Greek Ethics, Overview

C. Gill

Christopher Gill is Professor of Ancient Thought at the University of Exeter, following earlier posts at Yale, Bristol, and Aberystwyth. His work is centred on psychology and ethics in Greek and Roman thought, especially ideas about personality and self.

Encyclopedia of Applied Ethics (Second Edition) 2012, Pages 529–537

Abstract

This article offers an overview of ancient Greek ethics. The chronological scope is broad (from early Greek thought to late antiquity); but the main thinkers or theories discussed are Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, the Stoics, and Epicureans. As well as outlining the main ethical themes in these ancient approaches, the article also considers how far each theory gave scope for applied ethics. The article thus shows that Greek philosophy is important not just as a forerunner of modern versions of virtue ethics but also because of its pioneering work on applied or practical ethics.

Keywords

Character; Community; Dialectic; Friendship; Happiness; Nature; Pleasure; Psyche; Therapy; Virtue; Wisdom

Introduction

Greek ethics is taken here to mean the ethical thought of ancient Greece, in the period from the eighth century BC to the end of antiquity (ca. fifth century AD). Greek thought, together with Christianity, has been a key influence on the development of Western ethical thought and is still regarded as being of the highest philosophical importance. This article outlines the main features of Greek ethical thought, focusing on the question of how far this contained what we might call ‘applied ethics.’ For this purpose, we can demarcate four broad phases of Greek thought, in each of which the question of ‘applied ethics’ takes a rather different form: (1) Greek thought prior to the demarcation of ethics as a distinct area of philosophy, including Presocratic thought and the sophistic movement down to the late fifth century BC; (2) the emergence of ethics as a distinct area of thought in the work of Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle (fifth to fourth century BC); (3) the systematization of branches of philosophy in later Greek (Hellenistic) philosophy, especially Stoicism, and the associated demarcation of ‘practical ethics’ (the closest ancient analogue to modern applied ethics); and (4) ethical philosophy in late antiquity, including Neoplatonism, and the interplay between Classical thought and Christianity.

In modern Western thought, applied ethics is typically understood as an organized communal response to perceived personal and social problems, especially those brought to light in certain professional areas, such as medicine or law. Although we do not find in ancient Greece an exact equivalent for this conception, or for its cultural context, there are two recurrent features of Greek thought that are especially relevant. One is the tendency for social problems to give rise to (more or less public) argument and debate, including debate about fundamental ethical questions and principles. Another is the belief that properly conducted debate, issuing in well-reasoned conclusions, provides an authoritative basis for resolving practical problems and shaping people’s lives. The practical outcome of ethical reflection is conceived either as (sometimes utopian) programs for large-scale social change or as advice to individuals on how to direct their lives.

Early Greek Thought

Traditional Thought: Homer

The first surviving Greek text, Homer’s Iliad (ca. eighth century BC), exemplifies certain general characteristics of Greek thought that also figure in subsequent ethical theory. The wrath of Achilles, caused by the breakdown in cooperation between Achilles and his fellow chieftains, stimulates, especially in Book 9, reflective debate about ethical questions. These include that of the basis of cooperative relationships, the justification for breaking social bonds, the best form of a human life, and the grounds for dying for others. Also characteristic of later Greek thought is that these questions are not taken to be settled by an appeal to authority, whether human or divine. Rather, the ethical status of human (political) and divine authority is one of the questions raised through the medium of this epic poem. There is an obvious contrast on this point with the Judeo-Christian tradition, especially as expressed in the Old Testament, in which the idea of God as an ultimate moral authority, and as the source of determinate moral rules (e.g., the Ten Commandments), is fundamental.

The Iliad also gives rise to an issue much discussed by scholars in recent years, that of the nature and development of Greek ethical attitudes as expressed in literary forms and social practices. Earlier scholars tended to characterize early Greek ethics as based on a socially derived sense of shame and honor, and as developing only later, if at all, a more inner sense of guilt and moral responsibility. Some recent work (notably by Bernard Williams) has argued, by contrast, that, from the Iliad onward, Greek ethics places value on the internalization of social principles (on making shame and honor integral to one’s character); value is also placed on reflective debate about what these social principles should be. A related idea, also expressed in the Iliad, is that emotions and motives are properly modified by such debate, and that they should not, therefore, be rigidly subject to conventional social rules. These poetic ideas prefigure the themes of much later Greek philosophy: that virtue centers on character shaped by one’s ethical community, and that dialectical debate properly determines norms for character as well as action.

Presocratic Philosophers

Characteristic of the earliest Greek philosophers (whose work survives only in fragments) is that they discuss ethics only as part of their highly speculative accounts of nature and reality as a whole. For instance, Anaximander (ca. 610–540 BC) analyzes the natural world in terms of retribution and injustice, and Empedocles (ca. 493–433 BC) does so in terms of alternating patterns of love and strife. For Heraclitus (late sixth to early fifth century BC), the logos (‘reason’) is at once the basic principle of nature, ideal law, and rationality. Sometimes explicit in their thought (e.g., that of Xenophanes, sixth century BC, or Anaxagoras, ca. 550–428 BC), and sometimes implied, is a critique, or rethinking, of the traditional, anthropomorphic Greek religion to match their rethinking of nature. The application of the principles emerging from their work takes two main forms. The thinkers sometimes advocate (at least by implication) the adoption of the state of mind and character that corresponds to the underlying pattern discerned in nature. This advice is mostly given to individuals (e.g., the named addressees of the thinkers’ works), who are urged to adopt this pattern for themselves. However, Pythagoras (sixth century BC) apparently saw his theory as providing the basis for a political and ethical community (in Croton, South Italy). ‘Harmony’ was conceived both as a cosmic principle (analyzable by number theory) and as an ethical norm for diet, daily life, and social relationships.

The Sophists

A feature of the second half of the fifth century BC, especially in the economically flourishing democracy of Athens, was the growing professionalization of branches of knowledge and education, including the skills of rhetoric (public persuasion) and medicine. Key figures in this process were itinerant teachers of rhetoric and other skills (‘sophists’) who received fees for their teaching. The conflict and debate associated with this process are presented vividly (though from strongly partisan standpoints) in, for example, Aristophanes’ comic play Clouds (423 BC) and Plato’s Gorgias and Protagoras (early fourth century BC). A central issue was whether authority in transmitting ethical beliefs belonged to the family and the community of the city-state as a whole or to experts in, for instance, rhetoric, argument, or natural science. There was also competition between different forms of expertise about which one played the most important role in this process. This debate is analogous with one of those associated in modern times with ‘applied ethics,’ namely, that of the relationship between professional expertise and the ethical standards of the community. In Protagoras, Plato ascribes to Protagoras (ca. 485–415 BC), a leading teacher of rhetoric, what might be called a ‘communitarian’ position on ethics, according to which justice and the other virtues are developed, in any given community, by public and private discourse; the expert’s role is limited to facilitating this process. (For the contrasting status given by Plato’s Socrates to dialectical expertise, see the section titled ‘ Socrates.’) Plato’s Gorgias centers on the related question of whether techniques of discourse, such as rhetoric and dialectic, are value-neutral instruments or whether the techniques in themselves necessarily carry implications about the ends to which they should be used.

The fifth and fourth centuries BC also saw the emergence of the Hippocratic and other schools of medicine, and, in the Hippocratic Oath, one of the first surviving Western formulations of ‘professional ethics.’ Doctors, like other claimants to wisdom, took part in public debates about nature (including human nature), environmental influences on social character (e.g., Airs, Waters, Places), and the status of their expertise. However, the professional status and techniques of medicine in antiquity were too insecure and disputed to generate analogues for the issues about ethics and medical science (e.g., about artificial insemination or genetic engineering) that are central to modern debate. An issue that recurs in different contexts throughout this period (and that also takes up questions raised by the Presocratics) is that of the relationship between nature (phusis) and law or ethical conventions (nomos). Among the positions advanced are (1) that human nature and desires are inherently in conflict with ethical principles and laws; (2) that morality is the product of an implied ‘social contract,’ adopted as a second-best to the pursuit of self-interest; and (3) that human nature, if properly understood, is functionally adapted to develop toward virtue. This debate persists in subsequent Greek ethical theory, in which Plato, Aristotle, and the Stoics adopt versions of the third position.

Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle

Socrates

Socrates (469–399 BC) had a crucial role in the history of Greek ethics in that the scope of his interests defined, in effect, what ‘ethics’ meant in Greek philosophy. His basic question is ‘How should one live?’ More specifically, he is presented as asking what virtue (or a given virtue) is, how it is acquired, how it affects action and feeling, and whether it constitutes happiness. Socrates is presented, especially in Plato’s early dialogues, in Aristotle, and to a lesser extent in Xenophon, as practicing a distinctive method of systematic questioning (dialectic) conducted with one person at a time and designed to produce a logically consistent set of beliefs. By implication, Socrates claimed that ethical virtue depends on expertise in this form of dialectic. The so-called ‘Socratic paradoxes’ that recur in his arguments (virtue is knowledge, virtue is one, and no one does wrong willingly) can be understood as meaning that there is a direct correlation between (this type of) dialectical expertise and ethical virtue.

This approach to ethics (which can be contrasted with the more ‘communitarian’ position associated with Protagoras; see the preceding section titled ‘The Sophists’) was highly controversial, and may have contributed to Socrates’ trial and execution by the Athenian state in 399 BC (on the charges of ‘corrupting the young and not worshipping the gods the city worships’). On the other hand, Socrates seems also to have assumed that such dialectical expertise is, in principle, open to everyone, and that his method consisted simply in articulating ethical assumptions implicitly held by all human beings. Indeed, he claimed that he ‘knew nothing,’ and that his dialectic served simply as the vehicle for this articulation of shared (consistent) human beliefs. Unlike the sophists, he charged no fees and did not undertake to teach a technique. The question of whether Socrates’ dialectic does or does not imply a determinate set of doctrines, and does or does not claim to achieve knowledge, has been a matter of dispute since antiquity. What is undisputed is that his approach represents in an extreme form a position sometimes found elsewhere in Greek thought – that the ‘application’ of ethics is inseparable from reflective ethical enquiry, or in Socratic terms, “the unexamined life is not worth living” (Plato, Apology 38a).

Plato

Although Socrates wrote nothing, Plato (ca. 429–347 BC) conducted philosophy (in part) through writing dialogues, combined in later life with dialectical teaching in the philosophical ‘school’ (study or research center) that he founded, the Academy. Plato’s early dialogues represent Socrates’ distinctive method of dialectic. Since all the dialogues are more or less fully fictionalized, and Plato was a highly creative philosopher, we cannot draw a sharp distinction between Socratic and early Platonic thought. In the middle-period dialogues (e.g., Phaedo, Symposium, Republic), Plato is generally supposed to have pursued the implications of Socrates’ arguments and methods further than Socrates himself did. In the late dialogues, Plato seems to have reexamined the theories of the middle period and either extended or modified these, partly as a result of expanding the scope of his philosophy beyond the ethical concerns that are dominant in the early and middle dialogues. Although the middle and late dialogues contain more constructive argumentation than the early ones, Plato’s continued use of the form of the Socratic dialogue raises the question (as in the case of Socrates) of whether his philosophical activity is conceived by him as a continuing search or as achieved understanding.

Central to the middle-period dialogues is the exploration of Socrates’ claim that virtue depends on dialectical expertise. A key idea in this exploration is the contrast between belief/opinion (based on social communication) and knowledge (based on philosophical argument). A related contrast is that between particulars (individual objects and qualities) and Forms (ideal or objective realities). A recurrent theme is that dialectically based understanding provides objective knowledge of what is really or essentially just or good (the Forms), whereas social communication merely provides subjective, localized opinions (that this or that act is just or good). This way of analyzing Socrates’ claim is coupled in Plato’s middle period with exploration of the psychological implications of the claim. The Socratic idea that knowledge carries with it correlated actions and feelings (that no one does wrong willingly) is developed into more complex ideas about the relationship between body and psyche, and between the parts of the psyche. One such idea is that the achievement of postdialectical knowledge depends on (but also enhances) a cohesive, ‘harmonized’ relationship between the parts of the psyche, in which the other parts are persuaded to accept the rule of reason.

The Republic contains the fullest discussion of these ideas; it also outlines the political preconditions for the achievement of these ideal types of knowledge and character. These preconditions center on a two-stage educational program (for the guardians of the ideal state) that combines the Socratic ethical approach with a version of the communitarian one. The guardians’ attainment of postdialectical knowledge and the corresponding psychic state depend on the previous (childhood) shaping of their beliefs and emotions by their community. The second stage of their education converts these prereflective beliefs into objective knowledge, culminating in knowledge of the Form of the Good. The knowledge thus achieved provides the basis for the prereflective belief-structure of the community. Plato’s last work, the Laws, takes this version of a communitarian approach to ethics still further. It pursues the idea that a good community is one in which the beliefs and desires of the whole citizen body are correctly shaped by public persuasion and social institutions, though it retains the idea that a minority of the citizens must also be able to understand through dialectic the truth of the community’s informing beliefs.

Plato’s dialogues offer differing indications about the way in which these ethical and political ideals could be realized. The Phaedo and Symposium, for instance, suggest that it is only by adopting the philosopher’s pursuit of objective truth (the Forms) as one’s overriding goal that one can make progress toward achieving real virtue in character, action, and relationships. The question of how one should try to put into practice the ideas of the Republic or Laws is more open to debate. For one type of interpretation, these dialogues present constitutional blueprints that Plato would have liked to put into political practice (as Protagoras, apparently, drew up a law code in 444 BC for Thurii, a newly founded city-state). Some support for this idea comes from two of the letters ascribed to Plato in antiquity, the Second and the Seventh. For another type of interpretation, these dialogues present normative ideals, which are designed to shape ethical and political debate and life conducted in very different circumstances from those described in the dialogues. At least one passage in the Republic strongly supports the latter view that the ideal state provides an ethical pattern ‘in heaven’ for each of us to establish within ourselves (592b). Broadly similar issues are raised by other ideal constitutions in Greek philosophy, including Aristotle’s Politics 7-8, and two works called Republic by the Stoics Zeno and Chrysippus.

Aristotle

Aristotle (384–322 BC) was Plato’s pupil for 20 years and later set up his own school, the Lyceum or Peripatos; the surviving works, including the Eudemian (EE) and Nicomachean Ethics (NE), are based on his lectures in the school. Although those works seem not to have been available in the early Hellenistic period, his ethical approach was maintained through his school and was influential in determining the general form of subsequent Greek ethical theory. The fundamental issue (derived from Socrates’ characteristic questions) was this: How should we shape our life as a whole; that is, what should we take as our overall goal (telos)? The goal was generally assumed to be happiness (eudaimonia) or (regarded as the same thing) the good (agathon); debate focused on what ‘happiness’ was. For Aristotle, as for Plato in the Republic, the answer was that it was virtue (aretē), or more precisely, “activity according to virtue,” and, more precisely again, “activity according to the best and most perfect [or complete] virtue” (NE 1.7). However, for Aristotle (by contrast with the Stoics) this does not mean that “external” goods such as health, wealth, and social position are without any importance in determining one’s happiness (NE 1.8–11).

Virtue is defined partly in terms of psychological capacities and functions, and partly in terms of modes of action and social behavior. Aristotle distinguishes between virtue of character (ēthos) and that of intellect (dianoia), though seeing these as partly interdependent. Ethical or character virtue (from whose name, ēthikē aretē, the category of ‘ethics’ was derived) is defined by the fact that the virtuous person does virtuous acts because of a combination of correct (and stable) motivation (‘character’) and correct practical reasoning. The virtuous person is motivated to act virtuously ‘for the sake of the fine’ (to kalon) or ‘for its own sake’ (taken to be the same). His or her motivation and action hits the ‘mean’ between defective extremes. The failure to develop ethical virtue results in a character and life that display either defectiveness/vice (kakia) or the ‘weakness of will’ of those for whom virtuous patterns of desire and emotion have not become integral to their character.

Although Aristotle demarcates ethics as a separate area of theory, he also stresses that its ultimate aim is practical: “we enquire not to know what virtue is but to become good people” (NE 2.1). This view is characteristic of Greek ethical philosophy; hence, the modern distinction between ethics and meta-ethics (or between theoretical and applied ethics) goes against the grain of much Greek thinking. The interplay between practical and theoretical aspects of virtue for Aristotle can be defined, in part, by the way in which, like Plato in the Republic and Laws, he combines communitarian and dialectical approaches to ethics. Aristotle stresses that effective ethical reflection needs to be based on the prereflective shaping of dispositions through the beliefs and practices of one’s family and community. (By contrast with Plato in the Republic, Aristotle seems to think that this process can occur in conventional societies, and not just in a community based on ideal knowledge.) Many of the virtues discussed by Aristotle, including tact, generosity, and magnanimity, are those recognized in conventional Greek ethics. This feature of Aristotle’s thought is contrasted favorably by some modern thinkers (including Alasdair MacIntyre and Bernard Williams) with the grounding of ethics on abstract norms such as rationality and benevolence in much modern theory. Part of the practical outcome of ethical enquiry, for Aristotle, lies in enabling an engaged member of his or her community to gain a better understanding of the conception of ‘virtue’ implied in its belief structure.

On the other hand, Aristotle also sees ethical reflection as revising, rather than simply codifying, conventional attitudes. For instance, his account of friendship does not simply offer a new analysis (in terms of virtue, as distinct from utility) of the conventional ideal (which is that of loving the friend “for the other person’s sake”) (NE 8.3–8.5). He also presents this ideal, controversially, as a means of virtuous self-love and of extending one’s own (virtuous) existence, and thus of contributing to one’s happiness. His most controversial move, in NE 10.7–10.8 (though not in EE), is that of presenting contemplative, rather than practical and ethical, virtue as the highest realization of human (or ‘divine’) happiness. Some modern scholars claim that this move is inconsistent with the presentation of ethical virtue as the chief element in human happiness elsewhere in the ethical treatises. Others, however, argue that it is consistent with the ranking of contemplative wisdom above practical wisdom in NE 6.7 and 6.13, as well as with Aristotle’s metaphysical conception of god. Another area of current controversy is whether the appeal to the notion of ‘human’ or ‘divine’ nature constitutes a move within ethical theory or an attempt to ground ethics on a metaphysical account of reality. On either view, however, Aristotle’s move in NE 10.7–10.8 illustrates both his dialectical revision of conventional thought and the practical outcome of reflection (in that he commends a specific conception of the overall goal by which to shape one’s life).

Hellenistic Philosophy

General

In the Hellenistic Age (323–31 BC), and under the Roman Empire (31 BC onward), there are two important developments in Greek ethical thought. One is that philosophical debate becomes centered on the positions of the various schools (the Academy, Lyceum, Epicurean, or Stoic) and that ethics is treated as part of the integrated system adopted by each school. The other recurrent idea is that adopting any one of these systems carries with it a distinctive way of life and pattern of character. We can describe as ‘practical’ or ‘applied’ ethics the task of spelling out the form of life implied by each system; this work is also characterized (by the thinkers themselves) as providing ‘therapy’ for the sicknesses which are the outcome of living by purely conventional beliefs. The main ethical positions of the Hellenistic schools are presented in the next three sections; the practical implications of these positions are examined in the two sections following those. Whereas Plato’s dialogues and Aristotle’s school texts have survived in considerable quantity, the works of the most important and innovative Hellenistic philosophers survive only in fragments and quotations. However, later Greek and Roman writings (especially from the first centuries BC and AD) enable us to reconstruct the main features of Hellenistic ethical theory and their thinking about the application of these theories.

Stoicism

Stoicism evolved as a system under successive heads of the school, especially Zeno (334–262 BC) and Chrysippus (ca. 280–206 BC), though retaining a set of core positions. In ethics, Stoics maintain in a strong form the thesis also adopted by Plato and Aristotle that virtue constitutes happiness. The Stoic claim is that virtue is not just the chief goal of a life, but the only good; by contrast with Aristotle, who allowed that, for instance, health and property count as ‘external goods’ (NE 1.8–11), the Stoics describe these as ‘matters of indifference’ in comparison with virtue. However, most Stoics allow that such things are, at least, ‘preferable,’ and that selection between indifferents (though not the pursuit of them for their own sake) is the only way to make progress toward complete virtue (or ‘wisdom’). The latter is a state of character and way of life grounded on full understanding of what ‘virtue’ is and of the fact that it is the only good.

The Stoics see ethics as closely integrated with logic and physics (study of nature) in a three-part philosophical system. Like Aristotle, the Stoics claim that the life according to virtue is natural for human beings, and that the progressive recognition of the naturalness of the virtuous life is a crucial element in making ethical progress. There is currently dispute among scholars as to how far the recognition of the ethical significance of nature belongs to the sphere of ethical philosophy, and how far it belongs to the integrated understanding of ethics and physics (and logic). The doctrine of oikeiōsis (‘appropriation’ or ‘familiarization’), the idea that humans naturally develop toward the recognition that virtue is the only good, seems to fall centrally within the sphere of ethics. Also part of this doctrine is that human beings develop naturally from wanting to benefit only those close to them (family and friends) to wanting to benefit other human beings as such (as fellow rational animals). However, the understanding of the way in which the universe constitutes a rational, providentially ordered whole seems to require an integrated grasp of physics and ethics. The ideal normative figure in Stoicism, the ‘wise person’ or ‘sage,’ combines this understanding with a recognition of the providential character of all events (including apparent misfortunes), and a correspondingly dispassionate attitude toward such events (see the section titled ‘ Practical ethics and therapy’).

Epicurus

Epicurus (341–271 BC) stands apart from Plato, Aristotle, and the Stoics in seeing the goal of life as pleasure rather than virtue. (In this respect, he developed the theory of Democritus, born mid-fifth century, that ‘feeling good’ was the goal, just as he also developed Democritus’ atomic theory of matter.) However, Epicurus’ aim, like that of most other Greek thinkers, was to identify as the goal a certain character and mode of life; the Cyrenaics, by contrast, saw the goal as simply maximizing episodes of pleasure. For Epicurus, pleasure is defined negatively, as the absence of physical pain and emotional disturbance. He also distinguishes between types of desire (natural, necessary, nonnecessary) and types of pleasure (kinetic and static) in order to characterize those desires and pleasures (natural and necessary, static) which are characteristic of the truly pleasurable life. Like the Stoics, Epicurus supposes that an understanding of human nature and the nature of the universe plays a crucial role in producing happiness. Such an understanding can free people from false or empty desires (such as for wealth or political power) as well as from misguided fears (above all, fear of death). The recognition that the universe functions by purely natural causes, without divine intervention (even of a providential kind), and that death is simply the decomposition of a certain set of atoms should free people from fear of divine interference in life or after death.

Epicurus’ positions on virtue, friendship, and justice (central topics in Greek ethics) are more complex, and closer to other schools, than they seem at first. Although virtue is seen as purely instrumental to the overall goal of pleasure, it is also described as ‘inseparable’ from the pleasant life. Although friendship is valued as a way of providing mutual assistance and pleasure, the friendship so valued is that in which we love our friends as ourselves. For Epicurus (by contrast with the Stoics), justice is taken not to be an objective ethical norm, but only “a guarantee of utility with a view to not harming another and not being harmed.” However, the ideal Epicurean community will be one in which “everything will be full of justice and mutual friendship” because a correct grasp of the goal of life makes unjust action unnecessary. Implied in all these points is that a proper understanding of Epicurean philosophy carries with it a revised conception of what virtue, friendship, and justice mean, and of how they contribute to happiness.

Skepticism

This position, attributed to Pyrrho (ca. 360–270 BC), was adopted by leading figures in Plato’s Academy from the mid-third to the first centuries BC, who saw it as an extension of the Socratic conception of philosophy as an unending search for truth (see the section titled ‘Socrates’). Sextus Empiricus (second century AD) provides the fullest surviving statement of the position. Ancient skeptics deny the possibility of gaining knowledge, as distinct from receiving ‘appearances’ about how the world looks or forming beliefs that do not constitute knowledge. The recognition that knowledge is unavailable is thought to lead to ‘suspension of judgment’ and so to provide freedom from emotional disturbance. This is because one escapes from the distress of trying to reconcile the (dogmatic) claim to knowledge with the contradictions that inevitably arise on any topic. Also, one achieves ‘moderate feeling’ through not claiming to have knowledge about what is good or bad and therefore not having the intense emotional reactions that result from this supposed knowledge. Unlike modern skepticism, which is often seen as a purely theoretical position, not affecting practical life, the ancient skeptic maintained that this position (like those of the other schools) changed one’s entire character and way of life.

Practical Ethics and Therapy

A prominent idea in Hellenistic thought is that philosophy should spell out the practical implications of its ethical theories and the kind of ‘therapy’ it can offer both to adherents of the systems and to those not (or not yet) committed to any one system. Much Roman ethical philosophy, which is based largely on Hellenistic theory, centers on this idea. This is true, for instance, of Cicero’s (106–43 BC) On Duties, Tusculan Disputations 3–4 and Seneca’s (ca. 4 BC–65 AD) Moral Epistles, On Benefits, and On Anger. Seneca writes as a committed Stoic, Cicero as an Academic skeptic (or at least an independent-minded thinker), not committed to any one position but strongly attracted to Stoic ethics. It is also true of much Greek work from this period, including the Discourses of the Stoic Epictetus (ca. 55–135 AD) and the moral essays (Moralia) of the (broadly) Platonic thinker Plutarch (ca. 50–120 AD). The analogy between philosophy (for the mind or character) and medicine (for the body) is developed extensively in this connection. For instance, Philo of Larisa (ca. 110–79 BC), a skeptic, subdivides practical ethics into ‘protreptic’ (persuading someone to engage in philosophy), ‘therapy’ (removing the false beliefs which cause distress), and ‘advice’ (giving instructions about how to live), and compares each of these functions to aspects of the work of the doctor. Eudorus (first century BC) and Seneca present comparable typologies of philosophical discourse, based on the idea that there is a close link between the key principles of a given ethical theory and the associated implications for character and action. Epictetus (Discourses 3.2.1–3.2.5) defines a three-stage curriculum of practical ethics by which one can systematically examine one’s desires, feelings, and social actions, and the logical relationship between one’s beliefs, to make sure these are in line with the fundamental principles of Stoic ethics.

There are certain general reasons for the stress on philosophy as therapy and a source of practical advice in this period. By contrast with the communitarian ethical approach noted above, in different versions, in some earlier Greek thought (e.g., Protagoras in the section ‘The Sophists’ and Aristotle in the section titled ‘Aristotle’), Hellenistic philosophy regards conventional ethical discourse as promoting misguided norms for shaping character and action. Stoics stress that the conventional valuation of ethical ‘indifferents’ (e.g., health and wealth) produces ‘passions,’ intense emotions expressing incorrect judgments about what is really valuable. Epicureans, similarly, see conventional thought as promoting misguided valuations (e.g., of wealth and power) and fears (e.g., of divine intervention and death) which cause emotional disturbance and so prevent peace of mind. (See the sections titled ‘Stoicism’ and ‘Epicurus’ above.) The ‘therapy’ offered by these philosophical systems is, primarily, the removal of the false beliefs developed by conventional societies and of the ‘sicknesses’ of intense or painful emotions and desires produced by these beliefs. Like modern ‘cognitive therapy,’ these ancient theories presupposed a belief-based model of human psychology (a connection explored in recent work by Martha Nussbaum). However, the ancient theories laid much greater stress than modern cognitive therapy on the idea that one’s overall conception of the good informs one’s whole pattern of motivation and action. They also stressed that the only complete therapy lies in achieving the understanding of the truth of this conception of the good which (together with the corresponding character and way of life) constitutes complete ‘wisdom,’ as envisaged by each school.

Political Theory

A further question about the application of ethical ideas arises in Hellenistic political theory, especially that of the Stoics. In Stoic thought, emphasis is placed on certain general ideals that go beyond conventional political norms, for example, the brotherhood of humankind, rational or ‘natural’ law, the city of gods and humans, and cosmopolitanism (citizenship of the universe). On the other hand, some Stoics, including Chrysippus, the main theorist of the school, saw ethical development as normally occurring within conventional societies, and apparently offered a theoretical justification for conventional institutions such as private property. Some scholars think there was a shift from an earlier, more radical phase of Stoicism (strongly influenced by Cynicism), expressed especially in Zeno’s Republic, to a later phase in which Stoic ideals were seen as guiding principles for application within conventional societies. Others think that these ideals were always seen as having the latter function. Some later Stoics, such as Musonius Rufus (ca. 30–101 AD), use Stoic principles to argue, against ancient conventions, that men and women are equally capable of developing virtue and of doing philosophy, or to emphasize the conventional basis of the institution of slavery (without arguing for its abolition). However, a more prevalent tendency is to use Stoic ideals, including those already mentioned, as regulative norms to help people to live virtuous lives in any social and political context. The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius (121–180 AD), for instance, shows a Roman emperor using ideals such as the brotherhood of humankind and cosmopolitanism to reinforce his dutiful (and largely conventional) practice of his role as emperor. Epicureanism is more consistently opposed to any form of conventional political system, as being necessarily based on false conceptions of what is truly desirable. The community of friends sharing their lives in Epicurus’ own Garden served as an ideal model of society, though there is little evidence to suggest that Epicureans succeeded in developing other such communities in antiquity.

A subject of recent debate has been whether the Stoic ideal of rational or ‘natural’ law exercised any significant influence in Roman legal thinking. Cicero, in his Republic and Laws, sometimes uses this ideal to signify a core of universally valid rules (though he fails to specify their content). This is, broadly, the way that the idea of ‘natural law,’ and, subsequently, ‘human rights,’ has been used in modern Western thought. Also, the term ‘natural law’ sometimes appears in the writings of Roman jurists from the second to third centuries AD. Gaius (mid-second century) uses it as a synonym for the ‘law of nations,’ that is, roughly, international law, by contrast with the ‘civil law’ applying only to Roman citizens. At the start of Justinian’s Digest (sixth century AD, but based on earlier material), natural law is conceived as a universal norm going beyond both the other categories of law. However, some scholars have pointed out that, in the moral thinking that is embodied in Roman legal writing as a whole, natural law figures much less as a normative idea than, for instance, ‘fairness’ or ‘good faith.’ Also, within Stoic thought, natural law signifies an objective norm (whose content is only fully understood by the wise person) and not a determinate body of rules that could guide legal decision making.

Later Antiquity

In later antiquity, we find a tendency to collect, codify, and comment on previous Greek thought (which was already seen as having reached an exceptional, ‘classical’ status). For instance, two important sources for Stoic ethics are Diogenes Laertius’ (ca. third century AD) life of Zeno (in Lives of the Philosophers) and Arius Didymus’ (first century BC) summary preserved in Stobaeus’ anthology (fifth century AD). A related tendency was renewed interest in Plato and Aristotle, and the use of commentaries on their works as a mode of continuing philosophical reflection (by, e.g., Alexander of Aphrodisias, third century AD, and Proclus, fifth century AD). Neoplatonism, one of the more creative philosophical movements in this period is, in effect, a synthesis of Platonic and Aristotelian thought, which especially develops the idealism of Plato’s middle period. In the Enneads, Plotinus (205–270 AD) defines three fundamental levels of reality that are (in ascending order of being and value): (1) the psyche (conceived as non-material), (2) the intellect, and (3) the One (or Good). Plotinus’ view is that human beings are naturally disposed to aspire toward the highest possible level of reality, that is, toward psychic rather than material being, intellectual rather than sensual or emotional being, and, finally, a state of union with the One or Good.

Another tendency is the interplay between Greek philosophical ideas, especially Platonic, Aristotelian, or Stoic ideas, and Christian thought. This can already be seen in the New Testament (written in colloquial or koinē Greek), especially in John and Paul, and continues in a more fully articulated form through the early Church Fathers to Thomas Aquinas and beyond. The Confessions of Augustine (354–430 AD), an intellectual and spiritual biography, exemplifies this interplay. Augustine was attracted first by Manicheanism, whose worldview centered on a stark contrast between good and evil (seen as cosmic principles locked in permanent struggle). He then turned to Neoplatonism, for which the universe was a combination of (nonmaterial) being and matter, in which matter was at a lower level than being but was not bad in itself. Finally, he returned to a more theorized version of the Christianity in which he was brought up. In Christian thought (as Augustine understands this) evil is explained by the fact that, although God created the universe, human beings are free to reject God’s love, and human sin is redeemed by God’s grace, as expressed in the Incarnation. Augustine used Greek thought as part of the means of achieving and defining this worldview (for instance, Neoplatonic thinking about the three forms of reality helped Augustine to analyze the three Persons of the Trinity). But his final account of the ethical relationship between the human and the divine is significantly different from anything in Greek thought.

Conclusions

As well as playing a crucial role in shaping Western ethical ideas, Greek thinkers, especially Plato and Aristotle, are still regarded as philosophers whose work is of substantive importance to modern thought. Some current thinkers, notably Alasdair MacIntyre and Bernard Williams, have emphasized the value of Greek, especially Aristotelian, theory as an example of ‘virtue ethics’ (centered on virtue and happiness, not rule following). As noted in the section titled ‘Aristotle,’ they commend the Aristotelian idea that general moral ideas (e.g., ‘human nature’) need to be grounded in dispositions and beliefs developed in ethical communities, rather than treated as foundational without such support, as they are in some modern theories (e.g., Kantian or utilitarian). Recent scholarly work in ancient philosophy has given special attention to Hellenistic ethics and its practical implications. As indicated in the sections titled ‘Practical ethics and therapy’ and ‘Political theory,’ the Hellenistic conceptions of practical ethics and of philosophy as therapy, and the philosophers’ thinking about the role of general norms in shaping social and political life, are complex and sophisticated and are of continuing interest for modern thinking about the application of ethical ideas. Martha Nussbaum, for instance, sees in the Stoic combination of a belief-based psychology and an appeal to universal norms (e.g., natural law) a powerful statement of the idea that philosophy can change attitudes and emotions by revising ideals.

Values Deep in the Woods

By Holmes Rolston, III

In a forest, as on a desert or the tundra, the realities of nature cannot be ignored. Like the sea or the sky, the forest is a kind of archetype of the foundations of the world. Aboriginally, about sixty percent of Earth's land surface was forested; historically, forests go back three to four hundred million years. Humans evolved in forests and savannas in which they once had adaptive fitness, and classical cultures often remained in evident contact with forests. In modern cultures, the growth of technology has made the forest increasingly a commodity, decreasingly an archetype. That transformation results in profound value puzzlements. What values lie deep in the forest?

The Forest Primeval

The central goods of the biosphere--hydrologic cycles, photosynthesis, soil fertility, food chains, genetic codes, speciation, reproduction, succession--were in place long before humans arrived. The dynamics and structures organizing the forest do not come out of the human mind; a wild forest is wholly other than civilization. Confronting it I must penetrate spontaneous life on its own terms. The genius of forestry as a pure science helps us to appreciate the biology, ecology, integrity of the forest primeval. Immersed in a nonhuman frame of reference, foresters know the elements, raw and pure.

Applied forestry, making a commodity out of an archetype, is humane and benevolent at risk of prostituting the primeval. The principles reorganizing the managed forest do come out of the human mind. Seeking goods of their kind, humans modify the natural kinds. A domesticated forest, like a caged wolf, is something of a contradiction in terms. There remains what used to be a forest or wolf now reduced to something less. A tract of pine planted for paper pulp is not deep woods. The radical values are gone.

In the forest itself there are no board-feet of timber, BTU's, miles, or acre feet of water. There are trees rising toward the sky, birds on the wing and beasts on the run, age after age, impelled by a genetic language almost two billion years old. There is struggle and adaptive fitness, energy and evolution inventing fertility and prowess. There is cellulose and photosynthesis, succession and speciation, muscle and fat, smell and appetite, law and form, structure and process. There is light and dark, life and death, the mystery of existence.

Life Support Value

A forest is objectively a community. Only subjectively, with human preferences projected onto it, does it become a commodity. "Forest products" are secondarily lumber, turpentine, cellophane; the forest "produces" primarily aspen, ferns, squirrels, mushrooms; this life is never self-contained but incessantly ingests and eliminates its environment. Trees must photosynthesize and coyotes must eat. The flora, like the fauna, make resources of soil, air, water, nutrients.

Many species have found a home in the forest ecosystem, life-supporting niches into which they are well-fitted. This objective satisfaction (=support) of life occurs with or without our human experiences. That the forest is able on occasion to satisfy human preferences seems a spinoff from its being valuable--able to satisfy organic needs--on its own.

Endangered Species/Endangered Ecosystem Values

There can no longer be found about 500 faunal species and subspecies that have become extinct in the United States since 1600, and only rarely found another 500 that are (officially or unofficially) threatened and endangered. Hardly a stretch of forest in the nation is unimpoverished of its native species especially those at the top of trophic pyramids: otters and peregrine falcons. We have only scraps of undisturbed once- common ecosystems, such as hemlock forests, and no chestnut forests at all. Acid rain is impoverishing the Adirondacks and the Great Smokies. An area of tropical rainforests the size of West Virginia is being destroyed annually.

All this ought not to be. Rather, forests ought to be optimally rich in native fauna and flora, in community types, and some forest ecosystems intact enough to support grizzly bears, wolverines, red cockaded woodpeckers, Chapman's rhododendron. What the forest produces is individuals, but, at a deeper level, what the forest has produced is species and ecosystems. Extinction shuts down forever life lines that flowed over the continental landscape long before humans arrived and that might, apart from us--or together with us, were we more sensitive--continue for millennia henceforth.

Natural History Value

A pristine forest is a historical museum that, unlike cultural museums, continues to be what it was, a living landscape. A visit there contributes to the human sense of duration, antiquity, continuity, and our own late-coming novelty. The forest--we first may think--is prehistoric and timeless; world history begins with armies and kings. The perceptive forest visitor knows better and realizes the centuries-long forest successions, the age of sequoias or great oaks; he or she sees erosional, erogenic, and geomorphic processes in rock strata, canyon walls, glacial moraines. The Carboniferous Forests were giant club mosses and horsetails; the Jurassic Forests were gymnosperms--conifers, cycads, ginkgoes, seed ferns. A forest today is yesterday being transformed into tomorrow.

Each forest is unique. Forest types exist only in forestry textbooks; what exists in the world is Mount Monadnock, Tallulah Gorge with its unique colonies of Trillium persistens, Mobley Hollow on Sinking Creek. Forests with their proper named features and locales--Grandfather Mountain, or Chattahoochee National Forest--always exist specifically, never abstractly. When visited by persons with their proper names, the encounter is valued because it yields distinctive, never-repeated stories--the biography of John Muir in the Sierras, or one's vacation hiking the Appalachian Trail.

Scientific Study Value

At least half of what there is to be known about forests remains undiscovered. Successive levels of biological organization have properties that cannot be predicted from simpler levels, and the least known level of organization is that of landscape ecology. Do forests inevitably appear, given a suitable moisture and climatic regime? We are not sure why tree line lies at the elevations it does, or why the balds in the Southern Appalachians are there. We are beginning to suspect that insect outbreaks sometimes convey benefits to a forest, something like those of fires, and of which we were long unaware. How do the non-fruiting mosses get propagated over long distances?

Does diversity increase over time? Stability? Do the species at the top of trophic pyramids rise in complexity? In neural power? All this seems to have happened, but why we do not know. Biologists are divided over whether intraspecific or interspecific competition is a minimal or a major force in evolution. Sizeable natural systems are the likeliest places to settle such debates. To destroy the relict primeval forests is like tearing the last pages out of a book about our past that we hardly yet know how to read.

Aesthetic Values

Like clouds, seashores, and mountains, forests are never ugly; they are only more or less beautiful; the scale runs from zero upward with no negative domain. Destroyed forests can be ugly--a burned, wind-thrown, diseased, or clear-cut forest. But even the ruined forest, regenerating itself, has yet positive aesthetic properties; trees rise to fill the empty place against the sky. A forest is filled with organisms that are marred and ragged--oaks with broken limbs, a crushed violet, the carcass of an elk. But the word "forest" (a grander word than "trees" in the plural) forces retrospect and prospect; it invites holistic categories of interpretation as yesterday's flora and fauna pass into tomorrow. This softens the ugliness and sets it in somber beauty.

One has to appreciate what is not evident. Marvelous things are going on in dead wood, or underground, or in the dark, or microscopically, or slowly, over time; they are not scenic, but an appreciation of them is aesthetic. The usefulness of a tree is only half over at its death; an old snag provides nesting cavities, perches, insect larvae, food for birds. The gnarled spruce at the edge of the tundra is not really ugly, not unless endurance and strength are ugly. It is presence and symbol of life perpetually renewed before the winds that blast it.

In the primeval forest humans know the most authentic of wilderness emotions, the sense of the sublime. By contrast, few persons get goose pimples indoors, in art museums or at the city park. We will not be surprised if the quality of such experiences is hard to quantify. Almost by definition, the sublime runs off scale.

Recreation/Creation Values

The word recreation contains the word creation. Humans go outdoors for the repair of what happens indoors, but they also go outdoors because they seek something greater than can be found indoors--contact with the natural certainties. Forests and sky, rivers and earth, the everlasting hills, the cycling seasons, wildflowers and wildlife--these are superficially just pleasant scenes in which to recreate. They are the timeless natural givens that support everything else.

Those who recreate here value leisure (watching a sunset, listening to loons, or to rain) in contrast to work for pay; they value being in a wild world that runs itself and need not be labored over. They value work (climbing, setting up camp) that isn't for pay; an environment with zest, in contrast to a boring or familiar job. They value an escape, if you like, but they value also being drawn to roots. They want to know the weather, protected by minimal but enough cover and shelter so as to leave rain or sun close at hand. They want to submit to the closing day at dusk, to be roused by the rising sun without benefit of clock. They want to know the passing seasons when migrants return, or leaves fall, without benefit of calendar.

People like to recreate in the woods because they touch base with something missing on baseball diamonds and at bowling alleys--the signature of time and eternity.

Character-Building Value

It is no accident that many organizations that seek to form character use wildlands --Boy and Girl Scouts, Outward Bound, the National Outdoor Leadership School, church camps. Similar growth occurs in individuals independently of formal organizations. The forest provides a place to sweat, to push oneself more than usual, to be more on the alert, to take calculated risks, to learn the luck of the weather, to lose and find one's way. The forest teaches one to care about his or her physical condition. In the forest, one has no status or reputations; nobody is much or long deceived; nobody much has to be pleased; accomplishment and failure are evident. One is free to be himself or herself, forced to a penetrating sincerity.

It is no accident that forestry as a profession has a powerfully positive image; we do not expect a forester to be a sissy, lazy, complaining, naive, arrogant--certainly not one regularly in the field. Professional life and personal life overlap, and the probabilities are that a seasoned forester is genuine, competent, patient, wary. If, past any applied concerns, a forester has an admiring respect for the woods, we have yet the more evidence of the forester's character.

Nonhuman Intrinsic Values

Surrounded by politicians and economists, even by foresters at business, one gets lured into thinking that value only enters and exits with human preference satisfactions. Surrounded by the forest, a deeper conclusion seems irresistible. The forest is value-laden. Trees use water and sunshine; insects resourcefully tap the energy fixed by photosynthesis; warblers search out insect protein; falcons search for warblers. Organisms use other organisms and abiotic resources instrumentally.

Continuing this deeper logic, organisms value the resource they use instrumentally because they value something intrinsically and without further contributory reference: their own lives. No warbler eats insects in order to become food for a falcon; the warbler defends her own life as an end in itself and makes more warblers as she can. A warbler is not "for" anything else; a warbler is for herself. From the perspective of a warbler, being a warbler is a good thing.

Biological conservation is not something that originates in the human mind, modeled by Forplan programs, or written into Acts of Congress. Biological conservation is innate as every organism conserves, values its life. Nonconservation is death. From this more objective viewpoint, there is something subjective and naive (however sophisticated one's technology) about living in a reference frame where one species takes itself as absolute and values everything else relative to its utility.

True, warblers take a warblo-centric point of view; spruce push only to make more spruce. But no nonhuman organism has the cognitive power, much less the conscience, to lift itself outside its own sector and evaluate the whole. Humans are the only species who can see the forest for what it is in itself, objectively, a tapestry of interwoven values. Forestry ought to be one profession that gets rescued from this beguiling anthropocentrism through its daily contact with the primeval givers.

Religious Value

"The groves were God's first temples" (Bryant, A Forest Hymn). Trees pierce the sky, like cathedral spires. Light filters down, as through stained glass. In common with churches, forests (as do sea and sky) invite transcending the human world and experiencing a comprehensive, embracing realm. Forests can serve as a more provocative, perennial sign of this than many of the traditional, often outworn, symbols devised by the churches. Mountaintop experiences, a howling storm, a quiet snowfall, solitude in a sequoia grove, an overflight of honking geese--these generate experiences of "a motion and spirit that impels . . . and rolls through all things." (Wordsworth, "Lines Above Tintern Abbey").

Being among the archetypes, the forest is about as near to ultimacy as we can come in phenomenal experience. I become astonished that the forest should be there, spontaneously generated. There are no forests on Mars or Saturn; none elsewhere in our solar system, perhaps none in our galaxy. But Earth's forests are indisputably here. There is more operational organization, more genetic history in a handful of forest humus than in the rest of the universe, so far as we know. How so? Why? A forest wilderness elicits cosmic questions.

Deep Values

Such values are, it is commonly said, "soft" beside the "hard" values of commerce. They are vague, subjective, impossible to quantify or demonstrate. Perhaps. But what is really meant is that such values lie deep. The forest is where the "roots" are, where life rises from the ground. A wild forest is, after all, something objectively there. Beside it, culture with its artifacts is a tissue of subjective preference satisfactions. Money, often thought the hardest of values, is nothing in the wilderness. A dollar bill has value only intersubjectively; any who doubt this ought to try to spend one in the woods. Dollar values have in the forest (and therefore in pure forestry) no significance at all.

What is there that is objectively significant? The phenomenon of forests is so widespread, persistent, and diverse, appearing almost wherever moisture and climatic conditions permit it, that forests cannot be accidents or anomalies, but rather must be a characteristic, systemic expression of the creative process. Forests are primarily an objective sign of the ultimate sources, and only secondarily do they become managed resources. The measure with which forestry can be profound is the depth of this conviction.

This essay was originally delivered at the Society of American Foresters Convention in Minneapolis, Minn., Oct. 1987, then published in American Forests, May/June 1988.

Standing Humbly Before Nature

By: Lisa Gerber

Abstract

Humility is a virtue that is helpful in a person’s relationship with nature. A humble person sees value in nature and acts accordingly with the proper respect. In this paper, humility is discussed in three aspects. First, humility entails an overcoming of self-absorption. Second, humility involves coming into contact with a larger, more complex reality. Third, humility allows a person to develop a sense of perspective on herself and the world.

One hot summer I went to visit my sister Sue in southern Utah where she was working for the Forest Service. On her day off we went to a small lake, a water hole, really, surrounded by brown sandy soil. We put our towels down on the beach and Sue promptly fell asleep, exhausted after working several days with the fire crew. I walked to the lake, letting my body slip out of the hot sun and into the cool water. After swimming, I went back to my towel. There was a small, rigid sac attached to my blue lycra suit. Not knowing what it was, I sat still and watched. Slowly, a dragonfly began to hatch. Time stretched to eternity as this creature pulled herself out of her shell. Her body lengthened and expanded, almost like she was unfolding. Her abdomen grew and her crumpled wings stretched out. I watched the whole process, completely absorbed and awed. Finally her stretched wings were dry and she flew across the beach. For years, as a reminder, I kept her thin, delicate shell tucked safely in a small canister.

This is one of my experiences of humility. I remember this experience both in its concrete aspects and in the knowledge gained from this experience. At the lake, I was able to set aside my preoccupation with self and with my day-to-day concerns. I came into contact with nature. I was humbled by the beauty and intricacy of the natural world, awed by this birthing of a dragonfly. This concrete experience allowed me to gain a better understanding of myself and the natural world. This is knowledge that I hold with me, knowledge of the intricacy of nature, knowledge of the incredible act of this dragonfly. Experiences like this act as a reminder of the beauty and complexity of our world and as a reminder of what is important.

The idea of humility that I present is quite different from a conception of humility as a form of self-denigration, or thinking lowly of oneself. Most dictionaries define humility as thinking lowly of oneself. And this is not merely a common definition. Philosophical and religious thinkers have conceived of humility as having a low opinion of oneself. For example, Bernard de Clairvaux believed that humans should have a low opinion of themselves, since humans were lowly despicable creatures. And David Hume believed humility was a particularly debilitating vice that made men weak. Clearly, it is hard to imagine why humility would be a good thing under these conceptions. Yet, if we make the connection between humility and awe we will be able to see past these negative versions of this virtue. Considering humility before nature is particularly illuminative, because it is hard to miss the connection between humility and awe.

Humility is a virtue that is particularly useful in our relationship with nature. It helps us move away from arrogance to an appreciation of nature. A humble person can see value in nature and acts accordingly with the proper reverence and respect. This essay, then, is an exploration of humility. The best way to proceed is to consider humility in three parts, simply for conceptual clarification. First, humility involves an overcoming of self-absorption; the object of attention is not oneself. Second, humility involves contact with a larger, more complex reality; nature is one example. Here we will be able to see the connection between humility and awe. Awe is the appropriate response to the grandeur, beauty, or complexity of nature. Third, humility involves a sense of perspective on oneself and the world.

This idea of perspective is an important aspect of humility. This perspective includes a cognitive component and a normative component. Cognitively, a person can understand his place in nature or his relation to another complex reality. Much of the recent philosophical work focuses on the third aspect of humility, that of perspective. The thought is that humility is having a proper perspective on yourself. This would include non-overestimation of yourself, not exaggerating your accomplishments, and being aware of human limitations. ⁽¹⁾ This perspective is a type of self-understanding in which a person gains a proper perspective on who he is and his place in the world. With regard to nature, this will be a type of perspective on oneself in relation to nature; this includes an understanding of oneself as a part of nature. Normatively, a person can understand what is valuable and can act in light of that understanding with respect and reverence. A humble person sees value in nature and acts accordingly. ⁽²⁾

Overcoming Self-Absorption

The first aspect of humility that I want to consider is the idea of overcoming self-absorption. When a person is humble, she moves the focus away from herself. Suppose a person is hiking in the Rocky Mountains and she is thinking about her job. She laments that she should have finished the project she started last week, and that she should have said something different to her colleagues. Perhaps she thinks about having a little party or muses about the great tennis match on television. These thoughts have nothing to do with hiking in the Rocky Mountains and in fact detract from her ability to be humble before nature. She is too self-absorbed to notice, much less appreciate, nature. Henry David Thoreau speaks of his experience of being preoccupied with himself and his daily concerns. He shows how this preoccupation detracts from awareness of the natural world. He writes:

Of course it is of no use to direct our steps to the woods, if they do not carry us thither. I am alarmed when it happens that I have walked a mile into the woods bodily, without getting there in spirit. In my afternoon walk I would fain forget all my morning occupations and my obligations to society. But it sometimes happens that I cannot easily shake off the village. The thought of some work will run in my head and I am not where my body is—I am out of my senses. In my walks I would fain return to my senses. What business have I in the woods, if I am thinking of something out of the woods? ⁽³⁾

To be out of your senses is to miss the sights, sounds, and smells of the world around you. Part of being humble is coming into contact with and finally appreciating an external reality. This is impossible if a person is self-absorbed or otherwise preoccupied with himself and his daily concerns. You must move the focus away from self. Part of humility is gaining a new perspective on self and the world, because a person has come into contact with something like nature. The idea is that a person becomes aware of an incredible, complex external reality and this shifts her vision from herself. A person who is self-absorbed is unable to be humble because she cannot see past her own concerns.

Humility includes letting go of grandiose and denigrating thoughts of yourself as well as letting go of thoughts about your daily concerns, plans, goals, desires, resentments, or loves. Many people make a claim that sounds similar to the one above, but which is quite different. For example, Philippa Foot (1978) claims that humility corrects our thinking too much of ourselves. ⁽⁴⁾ Her idea is that virtues are corrective, each one standing at a point where there is some temptation to be resisted or some deficiency of motivation to be made good. Her thought is that people in general tend to think too much of themselves. Humility, then, would correct this general tendency. Yet, I am not referring to a self-boastfulness or arrogance. My claim is much broader. I am referring to self-absorption, and this could include arrogance as well as thinking lowly of oneself. A person who is self-absorbed spends too much time reflecting on herself and her concerns. Rather than saying that humility corrects thinking too highly of oneself, my claim is that a person whose thoughts tend to come back to herself and her daily concerns is unable to be humble. In this sense, humility would correct thinking too much of oneself in the sense of time spent reflecting on the self.

Rather than saying that humility is having a low opinion of oneself as opposed to a high one, it makes more sense to say that being humble is moving the focus away from self. This allows a person to overcome self-absorption in a way that allows something else to take root in awareness. To be humble before nature is to move the focus away from self and to allow oneself to respond appropriately to nature.

A Larger, More Complex Reality

However, not every experience of overcoming self-absorption leads to humility. Humility is the proper response to a greater, more complex reality. If you were to move the focus away from self and contemplate a trash can or a fork, this experience would not lead to humility, because the trash can or fork does not merit humility. To function, humility needs a reality greater than ourselves; a reality that inspires awe. Nature in its beauty, complexity, and vastness does afford us a sense of the sacred and profane. Nature is complex, intricate, spontaneous. Think of the migration of geese, or the sunrise. Visit the Grand Canyon, or walk among the exposed and open rock of southern Utah. Late at night look up and watch the stars. Or during spring, crouch and watch a bean sprout coming out of the ground. At some point you will stop and say, "Wow. This is incredible. Beautiful. Amazing." To fail to see this, to fail to be moved by the awe-inspiring qualities of nature, is to lack humility. We understand humility through the awe-inspiring qualities the virtuous person can see.

Humility comes from contact with a greater more complex reality. That is, a person stands before something that inspires awe. This is an element in many historical conceptions of humility. For example, the Christian virtue of humility functions before an all-powerful God; God is revered. Einstein was humble before the complexity of the universe; the universe is respected. Recent writers think that we should be humble before an ideal of human nature; a possibility of humanity is idealized and revered. God, the universe, and human nature all represent external realities. Yet, a person needs the sensitivity to recognize and see these external realities. This is a sensitivity to others which involves seeing something outside ourselves. This is made possible by overcoming self-absorption.

Humility stems from a person's relationship to something greater. Jay Newman, in "Humility and Self-Realization" (1982), offers a helpful account of this relation in which a person has an opportunity for self-evaluation. "In evaluating himself," writes Newman, "one considers himself in relation to something external—God or other people" (p. 282). Newman argues that we can be humble before an ideal of what the person is in the process of realizing. There must be something external in order for humility to function. We need to be humble before something, whether it be our potential, nature, God, or gods. Proper humility only makes sense before something great, beautiful, or complex; something that is greater than ourselves.

William Kittredge (1984) is a Montana writer who makes explicit the connection between humility and nature. In a beautiful essay Kittredge writes of the humility we can learn from "the great ursus arctos horribilis, the grizzly." The grizzly is described as a magnificent creature; one to be revered and feared. Kittredge sits in a fire lookout, with Doug Peacock and Peacock's wife Lisa, reminiscing about the grizzly. He articulates his own fear of the grizzly, the fatal grizzly attacks in Yellowstone and Glacier, and the loss of habitat of this bear. Kittredge's friend Peacock had survived the war in Vietnam and had come back crazy and unable to talk to anyone. Kittredge writes: "the indifferent, dignified otherness of the animal touched Peacock in a way that forced his craziness and anger out into the open, where he could see it as something other than the natural condition of life" (p. 128). Kittredge's reference to the dignified otherness of the grizzly sets up the grizzly as something external. The grizzly is not part of a narcissistic gaze, but is separate, distinct, and great. The bear in the essay is great and powerful. Kittredge wonders if, we cannot, as Peacock claims, have a true North American wilderness without the great and dangerous and emblematic bear out there feeding on bulbs of blue camas and tubers of yampa, on biscuit-root, pine nuts, and stinking dead-over-winter carrion. [He wonders] if wilderness must indeed, by definition, be inhabited by some power greater than ourselves. (p. 131)

It is not simply that a grizzly could kill you, which it could. The description of the grizzly is of a powerful, awesome creature. A beautiful animal. The grizzly, like the wilderness, is something external which is greater and more powerful than ourselves. Kittredge takes the further step and equates humility with this great and powerful creature:

As the sky broke over the peaks of Glacier, I found myself deeply moved by the view from our elevation, off west the lights of Montana, Hungry Horse, and Columbia Falls, and farmsteads along the northern edge of Flathead Lake, and back in the direction of sunrise the soft and misted valleys of the parklands, not an electric light showing: little enough to preserve the wanderings of a great and sacred animal who can teach us, if nothing else, by his power and dilemma, a little common humility. (p. 136)

Humility is a proper response to the power and dilemma of the grizzly.

Kittredge's views are common among nature writers as well as among environmental philosophers. Thomas Hill (1983) writes that his argument for our appreciation of nature, "appeals to the common idea that awareness of nature typically has and should have a humbling effect.

The Alps, a storm at sea, the Grand Canyon, towering redwoods, and the 'starry heavens' move many a person to remark on the comparative insignificance of our daily concerns and even of our species and this is generally taken to be a quite fitting response" (p. 219). This is to say that the Grand Canyon, the towering redwoods, the grizzly all merit our humility. These are external realities and properly fill us with awe and respect.

Not every aspect of nature is as intense as the Rockies or as powerful as a grizzly. Yet, this is not to say that the more ordinary aspects of nature do not or should not have a humbling effect. Each part of nature is complex and intricate. For example, the small lichen that grows on rough rock is an incredible plant. Lichen are really two plant forms living in symbiosis. The algae provides food for the fungus which, having no green chlorophyll, is unable to manufacture food. The fungus furnishes the algae with moisture saving the algae from drought. These two plants thrive together and make way for other plants to grow and take root. Lichen are able to survive on the barest of rock and they live and decay providing humus for other plant life. There is also a beautiful sunrise, or the hatching of a dragon fly. One can be humble before a flowering rose, or a spider web. These aspects of nature are external to us, as are human ideals, God, other people, or the grizzly. Given the more delicate and overlooked aspects of nature, it is crucial that we acknowledge the need to overcome self-absorption. Often it must be a conscious choice, a deliberate attempt to let go of self-absorption in order to allow contact with the something external that is rich and complex. Nature provides us, in an increasingly busy and alienated world, with an opportunity to come into contact with something that is greater and more powerful than ourselves.

A Sense of Perspective

Since humility stems from a relation between ourselves and something external, we can also learn about ourselves from this relation. When we are humble before something great and awesome, we can gain a perspective on ourselves. We also gain perspective on value and respectful action.

Let's look at the idea of perspective first and then move on to the ideas of value and right action. In the essay, "Is Humility a Virtue?" Norvin Richards (1988) argues that humility "involves having an accurate sense of oneself, sufficiently firm to resist pressures toward incorrect revisions. Only here [as opposed to dignity] the pressures are to think too much of oneself rather than too little" (p. 254). For example, you may think you deserve more praise for an accomplishment than you actually do. As Richards puts it, "you have yielded to a temptation to cast yourself in a more central role where the spotlight ought to linger and the player entitled to dominate the action" (pp. 254-5). In this case, a person has succumbed to a temptation to exaggerate the importance of his accomplishments and thus exhibits a lack of humility. This does not mean that a humble person could not be prideful. Richards writes that "proper humility doesn't require that you take no pride at all in what you do, but only that you take less pride than a far greater accomplishment would have merited (p. 255). Thus, the idea is that humility is a form of self-knowledge in which a person keeps herself and her accomplishments in proper perspective. This perspective is gained from confrontation with a larger system, whether this be the other people's accomplishments in a particular field or accomplishments of people in general.

Nancy Snow (1995) argues that Richard's definition of humility works well for some conceptions of humility, but not for others. Resisting the temptation to exaggerate your importance and keeping yourself and your accomplishments in proper perspective does explain certain types of humility. For example, Snow argues that this conception does explain examples of being humble about one's capabilities as a cellist, or about one's talents as a detective. Here humility would be a matter of resisting temptations to exaggerate. However, she shows that some examples of humility need further explanation.

Snow looks at two cases which are relevant in our exploration of humility before nature: "Einstein was humbled by the scientific complexity of the universe," and "I was humbled before the grandeur of the Rockies." She writes that these examples are not merely a matter of resisting a temptation to exaggerate; they also involve a recognition of deficiency and an awareness of limitation. In these cases, a person is confronted not merely with his own deficiencies, but also with an awareness of the limitations of human nature. In these cases, "he has an inkling of a larger, more complex reality [and this shows] human limitations. Confrontation with human finitude brought about by an awareness of a more complex reality is humbling" (Snow 1995, 206). To facilitate her point, Snow distinguishes between narrow and existential humility. Narrow humility is about "specific personal traits perceived as deficiencies." This is akin to the definition of humility given by Richards. Existential humility, on the other hand, "goes beyond humility about specific person characteristics to include an aspect of the human condition in general, human finitude" (Snow 1995, 206). It is clear that Snow falls prey to the idea of humble as somewhat derogatory. Her language overflows with negative connotations. Humans are deficient and limited.

We would be misguided to assume that humility is simply a matter of understanding human limitations or deficiencies. When we are before the complexity of the universe, or the grandeur of nature, we are awed by them. The universe and nature give a person pause. We are actually made better rather than smaller from the encounter, because we touch something that is greater and more complex than ourselves. We may see the insignificance in some of our daily concerns, but this is a good thing. It always helps to get a perspective on what is important.

There is also a sense, of course, that humans are limited. We cannot understand all the complexities of the universe, nor can we create the beauty of the sunrise on the Tetons. But the awe-inspiring quality of nature gives us cause to rise above the mundane and touch beauty. If we keep in mind the awe-inspiring qualities of the greater external reality we can resist the temptation to think that limitation and smallness are negative. We become embedded in a larger reality and this can be cause for wonder and celebration. Listen to the way Rick Bass describes his awe and humility:

I was already in love with these woods; I did not understand there could be a thing deeper than love. The thing in our blood that makes us love beauty—and beauty's depth, beauty's electrical charge—who would even consider that such a thing can be measured?

At what point should we set down our microscopes and tape measures, with respect to the woods and say, All right, enough; this thing—nature—is larger than we can understand. We are only a part of it, at the tail end of it—nothing but a curious fat little comma, near the end of a very long sentence. (Bass 1996, 47)

There are two important themes to notice in this quotation. First is the incredible awe that Bass experiences. Part of humility is the awe at coming before the immensity and beauty of nature. Second is that nature is larger than we can understand, but we are part of it. We can now see what perspective humility before nature, as opposed to other people or gods, can give us. From our contact with nature, we can come to understand ourselves as part of the natural world—a small part of a vast system.

One of the most interesting aspects of humility before nature is the recognition that we are part and parcel of nature. We, too, have the spontaneous beauty of natural things. Our physicality gives us cause to understand what it means to be part of nature. For Thomas Hill, self-acceptance includes recognizing that we are part of nature and that we share biological aspects. "A storm in the wild," writes Hill, helps us appreciate our animal vulnerability, but equally important, the reluctance to experience it may reflect an unwillingness to accept this aspect of ourselves. The person who is too ready to destroy the ancient redwoods may lack humility, not so much in the sense that he exaggerates his importance to others, but rather in the sense that he tries to avoid seeing himself as one among many natural creatures. (Hill 1983, 222)

So, thinking that we are immune from nature, that we can control our mortality, that we can avoid being hot, cold, tired, or old is in part a lack of humility in that we fail to recognize that we are part of nature. As Hill says, we are one among many natural creatures.

Yet, there is more to this idea than simply self-acceptance. For if we remember humility's connection with awe, we can recognize our bodies as being able to merit wonder and awe. Poet Gary Snyder asks the question, "Do you really believe you are an animal?" He responds to this question with delight. "It is a wonderful piece of information," he writes, "I have been enjoying it all my life and I come back to it over and over again, as something to investigate and test" (Snyder 1990, 15). He continues along this vein, describing the body as he would a natural wonder. He writes: "Our bodies are wild. The involuntary quick turn of the head at a shout, the vertigo at looking off a precipice, the heart-in-the-throat in a moment of danger, the catch of the breath, the quiet moments relaxing, staring, reflection—all universal responses of this mammal body" (16). He describes the body with a wonder at its responses, the wildness of our selves. Wildness that is spontaneous. For humility does not require that we lament our lowliness, physically, mentally, or spiritually, but rather that we respond appropriately with wonder and awe.

So, humility before nature gives a person a sense of perspective. She is part of a larger whole, part of the complex, external reality of nature. She is part of it in her ability to respond with awe and her awareness of herself as part of nature. In a sense, she becomes imbedded in a larger whole. Humility, then, is not about a person's lowliness, rather it involves a person's relationship with a larger, more complex reality.

There are two ways in which a person can be said to show a lack of humility. First, a person can fail to be properly moved by nature. This, in part, is the problem of self-absorption. For example, a person can fail to be humble before the first pasqueflower of the season or before the ancient Fremont pictographs in southern Utah. Second, a person's actions can show her lack of humility. A humble person wouldn't purposely squash the pasqueflower, or use the pictographs for target practice.

It does not make sense to say that a person was humble if he responded with awe and then destroyed or harmed that which inspired awe. For example, if someone exclaimed, "wow, look at this beautiful pasqueflower," and then crunched the flower under her boot, we would think that there was something wrong with this person. Similarly, imagine a person who admired the wonderful pictographs, standing in awe of the traces left by ancient people and then he took a shotgun and blasted holes in the rock. We certainly would not think this person virtuous. Certainly, we would not say that he was properly moved by these pictographs, but failed to have the appropriately normative response. No, we would not describe this person as humble or virtuous. Rather, we would characterize this person as pathological and as an aberration. In most cases, people who do recognize the value in an external reality will respond properly and with respect. That is, if a person recognizes the value in nature, certain acts of destruction will be unthinkable. This is because a person cannot be humble before nature without recognizing the value of nature. And recognizing the value in nature makes certain acts unthinkable.

The following two examples will illustrate a lack of humility and humility, respectively. In the first, some people destroyed a beautiful sandstone arch. They lacked the ability to see the value in the landscape. Their actions clearly reflect a lack of humility and would have been unthinkable to a person who was moved by the landscape. In the second example, we will look at Rick Bass, who is humble before nature and acts accordingly with respect.

On a rainy memorial day weekend in 1997, some people floated down the Missouri River in central Montana. Like many people before them, they would visit the Eye of the Needle, a delicate, eleven-foot, white sandstone arch on the high bluffs along the river. This area is not easily accessible. To get there you need to float down the river. You need to know when to stop and get out of the boat in order to hike to the arch.

The arch is not directly visible from the river below, unless you are farther downstream. This means that these people floated the river, stopped at the place where the Missouri runs wide and deep, then scrambled up a steep cliff to get to the area. Once at the Eye of the Needle, they could gaze at the river. The prairie, the mountain ranges, the river, and sky, all were framed by the delicate structure of the arch. They were the last to see it this way. The next person on the scene would find the sandstone arch broken, and several pillars and formations knocked over. BLM and Forest Service officials say this was clearly an act of vandalism, since not only was the arch toppled, but many toadstool formations were destroyed also. This vandalism is a sad testimony to what had taken the wind, rain, and sun tens of thousands of years to create.

If we think about the people who did this, it is clear that they failed to respond appropriately, both in terms of their characters and their actions. Bonnie Cook, the outfitter who first discovered the vandalized arch, points to a defect in character in the people who destroyed Eye of the Needle. "People may start out on a hike or a float with intentions to harm," she says, "but the forest or rivers tend to change their attitude along the way. It scares me to think that people now intrude upon the wilderness and manage to keep their rage intact" (Cook 1997, A16). The implication here is that these people failed to respond appropriately to nature. There is a sense that the mountains and rivers have the power to change people's attitudes. These people, however, lacked part of humility, that of overcoming self-absorption. The rafters, as Cook points out, managed to keep their rage intact, even while floating down a stunning stretch of the river. The people who destroyed the arch lacked the capacity to feel awe where awe was merited. A humble person would have been appropriately moved by the landscape. Destroying the arch would have been unthinkable.

In contrast is Rick Bass's experience while in the Yaak valley where he lives. Bass is hiking and comes upon grizzly tracks. Like Kittredge, he is awed and humbled by this great creature. Bass explains his humility before nature by using an analogy of humility before a person. Listen to his description of humility. He writes, When I couldn't follow after his tracks any more I felt again a burst of reverence, a mix of fear and euphoria. It was as if I'd made a small new discovery in science—as if one curious piece of data suddenly and gracefully connected with another . . . I sat down on a cold rock in the wind and thought about what I had seen. I didn't want to leave the mountain, as I had the sense one has when one is in the presence of a great man or woman, someone who's meant a lot to you, and whom you finally get to meet. You want to savor the moment and say the right thing, but also, especially if the day has been long and that person is old and tired, you don't want to be a stone, a thing that weighs them down, and so you quickly savor the encounter and are reassured, almost relieved, to see that yes, there is something special and different about him or her, some force, something indefinable . . . (Bass 1996, 51)

There are several things to notice in this passage. Bass has come into contact with an external reality, the grizzly. He is humble, comparing his reverence before the grizzly to his reverence before a great person. We understand what it is to be humble before great people and the virtue functions in the same way as a proper response to nature. Bass shows that it matters how we act before greatness and that there is a proper way to treat those whom we revere. So it is not only that humility is a proper response to nature, but also there are proper acts of reverence.

His reverence extends to his time on the mountain, the home of the grizzly. He had been grouse hunting and sees some birds in the bunchgrass. He writes:

I stepped forward to flush them, but did not shoot: and one by one they flew away, fat and juicy and lucky. It was unthinkable to me to shoot a shotgun on this mountain with any grizzly, but especially that grizzly, on it. It would be like walking into a stranger's house, upon first meeting him or her—say the friend of a friend—and blasting a hole through the ceiling of the living room. It just wasn't imaginable. (p. 52)

The language in this passage show Bass's humility; there is a sense of awe and respect. Bass is in contact with the greatness of the grizzly and he thinks it is important to act respectfully. To shoot a gun would be a violation of his respect for the grizzly. His actions are those of a humble person who has been appropriately moved by the greatness of the grizzly. He shows that it matters how a person acts in the face of greatness.

Through the practice of the virtue of humility a person is able to come into a new and better relationship with nature. A humble person, for example, is able to respond to nature with the appropriate awe and respect. The depth of this relationship is simply lost by systems that place principles before character. A utilitarian, for instance, always works to alleviate suffering, but this does not even entail direct contact with nature. The self is not necessarily changed, or made more aware of the beauty and complexity of nature. Similarly, mere scientific understanding does not entail that the person be appropriately moved by nature. The virtues demand something different from us. We do not simply bring our moral principles to apply, but rather we learn something from responding appropriately to the land.

We need direct contact with nature, but this is clearly not enough. After all, the vandals and Bass had direct contact with nature. Yet, Bass responded respectfully and the vandals did not. The difference is in their characters. Clearly, it is important to develop our characters, in living well and acting rightly. Humility is a good virtue to develop. In its three aspects, humility facilitates a person's relationship with nature. A person overcomes self-absorption and comes into contact with a larger, more complex reality. These two aspects reinforce and strengthen the third aspect of humility where we gain perspective on ourselves, our place in the world, and in acting respectfully. Nature is all around us. This morning I can hear the mourning doves and the robins. Sun filters through the ponderosa. The breeze is cool with a hint of the heat to come. Nature is here; now let us develop ourselves so that we can appreciate our world and act accordingly.

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to Fred Schueler, Sergio Tenenbaum, and Bryan Benham for comments on early drafts of this paper.

This paper appeared originally in Ethics & the Environment, 7.1 (2002) 39-53

Lisa Gerber teaches philosophy and humanities for the University Honors Program at the University of New Mexico. She has written on environmental virtues and vices, particularly the vice of misanthropy and the virtues of humility, intimacy, and attentiveness. Email: gerber@unm.edu

Endnotes

(1) See for example, Norville Richards, "Is Humility a Virtue?"; Nancy Snow, "Humility"; Thomas Hill, "Ideals of Human Excellence and Preserving Natural Environments." Hill's essay is strongly normative also.

(2) For an interesting and helpful discussion of values as secondary qualities see John McDowell, Mind, Value, and Reality, "Values and Secondary Qualities," 131-50. McDowell argues that we cannot characterize value without referring to human sensibility. That is, the awareness of value is like the awareness of secondary qualities. We cannot characterize secondary qualities like color independently of the beings who can see color just as we cannot characterize value independent of human sensibility. A particular situation, place, person, merits an appropriate response, just as a particular object merits a particular response, that is, seeing red. We cannot describe color independent of the way a certain type of being sees the world and we cannot describe value independent of the way a virtuous person sees the world.

(3) Henry David Thoreau, Walking, 8-9. There are many copies of this essay. It can be found in most collections, especially in the collections of Thoreau's nature writing.

(4) Philippa Foot, "Virtues and Vices," 1-18. See especially section II.

References

Bass, Rick. 1996. The Book of Yaak. Boston: Houghton Mifflin.

Cook, Bonnie.1997. "Arch Vandals Tear Open Eye of Needle Formations: Montanans Angered by Damage to Nature." Washington Post, 7 June, A1, A16.

Foot, Philippa. 1978, "Virtues and Vices." In Virtues and Vices and Other Essays in Moral Philosophy. Oxford: Blackwell, 1-18.

Hill, Thomas. 1983. "Ideals of Human Excellence and Preserving Natural Environments," Environmental Ethics 5, 211-24.

Kittredge, William. 1984. "Grizzly." In Owning It All. St. Paul, Minn.: Grey Wolf Publications, 122-36.

McDowell, John. 1998. "Values and Secondary Qualities." In Mind, Value, and Reality. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 131-50.

Newman, Jay. 1982. "Humility and Self-Realization," Journal of Value Inquiry 16, 275-85.

Richards, Norvin. 1988. "Is Humility a Virtue?" American Philosophical Quarterly 25, 253-60.

Snow, Nancy. 1995. "Humility," Journal of Value Inquiry 29, 203-16.

Snyder, Gary. 1990. "The Etiquette of Freedom." In The Practice of the Wild. San Francisco: North Point Press, 3-24.

Thoreau, Henry David. 1995. Walking. New York: Penguin Books.