Self-Interest

An Anthology of Philosophical Perspectives from Antiquity to the Present

Kelly Rogers

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2014
• Print ISBN: 9780415912518
• eBook ISBN: 9781317828167
• Topic: Philosophy
• Subtopic: Philosophy History & Theory

Self-Interest discusses the reconciliation of inevitable self-concern with its manifest potential for harm. This anthology brings together the efforts of twenty three renown philosophers to address the matter of how to bring about such a reconciliation. The drive for self-preservation, as observed by Aquinas, is the first law of nature. With this self-love, however, comes the threat of "the excessive love of self". Self-Interest brings into discussion the reconciliation of necessary self-concern with its manifest potential for harm.
This anthology brings together the work of twenty-three important philosophers to address the question of how to bring about such a reconciliation. Contributors include: Democritus, Plato, Aristotle, Augustine of Hippo, Aquinas,Hobbes, Nicole, Mandeville, Butler, Hutchenson, Hume, Smith, Kant, Bentham, Mill, James, Nietzsche, Dewey, Rand, and Gauthier.

III	EARLY MODERN ERA

Thomas Hobbes (1588–1679) ushered in the early modern era of thought on the subject of self-concern, rejecting Judeo-Christian supernaturalism in favor of a wholly natural conception of self-interest. We have no philosophical grounds for conceiving of our interests atemporally, he says, since it is impossible to reason about what, if anything, happens once we die. Gone is the “eternal life” conception of happiness, as well as the view that self-love is evil insofar as it constitutes an impediment to love of God. There are not three forms of self-love, but one, and insofar as love of self is an entirely natural phenomenon—its essential purpose being self-preservation—there is nothing sinful about it. On the contrary, it constitutes the “first right of nature.”

Hobbes s account of self-concern hinges upon his psychology of man, which itself rests upon two crucial premises—first, that all voluntary action is egoistically motivated, and, second, that reason is simply the instrument we use to satisfy our desires. Stripped of its end-conferring power, reason is now impotent to determine self-interest, which is instead established by passion. In fact, our “good” consists entirely in whatever we happen to desire at a given moment. Since our desires constantly change, self-interest is in perpetual flux. This of course implies the non-existence of a summum bonum, which Hobbes regards as a mere philosophers fiction.

There are interesting epistemological consequences of Hobbes’ account of self-interest. Human beings normally consult reason in their efforts to best satisfy their desires. Sometimes, though, reason makes observations contrary to desire—for instance, that an undesirable result will attend the pursuit of a particular passion. When the initial desire is sufficiently strong, it will not want to accept this, however, and so will abandon reason in favor of some alternate guide, such as custom. Since human beings are motivated by passion, passion has the power to check reason in this way. And since self-interest is constituted by passion, rationality is entirely beholden to self-interest. Hobbes goes so far as to say that man would abandon even mathematical truths if for some reason he perceived them as contrary to his good.

Insofar as individual lives are run by passion, Hobbes concludes that people are bound to suffer conflicts of interest. Prior to the institution of government, human beings existed in a state of de facto war, he claims, without any safety or security. Recognizing the advantages of peace, they form a covenant for mutual self-protection.

What if one can secretly violate the covenant, though? This is the question of fools, according to Hobbes. When one enters the social contract, one voluntarily agrees to abide by its terms, yet “voluntarily to undo that, which from the beginning he had voluntarily done” is an “absurdity.” Further, one who commits an unjust act cannot possibly foresee whether he will get caught, or therefore whether the act will actually result in his advantage. To act under such conditions cannot be consistent with self-interest.

In his defense of justice, as much else, Hobbes’ relation to previous thinkers on the subject of self-concern is quite complex. Though he has moved away from the medieval tradition in certain respects, two crucial similarities remain. First, although Hobbes represents a dramatic shift from the other-worldliness of medieval philosophy, his own model of human nature is strongly influenced by the Augustinian conception of temporal man. The idea of man as passion-driven, the rhetoric of interpersonal war, and the view of government as arising to curb self-interest, are all present in the City of God. It might not be amiss to say that the natural self-love of Hobbes corresponds to the negative self-love of Augustine, at least in its antisocial tendencies.

Second, Hobbes follows the medieval, against the Platonic-Aristotleliean, view in representing the harm associated with wrongdoing as being of external origin. As we have seen, the ancients had conceived of injustice as an affliction of the soul, for which the primary punishment arose from within. Medieval thinkers removed the tribunal to an external location, discovering it in God. Hobbes follows this externalism, but—in the tradition of the Sophists—secularizes it, relocating the tribunal in the civil government.

The concept of God reappears in our next philosopher, Baruch Spinoza’s (1632–1677), discussion of self-interest, but Spinoza identifies God not with a supreme being who stands above the world, but with the whole of Nature. In Spinoza’s view, the natural world is a single substance of which everything we observe, including ourselves, is an aspect. Inasmuch as substance is fully determinate, all that occurs does so necessarily. This entails that human beings possess no free will in the ordinary sense of the term, but Spinoza believes that we attain freedom, and so happiness, to the extent we eradicate our confused ideas and form an “adequate,” i.e., true, understanding of the world, and especially of the causes of our own actions. This releases us from the “bondage” of passion, and thus from control by external forces. The greater our understanding, the more we move ourselves from within.

At the heart of our understanding of our own nature lies the recognition that, like all animate things, we are driven by an inner force—a conatus—to preserve our own being or activity. This is the ultimate principle of our nature. Since human beings exist and are active to the extent they understand, the conatus seeks after that which fosters wisdom. The mind accordingly judges “nothing else to be to its advantage except what conduces to understanding.” Since the greater the object of knowledge, the greater the wisdom, Spinoza argues that mans highest good is the knowledge of God.

Spinoza defines virtue in terms of acting in accordance with the laws of human nature, and since the essence of our nature is to strive for self-preservation, the conatus forms the basis of all virtue. “To act in absolute conformity with virtue is nothing else in us but to act, to live, to preserve one’s own being (these three mean the same) under the guidance of reason, on the basis of seeking one’s own advantage.” Spinoza is aware that it may sound paradoxical to define virtue in terms of self-interest, but he specifically aims to “gain the attention of those who believe [falsely] that the principle that every man is bound to seek his own advantage is the basis, not of virtue or piety, but of impiety.”

It is in striving for greater activity through understanding that an individual experiences both happiness and self-love. We feel pleasure and self-approval to the extent we are conscious of our own rational activity, and, conversely, experience pain at the awareness of our own passivity. Self-contentment is in this sense a deliverance of reason, that is, of the rational appraisal of our success in realizing our nature.

Spinoza believes that the individual who practices virtue—i.e., who lives in accordance with his nature, rationally seeking his own advantage—will be a great social asset, for several reasons. For one thing, he will take pleasure in pleasing others. This is because he will experience pleasure at the thought of his own active role in fostering their enjoyment. Further, he will live by principles that are beneficial to mankind— such as justice. That is, he will seek to discover principles of conduct that accord with his own nature and foster his own advantage, and, inasmuch as he shares a nature in common with other men, the principles he adopts will accord with their nature—and thus benefit them—as well. In addition, he will not be captive to passive emotions, which are the source of all interpersonal conflict. To the extent men live under the direction of reason and are guided by the dictates of human nature, they will enjoy a shared and mutually advantageous good. Thus Spinoza remarks — again, paradoxically in the view of some philosophers—that it is precisely when each individual seeks his own advantage that he is of the greatest advantage to his fellows.

In spite of his belief in the harmony of interests, however, Spinoza’s political discussion closes on a note of realism. In the ordinary course of things, he says, individuals tend not to run their lives strictly rationally, and are prone to being overcome by passive emotions. Thus, they are “pulled in different directions” while at the same time needing one another’s help. Recognizing the advantages to be had from cooperation, however, they form a protective agreement which leads them to refrain from harming one another out of fear of suffering greater harm as a result. In this way, the state is formed, and the foundation for conventional morality is laid.

Bernard Mandeville (1670–1733), one of the lesser-known philosophers of the early modern age, embraces a similar diagnosis of political society, though ultimately he offers two differing accounts of the role of self-interest therein. In some of his writings, he portrays the pursuit of self-interest as socially harmful. Agreeing with Hobbes that self-interest must somehow be enlightened, however, he thinks that Hobbes went wrong in viewing the threat of punishment sufficient for this end; force subdues the problem but does not correct it. What is necessary in addition is to effect a change of belief, individuals must somehow be convinced that their true interests lie in public service, rather than in self-pursuit. The way to accomplish this, according to Mandeville, is to appeal to peoples’ pride. Convince people of the supreme importance of honor, and then persuade them that honorable action is that which conquers self-interested passion and promotes the common weal. Vanity will do the rest.

The idea that pride leads men to curb self-interest to the benefit of society appears at odds, though, with the view developed by Mandeville in The Grumbling Hive: Or, Knaves turn’d Honest. Previous philosophers had assumed that a society of passion-driven egoists must self-destruct, and had conceived government as a means of curbing the harmful effects of the pursuit of self-interest. In The Grumbling Hive Mandeville rejects the idea that self-interest entails social misery; quite the contrary, within the context of a stable government, a great and happy society “without great Vices, is a vain Eutopia seated in the brain.” It is only from “private vices” that comes “public virtue.”

Mandeville does not demonstrate this thesis with an argument, but by means of a sprightly piece of verse in which he chronicles the downfall of the “grumbling hive,” a prosperous society of vicious bees which, having become virtuous, is left destitute and unhappy. Mandeville’s explanation for this is that self-interest alone propels industry and progress, insofar as it breeds ever-changing patterns of desire. In order to satisfy his desires, an individual is led to various forms of activity that create profitable opportunities for others. A society of strictly public-minded individuals would quickly stagnate, since everyone would be content with what he already had.

Whether Mandeville’s two conceptions of self-interest may be reconciled is not a question which can satisfactorily be addressed here. Suffice it to say that Mandeville represents the ambiguity felt over self-concern in the modern age. On the one hand, many were convinced that a society is healthiest and happiest in which each citizen pursues his own interests. Yet, at the same time they were beholden to the deeply implanted the idea that self-interest is fundamentally at odds with virtue and morality.

Bishop Joseph Butler (1692–1752), the next figure we consider, continued the debate in a set of sermons he delivered at the Rolls Chapel in 1726. Regarding self-love, he had two central questions: first, how does it relate to self-interest?, and, second, does it oppose benevolence? Despite his theological orientation, Butler felt these questions could be answered solely by attending to human nature.

Butler begins by distinguishing sharply between self-love and our particular affections for external things. Self-love is simply our general desire for personal happiness. As such it is not equivalent to happiness, nor does it determine this or that to constitute our interest. Our interests are determined, rather, on the basis of our nature, which gives rise to our various affections for external things. These affections are directed outwardly and their satisfaction requires that we take a genuine interest and delight in their objects. For instance, were there no inherent connection between our culinary desires and fine food, we would derive no more enjoyment from partaking of a feast than we would from swallowing a stone. Gratification requires “disengagement.”

Self-love sets us on the path of gratifying our desires, but that is all. Those who make self-love itse...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Table of Content
• General Introduction
• I. Classical Era
• II. Medieval Era
• III. Early Modern Era
• IV. Nineteenth Century
• V. Twentieth Century
• Select Bibliography
• Notes
• Acknowledgments and Sourcing
• Index