michael Ungar is one of the few to articulate a solution to this problem. In his view, resilience is essentially political. “It does not require big government, but it needs government or a substitute authority that will provide the foundations for success” (Ungar 2019, p. 126). Resilience is a function of what people receive from their surroundings, not what they already have on their own. Children and adults will show resilience provided they receive proper care and support from their families, workplaces, communities, health care providers, and government agencies. The science of resilience should focus its analysis and recommendations on creating resilient-promoting spaces for “resourced individuals,” rather than propagating the myth of “rugged individuals”—heroes endowed with the ability to recover from adverse circumstances on their own (Ungar 2019, pp. 18–20). Based on evidence gathered around the world, Ungar points to a short list of twelve key resources that people must be able to access in order to become resilient. For simplicity, I group them into four categories. Firstly, social conditions play an important role, as always. People are more likely to succeed in life if they feel a sense of belonging and can rely on a strong supportive network, a loving environment, and recognition of their self-­ worth. Secondly, settings that favour the exercise of reason and free will make a difference. They enable people to engage in regular activities, make their own decisions, try new things, learn from their mistakes, and correct them as needed. Thirdly, resilient-promoting spaces have moral foundations. They encourage people to assert their rights and take responsibility for their own and others’ well-being. Finally, people are more resilient in political-economic settings that provide safety and security, as

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well as shared conditions of physical and financial well-being, all of which foster a general climate of positive thinking. Ungar’s research has far-reaching implications. It means, among other things, that bad governments, bad economies, bad workplaces, and bad families, coupled with elitist, racist, sexist, and homophobic social norms, keep people stuck in toxic situations. In practice, this means our resilience depends on the resilience of our social institutions and individual or collective action. We ask our families to help us to get an education, we form neighborhood associations to keep our streets plowed, or we unionize and strike for fairer wages and safer working conditions. Maybe we take to the streets to protest racism or urge our politicians to address climate change before our coastal cities flood. (Ungar 2019, p. 25)

All stories of resilience, small or large, are about changes in the world that offer people better access to the resources, or “social capital,” they need to grow and succeed in life. Ungar’s progressive rethinking of the relationships between self and society brings fresh air to inspirational literature that is often lacking in political will and courage. His approach, however, runs into the same chicken-and-egg problem that students of resilience must all grapple with: people must live in non-toxic surroundings to be resilient, but they must also show resilience if they are to change the toxic world around them. They can only fight injustice and neglect if their environment is just and caring. According to Ungar, humans can freely walk on the path of well-being for themselves and others as long as resource providers are pulling on their leashes to ensure they are heading in the proper direction. If so, the leash becomes the problem. The conundrum is as old as the riddle posed by the man-eating Sphinx guarding the City of Thebes: what goes on four feet in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening? The answer is “man.” The science of resilience is less merciful in that it asks a question for which there is no answer: who walks freely on all fours at dawn, with two crutches at noon, and with three aids in the

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evening? There is no solution to this conundrum, as no one could ever walk freely under these conditions. Resilience on a leash is a circle that cannot be squared. The approach overlooks the basic fact that there is no agency without some measure of freedom. The concept of agency only makes sense if we are conscious of the fact that we live in a probabilistic world with innumerable options between this and that. We pursue happiness and have some power to say “yea” or “nay” to any risk or protective factor that pulls us in one direction or the other. We also have some leeway in determining where we want to go, towards greater justice or not, as measured, for instance, by universal access to health care. The universe as we know it gives us some elbow room to shape our lives and the world we live in, as opposed to waiting for it to change and meet our needs. The “chance” it provides allows us to give something back in return and possibly benefit from it. This is part of our core being. It is reflected in our anxiety to do what is right, with some risk of failure but also the hope of achieving great things, sometimes against all odds. It is up to us to make the most of this liberty and occasionally pull ourselves up by our own bootstraps with energy, creativity, and sheer courage. We can take advantage of resilient-­ promoting spaces to reach our utmost potential. However, self-realisation conditioned by outside forces is no substitute for showing courage, no matter what. If stories of resilience are so inspiring, it is because they show us how we can surpass ourselves, go beyond our limits, and do unexpected things despite lacking resources. Resilient people do not follow the laws of resilience. Rather, they thrive and surpass themselves by defying the laws of probability. In their own way, this is what proponents of novel approaches to resilience do. They break new ground with the conviction that they could have chosen a different path and that no higher force, social or biological, compelled them to think and advocate this rather than that. They, paradoxically, demonstrate a key feature of resilience that is missing from their own research: the courage of science, without which there is no science of resilience.

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Recovery, for Want of Courage Those who approach human resilience with blind faith in science’s predictive power evade the question of free will and moral responsibility as guiding principles in their own right. Their conception of science poses a cognitive and epistemic dilemma: how should we understand the “mental aspects” of resilience, as well as the methods and people needed to investigate questions of adaptation and recovery from adversity? When discussing the positive outcomes and the risk and protective factors of resilience, most studies focus on indicators of rational thinking and behaviour, cognitive development, levels of intelligence and education, mental health, belief systems, and spiritual values. Ungar wisely insists on the importance of social context and culture, which have a direct bearing on the determination of people’s goals, the means to achieve them, and the indicators to measure positive outcomes. The assumption is that the meaning of happiness and ways to ensure it vary according to the historical and cultural context. Practically all theorists welcome the diversity of views and circumstances surrounding resilient behaviour. However, they never challenge the search for general laws based on universally applicable concepts, definitions, and descriptors of outcomes, risks, and resources. The assumption that science can follow its own principles and leave out all other considerations remains untouched. This raises basic concerns regarding the “science of resilience” and the way it is constructed and construed as an objective and value-free perspective on human behaviour. Common sense tells us that facts, methods, and logic are essential to practising good science and making good use of it. Without them, both our understanding of the world and our ability to act on it would be severely impaired. In the human sciences, however, abstract concepts and their observable indicators are typically laden with what we value and dread in life, and they are tainted by the language we use to think and act accordingly. This is evidently the case in the literature on resilience. As with the notion of courage, the founding concept acquires relevance and salience through the production of meaning and all related discussions and debates concerning its proper place in our lives. The same is true of justice, mental health, material well-being,

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rational behaviour, school-based learning, and even science. None of these ideas are the product of scientific thinking left to its own devices. They are not representations of real phenomena that exist out there, regardless of language, culture, values, or the struggles of political history. Resilience is worth pursuing and celebrating under one condition: it must be a good thing. Most would agree that the condition is already satisfied, if only by definition. No one would prefer having little or no resilience in the face of hardship. But the question of the goodness of resilience is more complex than one might expect. For one thing, to answer the query, one must have a clear understanding of what resilience is on its own, apart from other things that may be equally beneficial. What do we mean by “resilience proper,” and how do we distinguish resilience per se from its near-synonyms, determinants, and effects on our lives? Taken at face value, resilience is the ability to recover readily from illness, depression, adversity, or the like. To be resilient is to be able to recover from life’s difficulties. The idea seems positive and should appeal to everyone. Yet the definition remains vague. The ability to recover from hardship applies to a wide range of situations, some of which we are unlikely to celebrate. For instance, people might endure and recover from hardships over time while continuing to “show persistence” in leading lives that are generally unhealthy, miserable, or meaningless. They can bounce back from traumatic experiences and still show poor judgement in protecting themselves from future danger. They might even show persistence in their cruelty. Psychopaths and dictators under attack may recover from their misfortunes and become masters in the art of surviving and thriving. The same logic applies to broader systems. Capitalism has this canny ability to survive, thrive, and prosper despite a long string of recurring crises with terrible repercussions for millions of people. Given these points, why should we promote resilience per se? What is so good about it? And why not use simpler and more neutral expressions to convey the same idea, such as being able to adapt and recover, for better or worse? To make resilience a good thing, something worth exploring and promoting, we must give it a positive spin and assign desirable outcomes to people’s ability to recover from hardship. For example, resilient people

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serve as an inspiration to others who want to recover from trauma with a better understanding and attitude towards themselves and others. When paired with things worth pursuing and inherently sound, resilience adds value to simpler phrases like recovering, bouncing back, or changing to adapt. So long as it conveys an inspiring message, the concept escapes the banality of everyday expressions such as “when the going gets tough, the tough get going.” In other words, the concept must be part of a broader worldview in which the ultimate goal transcends the ability to survive and thrive in a constantly changing world. In this perspective, the reason why individuals need resilience is just as important as what they require to develop it, if not more so. This is how Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, and Seneca saw courage in the face of grave peril and adversity: as one of many virtues that contribute to goodness in life. Acting bravely without any wisdom or commitment to justice, for instance, makes no sense. All virtues are interdependent and make up the fabric of moral living. Every theory of human behaviour has its own founding concept—a starting point and end goal that provide the basis for any further investigation. This is true of resilience. It is an axiomatic concept, belief, or principle that can be fought for, adapted, and negotiated but cannot be proven with facts or logic alone. We may allow it to guide reason and science only if we buy into it from the start. But, aside from the royal “we,” who else has a voice in this matter? That is the central question that shapes the meaning and future of resilience. According to Ungar, people “under study” should be heard and take part in providing the answer. They should be invited to fully engage in any research that aims to understand and enhance their resilience. For example, when it comes to planning interventions and studies, youths should be able to engage with health services and even researchers to ensure that they do not create “methodologically flawed and contextually irrelevant interpretations of their worlds” (Ungar and Teram 2005, p. 149). Those who take the latter recommendation seriously should understand resilience and all associated concepts for what they are: abstract, socially constructed concepts with moral implications that should be open to debate. Resilience is worth investigated if it has relevance for the parties involved. The only way to validate the initiative is through dialogue and the effective participation of all interested parties. Research

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“with people,” not to be confounded with research “on human subjects,” must follow. This is easier said than done, and obstacles along this path are many. On the whole, the resilience literature falls short of the mark. Most research contribute to the advancement of science but not to our knowledge of science itself. Instead, resilience studies uphold scientific authority and maintain control over the contributions of “participating subjects.” For more than twenty years, I, Daniel Buckles, Michelle Bourassa, and many colleagues in Canada and around the world have attempted to meet the challenge of conducting research with people rather than about them or for them. We have used and created participatory action research methods to address a wide range of issues, including disaster relief in the Philippines, accident prevention in France, sustainable livelihoods in Bangladesh, land disputes in India, climate adaptation and gender equity in Africa, early childhood education in Quebec, moral suffering in Canada, and gross national happiness in Bhutan. The methods are both evidence-based and people-based. They blend factual and logical rigour with action-oriented dialogue between systems of knowledge, values, and interests, cutting across the boundaries of gender, culture, and class. Our commitment to these principles has meant that general concepts and the terms used to convey them must be negotiated in context rather than merely meeting the standards of hard science. For instance, questions that people want to address when recovering from an earthquake or a disaster are generated by participants. Ideally, this is done with the contribution of scientists researching the topic and engaging in other conversations, i.e., in other settings and within their own communities or disciplines. However, science and its practitioners are not given the first or last word in designing the main research questions, relevant factors, meaningful indicators, data collection methods, and end goals of the action-inquiry. The terminology and language needed to discuss all parts of the initiative are up for discussion. One direct consequence of this approach is that resilience talk can, but does not have to, be used to understand factors of recovery, risks met along the way, positive outcomes, and goals to be reached. The rationale for this is ethical and political: people should have a say in naming all key aspects of the world as

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they perceive it and as it should be, from their own perspective, whether they use the language and assumptions of resilience theory or not. To conclude this discussion, current studies of resilience are not any different from the evolutionary science of courage developed in the nineteenth century. They reflect a particular ethos that will thrive for a time before joining the historic graveyard of ideas competing for attention, relevance, and survival. Literature on this topic has blossomed since the early 1970s and continues to pass the relevance test in many fields and corners of society. What is less clear, however, is its long-term relevance and success in facing the challenges of our time. How far can we push the resilience ethos before it reaches its limits? Thus far, what it offers is a “scientistic” outlook on individuals living healthy lives despite adverse conditions. The approach taken is a far cry from sciences that seek to participate in people’s lives, an idea often conflated with calls for people to participate in the business of science. A forward-looking vision of broader ethics and politics is also lacking. For the time being, the resilience ethos is “de-moralising.” Unlike the hopeful language and ideals of courage, its emphasis is on the burdens of the past and strategies for relieving them. The literature tends to sever all ties to higher goals, those that inspire science and people to strive for an altogether different world. Recovering from suffering and adversity in order to alleviate stress and suffering is a poor substitute for something far more pressing and nobler: daring to live as we ought, energetically and courageously. In the end, calls for more courage and moral strength may produce outcomes that contradict the ultimate goals of resilience, which are to maintain and adapt the functions of current systems as well as their overall viability. Using the stand-alone notion of resilience without considering its ethical and political implications is deeply problematic. Elevating the idea to the rank of that which unites all good things, from wisdom to love and justice, reveals a central preoccupation of our age: the concept tout court betrays the fears we have about our ability to survive and thrive in the face of constant danger and suffering, using all means at our disposal, beginning with science. If resilience is to inspire us, it must not be the end goal but rather an invitation to build a shared vision of the fundamentals of goodness in people and life. In the absence of any such vision, our ability

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to recover and resume the journey will remain void of purpose and direction.

References Adger, W.N. 2003. Social Capital, Collective Action and Adaptation to Climate Change. Economic Geography 79 (4): 387–404. Cyrulnik, Boris. 2009. Resilience. Trans. D. Macey. London: Penguin. Kindle. Garmezy, N. 1971. Vulnerability Research and the Issue of Primary Prevention. American Journal of Orthopsychiatry 41: 101–116. Hamel, G., and L. Välikangas. 2003. The Quest for Resilience. Harvard Business Review, September. https://hbr.org/2003/09/the-­quest-­for-­resilience Holling, C.S. 1973. Resilience and Stability of Ecological Systems. Annual Review of Ecology and Systematics 4: 1–23. Klein, R.J.T., R.J.  Nicholls, and F.  Thomalla. 2004. Resilience to Natural Hazards: How Useful is This Concept? Global Environmental Change Part B: Environmental Hazards 5 (1–2): 35–45. Moore, George Edward. 1982. Principia Ethica. Cambridge: Cambridge University press. Kindle. Moran (Charles McMoran Wilson). 1967. The Anatomy of Courage. London: Constable. Kindle. Moser, C., and A. Dani. 2008. Assets, Livelihoods, and Social Policy. Washington, DC: World Bank. Ricoeur, Paul. 1966. Freedom and Nature: the Voluntary and the Involuntary. Trans. E.V. Kohák. Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press. Russell, Bertrand. 1910. Mysticism and Logic and Other Essays. London: Allen & Unwin. ———. 1917. Political Ideals. New York: The Century. ———. 1919. Proposed Roads to Freedom. New York: H. Holt. ———. 1920. Why Men Fight: A Method of Abolishing the International Duel. New York: The Century. ———. 1921. The Analysis of Mind. London: Allen & Unwin. ———. 1922. The Problem of China. London: Allen & Unwin. Rutter, M. 1979. Protective Factors in Children’s Response to Stress and Disadvantage. In Primary Prevention of Psychopathology: Vol. 3. Social Competence in Children, ed. M.W.  Kent and J.E.  Rolf, 49–74. Hanover: University Press of New England.

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Seville, E., D. Brunsdon, A. Dantas, J. Le Masurier, S. Wilkinson, and J. Vargo. 2006. Building Organisational Resilience: A Summary of Key Research Findings. New Zealand: Christchurch, Resilient Organisations Research Programme. Tillich, Paul. 1952. The Courage to Be. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Ungar, Michael. 2019. Change Your World: The Science of Resilience and the True Path to Success. Toronto: Sutherland House. Kindle. Ungar, M., and E. Teram. 2005. Qualitative Research Resilience: Contributions and Risks. In Handbook for Working with Children and Youth: Pathways to Resilience Across Cultures and Contexts, ed. M.  Ungar, 149–164. Sage, CA: Thousand Oaks. Walker, B.H., and D. Salt. 2005. Resilience Thinking: Sustaining Ecosystems and People in a Changing World. Washington: Washington Press, Island Press.

23 Courage in the Global Age

Courage Thus Far The Proto-Indo-European roots and ramifications of courage run deep in the history of moral philosophy. Discussions that grow from the seeds of cor and kerd- involve making far-reaching choices on matters of truth, life, and power. They raise epistemic questions of reason and faith, existential concerns of wellness and suffering, and political considerations of freedom and fate, love and fear, might and meekness. As discussed in Volume 1, the choices made in classical Greece extend beyond Homeric tales of epic warfare and tragedy. Courage is about exercising reason and fighting for freedom and democracy from a position of patriotic loyalty and military strength. The Stoics carry on this legacy of rational thinking and the wisdom of virtue, but with a focus on the role of fate and personal endurance in the face of adversity and death. Early Christianity places a strong emphasis on the spirit of fear and meekness before the Almighty. God bestows fearlessness and fortitude on those who have faith and bear suffering and persecution in his name in anticipation of the eternal blessings of heaven. The contrast with classical antiquity could not be greater. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32743-8_23

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It would take many centuries for Church Fathers and mediaeval scholars to show increasing openness to the wisdom of philosophy, the boldness of love, the rise of ecclesiastical power, the intrinsic value of life, and the gift of free will and human intentionality. The post-mediaeval period, on the other hand, casts doubt on all attempts at synthesis and highlights the perils of wrongdoing and corruption in the church. Religious dissidents and leaders of the Protestant Reformation put an end to the convergence of Christian doctrine with “pagan” morals and philosophy. Calvin and Luther, each in their own way, revert to early Christianity’s faith in the blessings of fear, meekness, suffering, and fate. Early modernity ushers in an even deeper transformation in moral philosophy. It abandons the longstanding focus on epistemic debates about reason and the politics of fear and faith in God. Political theorists of the time take their cue from Machiavelli and, before him, Thucydides. They re-examine the question of courage in light of the requirements of state governance and the pursuit of freedom and justice, all of which are based on the interests, emotions, and laws of human nature. While endorsing the same general principles, philosophers such as Locke, Montaigne, and Rousseau pay more attention to the existential aspects of life. They study how courage connects with human drives, social sentiments, childhood learning experiences, the voice of conscience, and self-awareness. As Kant teaches, some thinkers aim to reconcile courage in public or private lives with the imperatives of practical reason and the mind. Others ponder the love of God and his Divine Will, as understood by Spinoza or Burke. The laws of Nature continue to occupy centre stage in nineteenth-­ century discussions of courage, except that they now reflect a decidedly modern view of the world. The emphasis is on linking courage with the active energy (from Greek en-, in, and ergon, work) and willpower expended in human activity. A pronounced split develops between the optimism of natural and social evolution theory and the “pessimism of strength” advocated by the Existentialist movement. While one celebrates the forward march of social history, the other promotes the difficult affirmation of self and life beyond the rule of reason and the counsel of despair. By and large, twentieth-century thinkers continue to grapple with these polarised views and seek ways to question or soften the edges of sociological Positivism and philosophical Existentialism. On the social

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side of the divide, prominent figures like Gandhi, Freire, and Fromm challenge the ideological complacency of evolutionism and the many injustices committed in the name of Western progress. On the philosophical side, there are those, like Tillich and Foucault, who propose a less pessimistic outlook on the powers of faith and Cynic truth-telling. The search for meaning outside of the herd mentality can shield one’s individuality and creativity from the effects of conformism and collectivism. Modern-day calls for critical forms of courage, as inspiring as they may be, are becoming increasingly rare. If anything, pleas for the “courage to be” and the “courage of truth” represent the last gasp of a dying civilisation, ushering in an age of despair. Our present world is demoralised and discouraged by too many broken promises. The ethics of courage and the courage of ethics are giving way to the “science of resilience” and its minimalist ethos. Humans now struggle to adapt to unprecedented changes and recover from the throes of life, with no other vision than a normal existence and a functioning society.

Beyond the Happy Mean In its defence, the global era is just beginning. It has the potential to astound us and provide a much broader view on humanity’s conceivable futures. Courage may rise from the ashes in a soil rich in the lessons of moral philosophy, political theory, and modern psychology. The roots of courage and its untapped potential on all levels—epistemic, existential, and political—can point the way. Without too many safeguards and restrictions on their correct meanings, the early meanings of cor and kerdmay still flourish and run wild. This prospect differs greatly from what Aristotle proposed. His impulse was to avoid all extremes and achieve the proper measure and balance of all the right things, such as daring and dreading; both attitudes should unite to protect the overarching rule of prudence and wisdom. However, seeking the happy medium and moderation in all good things seems to threaten the very nature of courage, which rests in the spirit of excess, beyond the bounds of sensible and ordinary conduct. A better approach for reviving courage is to place value

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on all extremes and see them through to the end, without half-measures or avenues for compromise. While this may seem reckless or too daring, it may be the only strategy that can live up to the challenges of our time. From an epistemic perspective, views that continue to pit reason and science against faith and deep conviction, or explanation against belief, are hopeless. They show little courage in the field of knowledge and lack the strength to explore all corners of the mind. The alternative to a binary mindset, however, does not consist in merely acknowledging the wide range of questions to be asked and ways to answer them. Nor is it a matter of endorsing intellectual pluralism and the right to freedom of thought. Rather, boldness of the mind calls for two complementary moves. The first is to push rational thinking to its limit by using logic and evidence to comprehend its own conditions of existence. As reason and history suggest, science must have a starting point and an end goal in order to conduct its own business. Science, like philosophy, feeds on strong beliefs in something. Despite the lack of proof or evidence, it has faith in its own principles and sense of purpose. Rational minds delude themselves by thinking that science can fully explain itself using its own standards of truth. Science that has no faith in its axiomatic principles and extrinsic value is a weakness of the mind. Courage is not simply a quality that should be assessed scientifically and therefore understood for what it is, regardless of what it could become. The same is true of the state and the idea of modern governance. In the global age, we cannot simply approach the state as Hegel did, like a rose that we cross on our path, at the end of a long journey through many stages, at which point the philosopher can declare, “Here is the rose, here dance.” The harsh reality is that we live in an age where world governance towards the exercise of reason, the battle for justice, and caring for the Earth has scarcely begun. The courage it will take to move forward on this path is both an “is” with a long history and an “ought” that calls for many profound transformations and discoveries, including a collective reinvention of courage itself. The second move is an invitation to do the work of faith outside of its usual limits. This is another brave leap. In today’s world, tyranny of opinion wears the mask of firm convictions, with no need for reasonable explanation. Each individual or community has their own set of values

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and beliefs. Ironically, notions of courage based on blind faith and selfcomplacency do not do justice to the powers of faith. In fact, they are the very definition of incredulity and “bad faith,” which is disbelieving anything other than an overly narrow sense of truth. The reign of multiple opinions forces people to have very little faith, making it exceedingly difficult to spread their sense of truth beyond the community of disciples and believers. The credulous believe their own falsehoods, but not their own powers of comprehension. Their narrow-mindedness blinds them to a long-fought-for principle from which there is no going back: faith in human curiosity, hard evidence, and the teachings of good science. Admittedly, many advances in science and technology have been unwise, and they may lead to our ruin. Nevertheless, losing all hope in the powers of rational thought and action is scepticism “beyond belief ” and the surest way to lose control and confidence in our shared destiny. To paraphrase Hobbes, if brave minds should fear anything, it is the law of mediocrity. Heroes of truth do not choose between reason and faith, each vying for attention in the realm of epistêmê. Nor do they look for a middle point between the extremes of “explaining everything” and “believing anything.” Instead, they embrace causal thinking wholeheartedly because of their full commitment to a worthwhile cause—something truly worth believing. They practise science with the courage of their convictions, and they stand their moral ground with the utmost rigour and the backing of reason. The same standards of boundless courage should be met on the existential plane, which centres around two fundamental questions: the relationship between pleasure and pain, one the hand, and the role of Nature in our lives and our lives in Nature, on the other. On the first issue, Aristotle and the Stoics praise the courage of moderation, which consists of neither seeking excessive pleasure nor wallowing in one’s sorrows. A more dynamic approach, better suited to our times, suggests that extremes can coexist energetically and reinforce each other. This stronger response is already inscribed in the human body, where pain and pleasure often meet in unexpected ways. Both sensations cause the nervous system to react in the same manner, by releasing endorphins and triggering an opiate-­like response. The mixing of extreme pleasure and pain can produce intense feelings and strange behaviour. Complex hinterland

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experiences between wellness and pain are not uncommon. They include a “runner’s high” in the middle of an agonising run, pain fought with pain, tears of great laughter or joy, excitement in the face of danger, passions that are all-consuming, happiness heightened through self-denial, and euphoria in the nearness of death (as in la petite mort). This is where tales of courage reside, in a land of extremes where opposite sensations and sentiments happily meet and dissolve. Another thorny and complex issue is our existential relationship to physis. Most theories examined in this study pay some attention to the natural, instinctive, and physical aspects of courage. Many prominent figures in the history of science and philosophy, beginning with Hippocrates and followed by Descartes, Montesquieu, and then Darwin, attached importance to the biology of human fortitude and daring. Almost all war-based definitions of manly valour and “virtue” (from Latin vir and virilis) acknowledge the significance of physical strength and prowess in achieving military victory. Similarly, most post-mediaeval and modern thinkers keep coming back to the natural expressions of heartfelt passions, sentiments, and energies that lie at the root of courage. However, for all their talk about the laws of Nature, most discussions continue to ignore a core existential issue that is now staring us in the face: courage without earthbound humanity and humility is self-defeating. More than ever, humans need the strength to engage in the struggles of Nature with a view to standing their ground and protecting their “humble” origins, those of an earthly existence and “humanity,” from humus, “earth, ground, soil.” Like Adam, all moral beings are “formed from the ground.” As earthlings, we strive to grow and fight for our rightful place in Nature. But we cannot do so in defiance of the higher forces of Nature, which have the last say in all struggles for life. Human hearts that fail to defend the Earth as everyone’s hearth lack courage. Opposition to humanity’s embeddedness in Nature goes beyond mere political cowardice. It is also a weakening of our will to thrive. This brings me to the ramifications of courage in the realm of polis. They raise several questions, from the influence that we have over our fate to the actual power that we exercise in our social lives, based on feelings of trust and fear, or sociability and animosity. Throughout this study, I discuss at some length the issue of freedom and its relationship to the rule

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of fate, necessity, chance, or providence, as depicted in the writings of Homer, the Stoics, the Gnostics, Augustine, the Calvinists, the Existentialists, and the Positivists. As previously stated, taking an energetic stance on the politics of courage requires us to accept our fate, which resides in our freedom to bravely shape and confront our destiny and being-in-the-world. In this perspective, the extremes of amor fati and love of liberty are not mutually exclusive. As in Nietzschean philosophy, they are two sides of the same coin. We are constitutionally destined to enjoy some freedom, and we are even free to ignore this reality of life, on the reasonable assumption that we have a choice in the issue. Alternatively, we can embrace our destiny, which is to exist in a probabilistic universe. We then experience life as a mash-up of events that happen out of necessity or by chance, mixed in with others that occur on purpose. Those moments in life that bear the stamp of human freedom can happen against all odds. They defy reason and come to pass because we dare to hope against hope. Such events become the most extraordinary expressions of our humanity, the fruit of our courage, harvested beyond the valley of despair. They reflect neither the laws of the universe nor a willpower or creativity that is without limits. In this regard, Tillich is right: the anxieties of fate and freedom only become pathological when one pole attempts to dismiss the other, which it does by cultivating feelings of radical despair or indulging in fantasies of infinite control. Historically, debates over matters of fate and free will are inseparable from battles over democracy and life in society. The politics of trust and fear, or generositas and animositas, as Spinoza dubs them, are critical here and as topical as ever. Again, the temptation is to promote a middle state in which fear and animosity are well balanced by feelings of sociability such as sympathy, generosity, benevolence, friendship, charity, or love. A bold but less reasonable stand, on the other hand, can lead away from the happy medium and towards letting all fear out. Full-blown courage is of the kind that fears nothing and fights for everything, starting with peace. Passionate courage fosters love that shows sympathy for every part of us, even the part that has just cause for anger and wages a noble battle against the rule of fear. Unrepressed courage is a space where extremes, such as love and fear, come together. It is not, to use Nietzschean imagery, a point

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halfway to the highest summit, a position that stinks of “mediocrity,” from the Latin medius, “half,” and ocris, “rugged mountain.” But what, one might ask, sits at the top of the mountain and is worth the climb? Fear or love with no object lacks meaning. For many, the answer to this question is essentially political, centred on the ideas of justice and democracy, as was the case in classical Greece. When it comes to these ideals, there is no shortage of half-way answers that seek the right mix of equality and hierarchy, or fellowship and followship. The rule of freedom seems then to go hand in hand with notions of duty and obedience to the state, the church, the sovereign, the social covenant, and the law of the land. The underlying message, as amply verified by realpolitik, is that power should never devolve into tyranny, and freedom should never slide into license. Tillich takes a more daring approach to the question of self and society: he has the courage to think beyond well-defined categories and well-­ measured quantities of equality and hierarchy. In his view, the self cannot thrive unless it engages in social life and takes its rightful place in the universe. However, life in society cannot reach its full potential unless it creates the conditions for the genuine affirmation of self. To achieve well-­ being in this world, all people must fair well with their being-in-the-­ world. Our present age has yet to elevate this wisdom and use it to challenge all existing inequalities based on global geopolitics, class and caste divisions, and constructions of gender and race. Courage is at the heart of this endeavour, provided it takes a bold new direction, back to its deepest roots and its threefold ramifications: life, power, and truth. Unrestrained courage is key to countering the discouragement of our age, which is a direct consequence of two extremes clashing and reducing any chance of moving forwards. One extreme consists of regimes of unprecedented power in the production and distribution of wealth and knowledge, as well as the top-down imposition of legal systems and standards of truth. The other is an obsessive-compulsive attraction of the self to its own independent self, a sovereign and resilient “I” that is becoming royally indifferent to the stark injustices and self-destructive behaviour that now prevail. When brought together, the two extremes are like the Egyptian Ouroboros snake eating its own tail—a lonely divinity with the

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power to perpetually reproduce and consume itself without ever embracing or creating anything new. The hope for the future is to create something completely new, namely a sense of value and valour unshaped by fear of the other and of life forms other than our own. To this day, our species is held back by alterphobic responses to the anxiety of being-in-the-world and all related excuses for not living up to the promise of our shared humanity. Instead of letting it define us, we see our inter-human involvement with one another and the whole world as an obstacle or merely an opportunity for self-centred growth. Life on a global scale can still turn out to be a formidable adventure, on condition that we return to the root system of courage and allow it to grow wild, in excess of what has been considered normal and reasonable thus far. Courage in today’s world has yet to expand and break through the age-old barriers of fear, greed, or cruelty masquerading as bravery. It can rekindle enthusiasm for the adventure of life and help it flourish in the same way that “adventitious” roots sprout in the most unusual places and almost everywhere. Our humanity must be more creative than ever and ready itself to cultivate the bravest arts of living. Despite his metaphysical leanings, Kant shows the road that lies ahead, guided by what is arguably the greatest pearl of wisdom in the history of moral philosophy: “Act as if the maxim of thy action were to become by thy will a universal law of nature” (Kant 1949, p. 38). There is no moral thought without the search for universals. However, this maxim guiding all maxims still requires substantial revision to become a principle appropriate for our global age. The transformation entails transferring the responsibility for moral and rational thought from lone beings thinking for themselves to all people helping with the quest. All assist one another in defining and acting on hopes of the past and the future, each acting as “a legislating member in the universal kingdom of ends.” When applied to the ethics of courage, Kant’s invitation could thus read as follows: “Act as if the maxim of your courageous action is part of the universal search for and realisation of our shared humanity.” This is the most daring effort to rethink courage. It blends credible and rigorous thinking with dialogical encounters in all aspects of our lives, both inspired by the highest hopes of human thoughtfulness and fellowship.

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This study does not support social and historical relativism, let alone broad claims of universal moral principles. Universalism and relativism are two dead-end roads on the journey to courage. More positively, both contain some truth. Looking into differences in context is an absolute must. But so is the search for universal principles that transcend history and geography and motivate us to continue the journey. Instead of being gripped by feelings of doom, humanity must avail itself of the power to articulate a new vision of courage that celebrates the meshing of minds and social lives, intertwined with the rest of Nature and the physical world, on a self-conscious global scale.

Reference Kant, Immanuel. 1949. Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysic of Morals. Trans. T.K. Abbott. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill.