Aldo Vendemiati

In the First Person

An Outline of General Ethics

- Expanded Second Edition -

Translated by

Cynthia R. Nicolosi
Contents

Prologue
Preface
1. What is Ethics?
1. 1. Why Study Ethics?
1. 2. Isn’t Faith Enough?
1. 2. 1. “Handmaiden” Philosophy in the House of Theology
1. 2. 2. Philosophy as “Mistress” of Her Own House
1. 3. Philosophical Method
1. 3. 1. Fundamental Attitudes
1. 3. 1. 1. Wonder
1. 3. 1. 2. Reverence
1. 3. 1. 3. Desire
1. 3. 2. Starting from Experience
1. 3. 3. Awareness of Conditioning
1. 3. 4. The Obvious and The Evident
1. 4. Specific Characteristics of Philosophical Ethics
1. 4. 1. Ethics is Concerned with Moral Experience
1. 4. 2. Is Ethics merely a Descriptive Science?
1. 4. 2. 1. Positivism and “Weak Thought”
1. 4. 2. 2. Critique
1. 4. 3. Ethics is a Normative-Categorical Science
1. 4. 4. Ethics and Happiness
2. The Phenomenology of Morality
2. 1. Moral Experiences
2. 1. 1. Attempts at Negation
2. 1. 2. Judging the Behavior of Others
2. 1. 2. 1. Scandal
2. 1. 2. 2. Admiration
2. 1. 3. Judging Our Own Behavior
2. 1. 3. 1. Remorse
2. 1. 3. 2. Gratification
2. 2. Essential Characteristics of Moral Experience
2. 2. 1. Experiences that Concern the Will
2. 2. 2. Experiences that Obligate the Will
2. 2. 3. Duty, Freedom, and Responsibility
2. 2. 4. Duty and Happiness
2. 2. 4. 1. Living Fully
2. 2. 4. 2. Positive and Negative Values
2. 2. 4. 3. Good, Useful, and Delightful
2. 2. 4. 4. And What about Evil?
3. Voluntary Behavior
3. 1. Conditions of Voluntary Behavior
3. 1. 1. Acts of Man and Human Acts
3. 1. 2. Phenomenology of Voluntary Action
3. 1. 3. Intelligence in the Human Act
3. 1. 4. The Will in the Human Act
3. 1. 4. 1. Voluntary and Involuntary
3. 1. 4. 2. Simple Voluntary and Relative Voluntary
3. 1. 4. 3. Willed Voluntary and Tolerated Voluntary
3. 2. Emotions and Feelings in Human Action
3. 3. Freedom in Human Action
3. 4. Human Action as Immanent Activity
3. 4. 1. Human Acts Modify the Personality of the Acting
Subject
3. 4. 2. Habitus
4. The Virtues in General
4. 1. Importance of the Virtues in Ethical Discourse
4. 1. 1. Acting Manifests Being
4. 1. 2. The Discourse on Virtues
4. 2. Virtues and Vices
4. 2. 1. Good Habitus and Bad Habitus
4. 2. 2. The “Mean”
4. 3. Classification of the Virtues
4. 3. 1. Intellectual Virtues and Moral Virtues
4. 3. 2. The Cardinal Virtues
4. 3. 2. 1. Reason, Will, and the Irascible and
Concupiscible Appetites
4. 3. 2. 2. Practical Wisdom
4. 3. 2. 3. Justice
4. 3. 2. 4. Fortitude or Courage
4. 3. 2. 5. Temperance
4. 3. 2. 6. “Annexed” Virtues
4. 3. 3. The Connection between the Virtues and Love
4. 4. Virtue, Freedom, and Happiness
5. Wisdom
5. 1. Terminology
5. 2. Primacy of Wisdom
5. 3. The Operations of Wisdom
5. 4. Wisdom’s Presuppositions and Their Opposites
5. 4. 1. Wisdom as a Cognitive Virtue
5. 4. 2. Wisdom as a Commanding Virtue
6. Justice
6. 1. The Concept of Justice
6. 2. Rights
6. 3. General Justice and Particular Justice
6. 4. The Parts of Justice
6. 4. 1. Commutative Justice
6. 4. 2. Distributive Justice
6. 5. Injustice
7. Fortitude or Courage
7. 1. Terminology
7. 1. 1. Courage
7. 1. 2. Tenacity and Patience
7. 1. 3. Magnanimity
7. 2. Cultural Aspects
7. 3. Fortitude and Vulnerability
7. 4. Endurance and Aggression
8. Temperance
8. 1. Terminology
8. 2. The Essence of Temperance
8. 3. Virtue of Personal Integration
Excursus 1. – Historical/Philosophical Panorama on Corporeality
A. Materialistic Monism
B. Spiritualistic Dualism
C. Ontologically Based Personalism
8. 3. 1. Division between Body and Person
8. 3. 2. A Unified Whole
9. The Foundation of Morality
9. 1. The Good: Objective or Subjective?
Excursus 2. – Morality and Contemporary Thought
A. Universalisms
A. 1. The “State of Nature”
A. 2. Reason and the Passions
A. 3. “Pure Duty”
A. 4. The State
A. 5. Utility and Consequences
B. Relativism
B. 1. Emotivism
B. 2. Historicism, Sociologism, Psychologism
B. 3. Genesis, Evolution, and the Dissolution of
Relativism
 9. 2. The True Good
9. 2. 1. Man’s “Humanity” as Source
9. 2. 2. Natural Inclinations
9. 2. 3. Man’s Ultimate End
9. 2. 3. 1. Happiness and the Good
9. 2. 3. 2. Perfect and Imperfect Happiness
9. 3. The Basis of Human Rights
9. 3. 1. Nature and Reason
9. 3. 2. Human Rights and Their Order
9. 4. Sources of Morality
9. 4. 1. The Objective Structure of the Act
9. 4. 2. The Motive
9. 4. 3. The Circumstances
10. The Moral Law
10. 1. Attitudes toward Law
10. 2. The Essence of Moral Law
10. 2. 1. Law as Rational Order
10. 2. 2. Law and the Common Good
10. 2. 3. Law and Legitimate Authority
10. 2. 4. The Law’s Promulgation
10. 2. 5. Effects of the Law
10. 3. The Natural Law
10. 3. 1. Precepts of the Natural Law
10. 3. 2. Universality and Immutability of the Natural Law
10. 3. 2. 1. The Unity and Mutability of Human Nature
10. 3. 2. 2. Mutability of Some Precepts of the Natural
Law
10. 3. 3. Relationship between Natural Law and Human Law
10. 3. 4. Natural Law and Eternal Law
10. 4. The Law’s Limits
10. 4. 1. Unjust Law
10. 4. 2. Exceptions to the Law
10. 4. 3. Epikéia (Equity)
11. Conscience
11. 1. Anthropological Value of the Moral Conscience
11. 2. The Judgement of Conscience
11. 2. 1. Potential Conscience
11. 2. 1. 1. Synderesis
11. 2. 1. 2. Moral Knowledge
11. 2. 2. Actual Conscience
11. 3. Types or Forms of Conscience
11. 3. 1. Types of Potential Conscience
11. 3. 2. Types of Actual Conscience
11. 3. 2. 1. In Respect to the Act: Antecedent,
Concomitant, and Consequent Conscience
 11. 3. 2. 2. In Respect to Moral Quality:
Right or Negligent
11. 3. 2. 3. In Respect to Subjective Certitude:
Certain, Sufficient, Doubtful
11. 3. 2. 4. In Respect to Objective Truth:
True or Erroneous
11. 4. Law, Virtue, and Conscience

Epilogue
Bibliography
Prologue

This volume is the second, expanded edition of a book that appeared in this series in
Autumn 1999, crowned by a publishing success for which I would like now to thank the readers.

The book was born from my experience in the chair of moral philosophy at the Pontifical
University Urbaniana in Rome. Several years ago, upon being asked to teach a course on general
ethics, I felt it necessary to suggest to my students a “handbook” that would respect two
conditions: first, that it be adapted to the students’ needs, and second, that it be consistent with
the “perennially valid philosophical inheritance” that would serve as the constant reference point
for our activity.

While texts were not lacking with respect to the second condition (the reader will find a
“minimal” listing at the end of this volume), I did not find a similar concordance with respect to
the first.

Our students, in fact, hailed from the most diverse cultures and formative experiences.
Some had studies of a “western” variety behind them, while others came from completely
different horizons. As a young professor of philosophy, I thought that my first duty was to
examine these different cultures in order to “incarnate” my teaching into the lives of the students
. . . But my students came from every continent on earth – and more than a hundred different
countries. Further, as is well known, a single country can be home to multiple cultures and
traditions. Where was a philosophy teacher to start?

Clearly, there had to be another way: the phenomenological option. This meant not
beginning with theories (even the most important ethical notions elaborated over the long course
of the history of philosophical thought), and not stopping short at cultures (while nevertheless
admiring their richness), but going behind all this, back to the things themselves, concentrating
on the moral experience of every human being, soliciting from it the moral principles that can
serve as its guide. The challenge, then, was to describe the humanum in terms comprehensible to
every person.

In doing this, I also wanted to be of help to other philosophical and theological institutes in
which the multi-ethnic and multi-cultural dimension of our “globalized” society is beginning to
manifest itself. Such institutes, which up until a few decades ago were attended by students
formed in the “classical” tradition of the lyceum, now welcome students from very different
kinds of educational backgrounds. These students, though commonly lacking in historical-
philosophical instruction, are nonetheless very motivated to learn. Hence, this book was
conceived to be useful to students with a classical formation, as well as those who do not possess
such a background but greatly desire to learn.

Such considerations led me to give this exposition a rather “midwifery” style. The book
has a very conversational tone, like a dialogue. I believe this to be the best method, not only for
an introductory text such as this one, but also as a philosophical approach tout-court. I want to
involve readers in a kind of Socratic dialogue by calling forth that “minimum-of-philosophy”
within every person. I want to move readers to reflect on their own experience by encouraging a
critical awareness of their own thoughts – without ever uprooting them from the “life-
world.”1[1] Consequently, this text humbly seeks to insert itself within that multi-millennial
tradition that, from Socrates to Kierkegaard, from St. Augustine to G. Marcel, has been at the
service of the concrete human being, putting such a one in contact with the truth that dwells in
the intimacy of his or her own heart.

For this reason, on nearly every page of this book, I have sought to highlight the
necessary existential meaning of moral-philosophical research: I am, in fact, deeply convinced
that philosophy is sapientia vitae and, precisely for this reason, can and should be cultivated with
love.
All this is intrinsically connected to the formulation of moral philosophy as an “ethics
of the first person,” as the title of this volume attests.

In this regard, a decisive contribution has been made by the work of Giuseppe Abbà,2[2] who
has shown how classical and modern ethics are separated by a distinguishing difference due to an
alteration in the principle point of view from which the discipline was developed. In classical
ethics – a paradigm of which can be found in the thought of Aristotle and St. Thomas Aquinas –
the principle point of view is that of the acting subject who seeks the “good” or “virtuous” life in
which true happiness consists. In modern ethics – for which we can take as a paradigm the
morality of Hobbes – the point of view moves to an external observer, legislator, or judge, who
seeks criteria, principles, and the norms of just action. Modern ethics, then, is an ethics of the
third person, while classical ethics is an ethics of the first person.

Ethics of the third person aims at creating a social order where man as a being of desires
or as autonomous subject can do what he wants without hurting others, or hurting them
only with a better end in mind. Concerning what each person does to satisfy his own
desires, or the use that each person makes of his own freedoms, modern ethics refuses to
speak, since this is supposed to be a purely private and subjective question. Everybody
can manage his own life however he wants. In this way, however, a system of principles
and norms is tacitly at the service of the interests of individual, free subjects, for whom
one wishes to guarantee satisfaction – the maximum satisfaction. This is tantamount to
recognizing that the importance of individual subjects – of their freedom and their desires
– is primary. But silence reigns concerning the meaning of the life of these free subjects.
If no consideration is given to this subject, the question “Why be moral?” remains
without an answer. Why, should the utilitarian rules of justice be observed? . . .
The principle of the intelligibility of a normative ethics of the third person must be
located in the ethics of the first person. Human conduct, in fact, in as much as it is
constructed and produced by the acting subject, contains an original, practical knowledge
that is not reducible to the knowledge of the legislator, the judge, or the critic; an
operative knowledge that has its own logic. It was exactly this practical knowledge that

1[1] See E. Husserl, The Crisis of European Sciences and Transcendental Phenomenology: An
Introduction to Phenomenological Philosophy, trans. David Carr (Evanston, IL: Northwestern
University Press, 1970; orig. German, 1936).

2[2] See Giuseppe Abbà, Felicità, vita buona e virtù. Saggio di filosofia morale, 2nd ed. (Rome: LAS, 1995) and
Quale impostazione per la filosofia morale? Ricerche di filosofia morale – 1 (Rome: LAS, 1996).
 Aristotle in his Ethics and Aquinas in the II Pars [of the Summa Theologiae] explicitly
intended. Such practical knowledge focuses on the problem of the meaning a person
should give to his own life.3[3]

Hence, the option for a first person ethics is justified primarily not so much by fidelity to
a tradition (the argument ex auctoritate is first in theology but last in philosophy), as by the
exigency of moral discourse itself, by its very essence. This has not only theoretical
consequences (in the sense of a moral science that is theoretical-practical), but also existential,
pedagogical, didactic, and social.

The division of the material presented here serves this approach. Chapter 1 constitutes a
“presentation” of the discipline, its ends, and its method. In chapter 2, we proceed to a close,
phenomenological examination of moral experience presented in such a way as to grasp its
constitutive elements. Chapter 3 continues with a study of voluntary behavior, shedding light on
the structure of human action. Chapter 4 presents the central theme of the good life: virtue. After
an explanation of the general characteristics of virtue, there follows an in-depth study of each
cardinal virtue. Hence, chapters 5, 6, 7, and 8 are dedicated respectively to wisdom, justice,
fortitude, and temperance.4[4] Only at this point, in chapter 9, does the discussion take a more
“theoretical” turn (without, however, abandoning its aim to remain rooted in experience),
concentrating on the determination of the “foundation” of morality, in dialogue with
contemporary thought. Chapter 10 then presents the essence and function of the moral law, with
particular reference to natural law. Finally, in chapter 11, we examine the role and dynamics of
the conscience in morality.

It should be added that the expository “style” of this work – the fact that the “I” of the
author is clearly in evidence and calls repeatedly upon the “you” of the reader, pressing him with
questions and provoking him to react – is the direct consequence of our option for the “first
person” which, I hope, will find its ultimate justification from the text as a whole.

The objective I have pursued here is clarity and essentiality, simultaneously combined
with the exigency of the thoroughness expected in a course of instruction.

Perhaps it would have been easier to adopt sophisticated language for those who are
“adepts” in this subject. But I would then be speaking to colleagues rather than students.
Certainly, using a cryptic, esoteric tone, I would be better able to avoid objections . . . but I
would have betrayed my professional conscience (my human conscience, in the final analysis). I
preferred, rather, to put my own thought at stake, without dissimulation.

Perhaps with double the number of pages the book would seem “more important” and –
paradoxically – I would have spent less time writing it. I preferred, however, to submit myself to
the effort of synthesis, to the thankless work of “slicing” and “filing down,” so as to place in the

3[3] Abbà, Felicità, vita buona et virtù, 105.

4[4] This constitutes the most striking structural novelty of this second edition.
hands of my students a flexible and really useful instrument, without ever renouncing the rigor of
argumentation, scientific effort, and completeness. Obviously, it is up to the reader to judge if
and to what extent I have succeeded in reaching my goal.

My gratitude remains the same for all those who have contributed to the publication of
this Outline of General Ethics in both the first and second editions: my colleagues, for their
precious suggestions (special thanks to professors G. Mazzotta and L. Congiunti), the Urbaniana
University Press, the academic authority of the Pontifical University Urbaniana, and my
students, thanks to whom I have been able to focus on the themes here delineated with an ever
more profound understanding of the necessity of anchoring moral reflection in the “life-world.”

Last but not least, I want express my appreciation to the translator, Cynthia Nicolosi.
Preface

References to and citations from classical texts in the history of thought are given in
essential form in the footnotes. The bibliography printed at the conclusion of this volume
suggests specific editions of these sources.5[5]

Contemporary texts to which I refer have sometimes been very helpful instruments in the
understanding and exposition of the different themes treated here. In citing them, I recognize my
debt to their authors and, at the same time, invite the reader desirous of further study to have
direct contact with them.

Many cross-references appear in the course of this volume. I hope that these will not
weigh down the reading of the book, but rather, will serve to highlight the unity of ethical
discourse as a whole.

The text also includes two excursus. The first, in chapter 8, constitutes a brief digression
into anthropology, motivated by the awareness that sometimes students of ethics have not yet
encountered the study of the philosophy of man. The second, in chapter 9, is an historical
synthesis of ethical thought from the Enlightenment to our own time. In the event it should be
necessary to abbreviate the reading of these pages, these excursus can be skipped without
prejudice to the understanding of the whole.

A very brief reading is also possible by skimming over chapters 5-8, given that the
essential traits of the cardinal virtues are explained – in extreme synthesis – in chapter 4.

5[5] Translator’s note: For English translations of quoted material, I have sought wherever possible to use
authorized sources readily available to students in libraries, bookstores, or online. Publishing details are given in
the footnotes and bibliography. In all other instances, I have translated directly from the Italian edition of this
volume.
1. What is Ethics?

Dear Reader,

For the first time, perhaps, you have stumbled upon a book about ethics. Do you
remember Raphael’s splendid fresco entitled The School of Athens? At the center of the painting,
surrounded by all the major philosophers of antiquity, are the figures of two men walking. On the
left is the old Plato (428-347 B.C.) with his finger pointed toward heaven; on the right is the
young Aristotle (384-322 B.C.) with his hand extended, palm turned down toward the earth. Each
has a book with him. Under his arm, Plato carries the Timeus, the work that more than any other
represents his vision of heaven and the world; Aristotle holds a volume marked “ETHICA.” It is
significant that the artist chose these two figures and these two volumes to depict the summit of
philosophy.

I am not trying to compare the present volume to the Nicomachean Ethics of Aristotle
which, I hope, you will soon have the chance to study)! I only wish to introduce you to this
discipline. To do so, I will begin by asking what interest guides ethical research (1.1). Secondly,
we will define the relations between this study and faith (1.2). We will then describe our method
(1.3). And lastly, we will concentrate on the object of our research (1.4).

1. 1. Why Study Ethics?

Allow me to proceed from a “presumption”: I presume I am engaged in a discourse that

interests you very concretely, very closely. In fact, philosophical ethics (or “moral philosophy”)
is commonly understood as “the science that indicates what man must do to be good, that is,
worthy of his own humanity.” This already opens up an interesting perspective. But maybe it
would be more appropriate to define our discipline as “the science of what man should be, since
the moral life does not consist only in doing in a strict sense, but in the orientation of all our
activities . . . in a determined way, toward a determined human ideal.”6[6] This approach is
decidedly exciting: to seek a meaning for human existence.

Perhaps, like me, upon leaving childhood behind, you had a certain “intuitive” sense of
being an unrepeatable subject. Certainly, the number of men and women is in the billions and
billions – but only you are “you.” It’s true that the lives of all these people follow the same rigid
cliché: we are born, we go to school, we work, we get married, we have children, we grow old,
we die . . . But is “your” existence obliged to submit to a cliché? Is your personal identity
reducible to that of everyone else? Don’t you feel the desire to take your own life in hand, to be
the protagonist of your own personal development, to realize your own desires? Well, these are

6[6] Sofia Vanni Rovighi, Elementi di filosofia, 3 vols., 9th ed. (Brescia, Italy: La Scuola, 1985),
3rd vol., 189.
the questions and desires from which the study of morality proceeds. They are questions that can
be synthesized into one single question:

 How must we be to fully realize our human personality?

1. 2. Isn’t Faith Enough?

At this point, you might be asking yourself: What does posing these questions mean for a
Christian? Didn’t Jesus Christ give us every answer necessary? From the point of view of
morality, isn’t the law of the Old and New Testaments enough? What else can philosophy
add?7[7]

1. 2. 1. “Handmaiden” Philosophy in the House of Theology

Certainly, philosophy can’t “add” anything to Revelation. It can, however, help us

understand Revelation better and penetrate its meaning more profoundly. In this regard, Christian
tradition has taught that philosophy is “at the service” of theology (philosophia ancilla
theologiae). This concerns a service rendered on two fronts: on the one hand, philosophy
discovers certain truths that facilitate the reception of the Gospel; on the other hand, philosophy
unmasks certain errors that impede this reception.

To do philosophy means to embark on a rational investigation of man, the world, and

God, seeking to know the truth. Now, some truths discovered through reason serve to “prepare
the road” so that other truths, those revealed by God through Jesus Christ, can be better received
(hence, these preliminary truths are called preambula fidei). Let us recall, for example, Plato’s
great discovery that there must be a “supra-sensible” reality, that is, something beyond the world
grasped by the senses. This is a philosophical discovery – rational – yet, very helpful to
understanding and accepting God’s revealed message.

Clearly, knowing a single truth “opens the road” to knowing other truths. But it is equally
clear that error “blocks the road” to knowledge of the truth and leads inevitably to other errors.
Let us take, for example, the idea, rather prevalent today, that each person’s individual freedom
is the source of every value (there is even a philosophical movement – “subjectivism” – based on
this belief). According to this view, good and evil are simply ways of seeing things: To me, a
certain behavior looks good, to you it looks evil. I must leave you free to do what seems good to
you, and you must leave me free to do what seems good to me. Assuredly, whoever thinks like
this, as along as they continue to think this way, cannot receive the Christian moral message. If
my freedom is the only criteria of good and evil, why would I ever submit to the law of God? It’s
understandable, then, how a philosophical error can close the road to faith.

7[7] On these topics, see John Paul II, Encyclical Letter on the Relationship between Faith and
Reason Fides et ratio, 14-09-1998.
 Our task, therefore, is to push rational knowledge onward in the search for truth and the
refutation of error. In so doing, we also render a service to theology. As it is, we feel ourselves
invited by faith toward a profound exercise of our reason. A classic theological axiom says:
“Grace does not destroy nature, but supposes it.” For our purposes, we could express the same
notion thus: “Faith does not destroy reason, but supposes it.” Faith does not substitute for reason,
but rather, completes and elevates it; hence, it is necessary that there be something to complete
and elevate: a rational activity that is not replaced by faith.

1. 2. 2. Philosophy as “Mistress” of Her Own House

But does this mean, then, that philosophy should content herself with serving theology,
furnishing her with tools and preparing the road before her? Or that theology lays down the
obligatory routes which philosophy must follow?

Not at all. Philosophical knowledge has its own specificity which can never be
diminished. This is particularly evident today in the complex and secularized society in which
we move. In the debate on subjects that are tearing to pieces the consciences of nations, indeed,
of the whole world (e.g., euthanasia, abortion, political economy, etc.), we Christians cannot
argue on the basis of Gospel authority since we find ourselves in dialogue with people (the
majority) who do not recognize this authority. As a result, we must learn to give our arguments a
philosophical basis.

This can be rather challenging considering that some “secular” thinkers (it would be
better to say “secularists”) deny Christians the right to call themselves philosophers. These
people maintain that our faith obstructs the freedom and scientific nature of research because it is
a collection of prejudices (that is, judgements formulated before rational investigation) that
corrupt the comprehension of things.

Other thinkers “concede” to Christians the right to be philosophers, but on the condition
that they put their faith “between parenthesis” and do “neutral” philosophy.

What can we make of these criticisms? For my part, before declaring that Christians can
or cannot do philosophy, I believe we should ask ourselves what it means to be a
philosopher.8[8] What is a philosopher?

The philosopher is a thinker who seeks a rational basis for his judgements without
making an appeal to myth, faith, or majority opinion. As long as his judgements are founded on
rational arguments, his discourse is scientific. A philosopher does not have to bracket his faith

8[8] Socrates (469-399 B.C.) taught humanity this method of reasoning: Before making a
judgement (that is, before affirming or negating something), we should define the terms we use
by returning to the concept, or better still, to the essence of the thing about which we are
speaking.
(be it Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, or any other). The only thing required is that he not draw
arguments from the truth of faith, that is, that he keep his discussion on a rigorously rational
plane.9[9]

Therefore, the Christian (like every other person) can be a philosopher.

It’s true that we Christians consider philosophy the “handmaiden of theology.” But, to be
a good handmaiden, philosophy must first be good philosophy, that is, an “in depth philosophy”
that avails itself exclusively of its own method “without casting a sidelong glance toward
theology and its exigencies, and without falling into the mistaken idea of having to reach, at all
costs, the same place where the philosopher, as a believer, already finds himself.”10[10]

As for what concerns us here, it should be noted that there does exist a discipline called
“moral theology” or “ethical theology.” However, philosophical ethics is an autonomous
discipline in respect to moral theology. Though it can be integrated with moral theology, it
nonetheless possesses its own validity, a validity which theology must recognize. In other words,
philosophical ethics is mistress of her own house.

1. 3. Philosophical Method

Having thus defined the relationship between philosophy and moral theology, we may
now occupy ourselves more closely with the method of our philosophical research. How should
we conduct our study in order to be true philosophers? First of all, we must cultivate certain
fundamental attitudes, specific “virtues,” which dispose us adequately toward our work (1.3.1).
We must then identify the point of departure for our investigation (1.3.2), all the while remaining
aware of the prior conditioning we “carry along” with us (1.3.3). Finally, we will define the
objectives and method of our research (1.3.4).

1. 3. 1. Fundamental Attitudes

Among the basic attitudes or virtues that allow us to dispose ourselves in a way
consonant with moral/philosophical work, three seem to me absolutely indispensable: wonder,
reverence, and desire. Let’s look at these in order.

9[9] A saint and doctor of the Church, Thomas Aquinas (1224-1274) wrote a work in four
volumes entitled Summa contra Gentiles perhaps intended for a dialectical confrontation with
intellectual Muslims. In the first three books, St. Thomas moves on a rigorously rational plane:
We have to debate with people who do not share our faith. Hence, arguments based on the
authority of the Bible or the Fathers of the Church will not be convincing. What we do have in
common, however, is natural reason. We may, then, argue on that basis. At the end, in the fourth
book, St. Thomas treats subjects that cannot be known by human reason, such as the Trinity of
God or the Incarnation of the Word, which necessitate faith in Divine Revelation.

10[10] Martin Rhonheimer, La prospettiva della morale. Fondamenti dell’etica filosofica (Rome: Armando, 1994),
19. On this topic, see Rhonheimer’s entire section, 16-21.
1. 3. 1. 1. Wonder

Many Ancient Greek philosophers taught that philosophy is born from the experience of
wonder in front of being.11[11] Natural phenomena, with its explosive power, its sublime
beauty, its delicate tenderness, the order of the cosmos, the precision of the astral movements,
the miracle of life, the mystery of the heart of man . . . All this makes the mind marvel and gives
birth to the philosophical question: “Why is there something and not nothing?”

While the experience of wonder can be very exciting, it can also lead to excessive stress.
To be amazed means not being able to explain the why and how of certain phenomena. When it
comes to the universe, being, or man himself, I must confess that I cannot understand everything
about myself or my surroundings. This is rather frustrating! Not only frustrating – it can produce
a true and proper anguish. The unknown, the mysterious, attracts and frightens me at the same
time.

At this level, the greatest temptation is to try to “tame” our anguish by taking “mental
shortcuts,” that is, by reducing reality to something already known. “Mental shortcuts” are pre-
constructed schemes on the basis of which we seek to explain everything, including what we do
not know. Following such a plan, we can avoid the always “hard” confrontation with reality. We
can side-step the sometimes disquieting path we must walk with the object we wish to know. In
so doing, we may escape anguish . . . but we would cease to do philosophy. Instead, we would be
devoting ourselves to that most dangerous of human mental activities: ideology.12[12]

If the philosophical question is born from wonder, its answer will not be found by fleeing
or denying wonder. On the contrary, we must continue in a state of wonder!

1. 3. 1. 2. Reverence

For wonder to be possible, we must cultivate in ourselves the virtue of reverence for
reality. We must have a kind of “respect” for the objects of our thoughts, a respect that allows
things to manifest themselves in all their richness. Reverence implies the availability to listen
thoroughly, the effort to be quiet in order to understand (rather than prepare our own discourse

11[11] On this subject, see Aldo Vendemiati, Fenomenologia e realismo. Introduzione al pensiero di Dietrich von
Hildebrand (Naples: Edizioni Scientifiche Italiane, 1992), 137-150.

12[12] By ideology, I mean a scheme of thought worked out on the basis of a pre-established
theory and purporting to explain all of reality. A characteristic of ideological thought is that it
would rather do violence to reality than admit the inadequacy of its schema. Marxism, for
example, is an ideology founded on the presupposition that all human reality is reducible to
economic structures; hence, all human phenomena (including feelings, art, religion, etc.) are
nothing other than projections of such structures. Ultimately, Marxism renounces the knowledge
of human phenomena since it has already “decided,” even before looking at different aspects of
human experience, that these are “nothing other than” projections of an economic structure.
while the other is still trying to speak), and the renouncement of any attempt to imprison an
object in something already known.

The greatest enemy in this regard is represented by “the will to power,” to borrow a
phrase from the German thinker F. Nietzsche (1844-1900). Such an attitude aims at dominating
reality in order to enslave it to oneself.

In the Bible, we find a commandment on which there has been silence for centuries:
“You shall not make for yourself a graven image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven
above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.”13[13] It seems to
me that it is possible to read this text in a philosophical key: You must not construct for
yourselves an image of reality that substitutes for reality, such that you would have the
misfortune to connect, not with things, but with your own mental images, with your own
fantasies, with your own ideas. All this assumes an enormous gravity when it concerns not just
inanimate things, but human beings. As a profound contemporary novelist has said: “. . . it is a
sign of non-love, that is to say a sin, to form a finished image of one’s neighbor or of any person,
to say ‘You are thus and thus, and that’s all there is to it.’”14[14]

The philosopher must maintain himself in an attitude of delicate and sensitive reverence
for reality in itself.

1. 3. 1. 3. Desire

The third virtue we must cultivate in our training for philosophy is firmly joined to
wonder and reverence: loving desire.

The Greeks spoke of philosophical eros. This expression probably sounds a bit strong and
scarcely comprehensible to our modern mentality. We are used to understanding “eros” as a kind
of longing for enjoyment. Clearly, this is not what we mean here, nor do we take the word to
indicate an intellectual concupiscence tending toward the “possession” of an object. Such
thinking would be opposed to wonder and respect!

What is meant, rather, is a “thirst” for truth, an interior “yearning” that could almost be
described as “visceral,” toward the mysterious message enclosed in reality.

1. 3. 2. Starting from Experience

So, wonder in front of reality, reverence for reality, and a loving desire for the truth
constitute the fundamental attitudes of philosophical inquiry.

13[13] Exodus 20:4; cf. Deuteronomy 5:8.

14[14] Max Frisch, I’m not Stiller, trans. Michael Bullock (New York, NY: Penguin Books, 1983), 100.
 We must now ask ourselves what the point of departure for our investigation should be.
Where does philosophy “begin”? With philosophers’ books? Should we start with the Pre-
Socratics and then work our way up to our own time to see how the problem of morality has
been treated in the history of Western thought? This is a legitimate kind of study. . . but we
would then be doing the history of philosophy and not philosophy!
Someone has said that philosophy does not dwell in books because it can’t fit into so tight
a space. Clearly, philosophy does not begin with books. Books themselves are the product of the
activity of human beings who have put their thoughts into writing. But these thoughts are not
born out of thin air; they are the result of a reflection on experience.

The point is this: Philosophy can proceed from no other place than what is “immediately
given, that is, from the data of experience.”15[15]

Each of us has life experience – in particular, moral experience – something personal and
yet common to others. From childhood, we have reflected on these experiences and formed
certain ideas concerning what is right and what is wrong, what is beautiful and what is ugly, on
good and evil, on man, the world, and God . . . Now, all this together constitutes that “minimum-
of-philosophy”16[16] which each human being more or less consciously carries within himself.
It is from this “minimum” that we begin, reworking our experience to reach the clarifications and
the in-depth study proper to ethical/philosophical research.17[17]

But “no man is an island.” None of us can live in a truly human way if not inserted within
a social context: a family, a group of friends, a city . . . a web of relations and contacts with other
people like us. And these contacts are realized in dialogue. So, philosophical reflection on our
own life is enriched and enlivened thanks to dialogue with our neighbor, be it spoken or written.

1. 3. 3. Awareness of Conditioning
Let’s reflect a moment. We have said that we should let ourselves be guided by wonder,
reverence, and loving desire; we have said that it is necessary to proceed from experience and
that we ought to re-work the “minimum-of-philosophy” that each of us has within himself. But
then, if we think about it, couldn’t this “minimum-of-philosophy” detract from our wonder,
transforming it into ideology? Couldn’t it lead us to lose respect for reality by imprisoning it in a

15[15] Dietrich von Hildebrand, Christian Ethics (New York, NY: David McKay Company,
1953), 2.

16[16] Francesca Rivetti Barbò, Philosophy of Man: An Outline (Rome: Hortus Conclusus,
2001), 27-28.

17[17] Let us remember the noted aphorism: Primum est vivere, deinde philosophari. This
should be taken in the sense indicated: Life experience comes first. Philosophical reflection can
only arise from this experience.
pre-conceived schema? Couldn’t this “minimum-of-philosophy” extinguish the love and desire
for truth?

In some cases, yes. But not necessarily.

It’s clear that we don’t begin our ethical/philosophical reflection as tabulae rasae or
blank sheets of paper on which nothing is yet written. In the shaping of that “minimum-of-
philosophy,” each of us has been conditioned by his own cultural formation in a wide sense
according to the education he has received, the social models that have been proposed to him, his
religious tradition, the language he speaks, the economic situations in which he has lived, etc.

In addition, such conditioning is the stronger for not being recognized. If someone
deceives himself into thinking that he is totally free, that he has a pure and virginal intelligence
of things as they are . . . well, then, he is inevitably destined to remain a slave to prejudices,
ideologies, and mythologies that he does not recognize but nonetheless work within him. Plato
describes the condition of such a man with the image of a prisoner chained in a cave who sees
shadows projected on the back wall and believes that the whole world is there before him.18[18]

No prisoner can free himself if he does not first understand that he is a prisoner! If you
want to be free from conditioning, you first have to admit that you have been conditioned. You
must first of all recognize the traditions in which you have lived. I myself grew up in a context
marked by a western, neo-Latin, Italian mentality; I am a Catholic Christian and I live in a
country that declares itself to be Catholic in majority; I was brought up in a family where some
behaviors were applauded and others stigmatized; I attended certain schools, etc. What is
required is a critical examination of these traditions in their components, at times homogeneous,
sometimes contradictory, confronting the way in which they link certain elements to “the things
themselves,” to the objective reality of our experience.

Proceeding in this way, we can attain an ever greater level of objectivity. Whoever is
aware of the risk of being conditioned is already potentially free from conditioning.

1. 3. 4. The Obvious and The Evident

To free ourselves from conditioning, to be as objective as possible, we must distinguish

between two concepts that are very often confused and confusing: the obvious and the
evident.19[19]

18[18] Plato, Republic, VII, 514a-515d.

19[19] See Francesca Rivetti Barbò, Semantica bidimensionale. Fondazione filosofica, con un
progetto di teoria del significato (Rome: Elia, 1974), 28-29.
 In every tradition, there are elements that are often taken “for granted,” the so-called
“obvious” notions commonly admitted in an uncritical way without reasoning about them,
without even asking if they are the fruit of knowledge, fantasy, or prejudice . . . For men who
lived before Copernicus, for example, it was “obvious” that the sun traveled around the earth.
Obvious for them, but mistaken in itself! From the moral point of view, it’s easy to find past
examples of “obviousness” that are today repulsive to our thinking: the idea that there exist
superior or inferior human races, that women ought to be subject to men, that it is licit to hold
some human beings in a state of slavery, and so forth. All these “obvious truths” are recognized
now as “obviously false”! How many things are “obvious” to us today that people of the next
century will find repugnant?

Clearly, the fact that a certain position is held to be “obvious” is not alone sufficient
criteria for admitting that it is true. Knowing becomes worthy of the name when it abandons
“obviousness” and turns toward evidence.

Something is “evident” to me when it is present to my act of knowing. What I know, I

know in as much as it is present to me. I will explain: It is true that there are craters on the moon,
but this is not evident to me because I have never had the chance to see them. I “know” that there
are craters on the moon because I trust other men who have seen them. Therefore, for me, the
proposition:

1. “There are craters on the moon.”

is not evident, since I do not know it in as much as the craters of the moon are present to me, but
as they are present to others in whom I trust. On the other hand, the same proposition is evident
to an astronomer because craters for him are “present to the act of knowing” thanks to the
telescopic observations he has made.

In the case of craters observed with the telescope, this concerns sensible evidence, as in
the case of the proposition:

2. “This page has printing on it.”

This is evident to your senses, to your vision. But there also exists evidence of an intelligible
kind, as for example the proposition:

3. “Every closed polygon of three sides necessarily has three angles.”

This is evident to your intellect.

Examples 2 and 3 are cases of immediate evidence, that is, of evidence gathered directly
from reality (sensible in the case of the printed page, intelligible in the case of the triangle).
There also exists, however, mediated evidence which is attainable thanks to the mediation of a
defined series of immediate evidence. To understand this, think of the theorems of mathematics:
you know that the sum of squares constructed on the sides of a right triangle is equal to the
square constructed on the hypotenuse. Is this evident? Certainly! Is it immediately evident?
Certainly not. It must be demonstrated. I can demonstrate a theorem because I proceed from an
immediately evident proposition from which other evidence is obtained, and then other evidence
. . . until I arrive at a conclusion. This conclusion at the end is also evident, but thanks to the
demonstration, that is to say, in a mediated way.

Thus, in philosophy, there are some kinds of evidence that are immediate, for example,
that moral values can be realized only by persons (can you imagine an honest brick or a prudent
salad?), and there are some kinds of evidence that are mediated, for example, that humility is a
virtue (it can be demonstrated, but some rather complex reasoning is required).

In synthesis, to embark on our moral/philosophical inquiry, we need to open ourselves to

wonder in front of being, respect reality, and have a loving desire for the truth. The point of
departure for our investigation can be nothing other than experience and that minimum-of-
philosophy which each of us carries within himself. Nevertheless, so that our work be scientific,
we must be aware of the conditioning deriving from our culture and education. Hence, the task of
philosophy is that of dismantling the obvious to gain access to the evident.

1. 4. Specific Characteristics of Philosophical Ethics

We have seen in what relation philosophical research stands to faith, and we have
explained the salient characteristics of philosophical method. At this point, we must apply what
has been said to the specifically ethical research that we are doing.

1. 4. 1. Ethics is Concerned with Moral Experience

The term “ethics” comes from the Greek éthos, éthous, meaning “use, custom, way of
behaving, character,”20[20] and corresponds to the Latin mos, moris. For this reason, we make
no distinction here between the terms “ethics’ and “morality” but retain them as synonymous. As
we have done already, we will use both words indifferently, moved only by stylistic exigency.

Let’s try now to better define the task of philosophical ethics. We have said above (1.3.2)
that experience is the object of all philosophical reflection. The specific experience of
moral/philosophical reflection lies in moral experience. The first step of our research, then, will
be to discover in ourselves and in dialogue with our neighbor if an experience of this type exists,
essentially distinct from all other types of experience and irreducible to them. We will then
describe this experience, penetrating into its essential nucleus, so that we may begin to draw
from it the first consequences for human action.

20[20] The Greek language, to tell the truth, has two terms: 1. e;qoj, -ouj, that means
“people, nation, class”; from which derives the adjective evqiko,j, -h,, -o,n, that means
“habitual, usual”; 2. h=qoj, -ouj, which means “dwelling”, but also “consuetude, use, habit,
custom, institution”; it is from this term that the adjective hvqiko,j, -h,, -o,n, derives in the
sense of “moral, ethic” and also the substantive plural ta. hvqika, to indicate ethics.
 So, we are to occupy ourselves with moral experience. But from what point of view?
What type of knowledge do we intend to have of this object? Do we limit ourselves to describing
it? Or do we extract certain practical indications for our way of living, that is to say, certain
regulations and norms? And, if so, what type of norms will these be?

1. 4. 2. Is Ethics merely a Descriptive Science?

There are various currents of thought which hold that ethics is a merely descriptive
science and, consequently, non-proscriptive. Let’s take a brief look at the two principle
representatives of this thinking: positivism and weak thought.

1. 4. 2. 1. Positivism and “Weak Thought”

Positivism is a current of thought that arose in the 19th century following the enormous
progress achieved by the experimental sciences. As the positivists saw it, the method of the
experimental sciences – so valid and fruitful – had to be extended to all other branches of
knowledge. However, the experimental sciences limit themselves to “describing” reality without
“proscribing” anything. Therefore, in positivist systems, there is no room for a “proscriptive”
science: ethics does not teach how a person should behave, but only how people do behave.
Moral science has no other end than the description of the practices and customs of different
peoples. Ethics is thus transformed into human ethology or cultural anthropology.

Weak Thought, a very recent movement and still rather prolific, has little or nothing to do
with positivism. And yet, in its encounter with ethics, it reaches strangely similar conclusions.
According to the proponents of this position, philosophy’s role is that of describing different
“models” of behavior: different cultures, different religions, different political orientations,
different opinions on good and evil, etc. This description has the end of facilitating dialogue
between different models so that we can pass from one to the other in a sort of “round table” that
does not arrive at (and cannot arrive at) any conclusion. It seems that the presuppositions of this
kind of thinking have been carried away by the exigency of being “democratic.” There is
diversity of thinking, diversity of customs, diversity of opinions . . . but, since “all men are
equal,” it appears “anti-democratic” or “politically incorrect” to affirm that one person is right
and another person wrong. Further, many exponents of this way of thinking define themselves as
“libertarian,” that is to say, they believe that individual freedom is the highest value, or precisely,
the source of all values. As a result, every normative ethic is defined as “liberty-cide” because it
imposes norms to which the freedom of the individual must submit.

Though originating in different interests, both positivism and weak thought negate the
possibility of constructing a normative ethics. As to the question with which we began our
inquiry (“How must we be to fully realize our human personality?”), both these positions would
maintain that no answer is possible. What can we make of this kind of thinking? I think, Dear
Reader, it gives us the opportunity to start using our heads in a critical way!
1. 4. 2. 2. Critique

Let’s critically examine, therefore, the arguments of both positions.

Beginning with the positivists, we can schematize their way of arguing thus:

a) The experimental sciences are descriptive and non-normative.

b) Every science (ethics included) must conform itself to the model of the experimental
sciences.

c) Therefore, ethics also must be descriptive and non-normative.

Anyone who knows a minimum of logic will recognize here a formally correct
syllogism.21[21] But . . . is it true?

Is the minor premise of this syllogism (the “b”) true? I would say that it is taken
arbitrarily for truth. Why should ethics (or philosophy in general) conform itself to the model of
the experimental sciences? How can one justify the choice of a determined type of science
(experimental) as a paradigm and model for all the sciences? Such an affirmation implies a
philosophical position (and, precisely, an “epistemological” affirmation, that is, of the
philosophy of science), which is not discussed by those who insist on imposing it. Note well, too,
that this affirmation cannot be justified in any way with the methods of experimental science, the
supposedly only valid methods available. I mean to say: there does not exist any experimental,
scientific procedure which can demonstrate that every science must conform itself to the model
of experimental science.22[22]

The conclusion of the syllogism (the “c”), arising thus from an arbitrary premise, is
arbitrary in itself. Moreover, it is clearly false because it is self-contradictory (that is, it
simultaneously affirms and negates the same thing). It affirms that science must be non-
normative while at the same time imposing a norm: the norm of not imposing norms! This norm,
thus declared, negates the norm itself. It’s as if someone said: “It’s prohibited to prohibit.” If it’s
prohibited to prohibit, how can you prohibit prohibiting? If it’s “prohibited to prohibit,” it’s also
“prohibited to prohibit prohibiting”!

21[21] This is a classical syllogism of the first type which can be schematized thus: Every M is
P; S is an M; therefore, S is P.

22[22] See Vendemiati, Fenomenologia e realismo, 29-36.

 As a sharp thinker has noted: “As a matter of fact, positivism in its various guises is not a
wrong philosophy for the simple reason that it is not a philosophy at all.”23[23]

Let us pass now to examining the attitude of weak thought. Here, also, the reasoning
proposed can be schematized thus:

A) We are all equal.

B) You and I have different opinions.

C) Hence, your opinions are as worth as mine”.

This time, the syllogism does not work even at a formal level. In order for it to work, it
would be necessary to insert an intermediate demonstration (probatio media), admitting:

B1) Opinions are worth as much as the man who expresses them.

But I do not see how this affirmation can be acceptable. Frankly, it seems absurd to
consider as criteria for evaluating an opinion, not the relationship between thought and the reality
of the object of thought, but the relationship between thought and the subject thinking.

And what of a proof for “A”? Is it really true that you and I are equal? If you are a saint
and I am a vicious pervert, do we really have the same worth? Was the wise Socrates as valuable
as the brutish despots who condemned him? Was Adolph Hitler as precious as “Mahatma”
Gandhi?

We noted above that libertarians are the self-appointed advocates of these ways of
thinking, in the name of the democratic spirit. Alas, they do not take into consideration that
democracy itself is put in serious danger by this type of reasoning. To cite again the sharp thinker
noted above: “Democracy as a form of political and social life implies not only the recognition of
certain objective values put above every discussion, but also immutable obligations. True
democracy is conditioned by the clear distinction between freedom and arbitrary act.”24[24]

Hence, the arguments of positivism and weak thought, claiming that ethics must be a
merely descriptive and non-normative science, are fallacious.

1. 4. 3. Ethics is a Normative-Categorical Science

23[23] Dietrich von Hildebrand, What is Philosophy?, 3rd ed. (Chicago, IL: Franciscan Herald
Press, 1973), 2.

24[24] Dietrich von Hildebrand, “The Dethronement of Truth,” in The New Tower of Babel, 2nd
ed. (Chicago, IL: Franciscan Herald Press, 1977), 67.
 We can assert, therefore, that moral philosophy is not a descriptive science (even if
description plays an important part within it). It is fundamentally a normative science: it
prescribes certain obligations and imposes certain prohibitions.

Certainly, there are other normative sciences (maybe it would be better to call them
“technologies”), such as engineering or medicine. The engineer says: if you want the roof to stay
up, you must support it with beams of these dimensions. The doctor says: if you do not want to
die of cirrhosis of the liver, you must stop drinking alcohol. In short, if you want to obtain such
an end (and it’s not necessary that you want it), you must have recourse to certain means.

What distinguishes science or technology from morality is that the former regard certain
particular ends that man can choose for himself – or not. Morality, on the other hand, concerns
itself with the end of human action as such, that is, the end which man cannot determine for
himself.

Thus, technologies express hypothetical norms: “If you want x, then you must y.” If you
want the roof to hold, you have to . . . But it isn’t required that I construct a roof that holds: If
I’m building the set for a comic film, for instance, and must prepare a gag in which a fat man
breaks through the floor, I have to build a roof that doesn’t hold! If I do not want to die of
cirrhosis of the liver, I have to . . . But why should I try to avoid death? Can’t I commit suicide,
albeit slowly?

Morality, on the contrary, expresses categorical norms: you must behave in this or that
manner, not only to obtain a particular end, but to realize the end of human existence as such.

Technologies prescribe how someone should act to be a good engineer, a good doctor,
etc. Morality prescribes how someone should act to be a good human being, that is, to be worthy
of one’s own humanity.

1. 4. 4. Ethics and Happiness

From what we have said, it should be clear that moral philosophy is not limited to
furnishing a list of norms, proscriptions, and prohibitions. An ethics reduced in this manner
immediately provokes a radical question: Why should I submit myself to such norms? The usual
response to such a query is: Because this is the way to be morally good. To which it is easy to
reply: But why should I be morally good?

Hence, before arriving at the formulation of norms, moral philosophy is called upon to
reflect on the foundation of the norms themselves. Moral norms are indications; by following
them, we can “guide” our life, we can govern our existence in such as way as to develop our
personality in relation to God, other people, and the world.
 Thus, the exigency of developing our human personality is the basis of morality. As we
will see, the full realization of this development constitutes a happy life, while the means of this
development are the virtues.25[25]

In synthesis, we can say that moral philosophy is the science of the good or virtuous life,
and therefore, precisely for this reason, it is the art of happiness.

2. Phenomenology of Morality

The term “phenomenology” may sound strange to someone who has never studied
philosophy. Anyone who has followed a course of philosophy in high school, however, will find
the sound of this word familiar . . . though very likely its meaning remains somewhat confused.
For this reason, I will begin right away with clarifying the meaning of phenomenology for us. I
intend to take very seriously the invitation of the founder of the “phenomenological school,” the
German philosopher E. Husserl (1859-1938), who responded to the extreme abstraction of the
philosophical debate at the beginning of the 20th century by launching the appeal: “Back to the
things themselves!” (Zurück, zu den Sachen selbst!). In my opinion, then, phenomenology
consists in letting the object which concerns us speak for itself so that we may discover what it
is, its essential nucleus, and gather truths rooted in its essence.26[26]

As was noted in the previous chapter, the object which concerns us here is moral
experience. We must ask ourselves, then, if specifically moral experiences, distinct from every
other type of human experience, actually exist (2.1) and, if so, how they are different from other
experiences (2.2).

2. 1. Moral Experiences

We will begin, first of all, by discussing the positions of those thinkers who negate moral
experience, asserting that it can be reduced to other spheres of human experience (2.1.1). We
will then take into consideration various moral “phenomena,” such as our judgement of others’
behavior (2.1.2) and our judgement of our own behavior (2.1.3).

25[25] See Abbà, Felicità, vita buona e virtù, especially 13-78.

26[26] See Vendemiati, Fenomenologia e realismo, especially 146-148. By “phenomenology,”

then, I do not mean a reduction of reality to pure appearance, nor a mere description of
subjective experiences, nor even less a conscious grasp of the meaning of our concepts. I intend
phenomenology as noumenology, that is, the science of the thing in itself in as much as it is
intelligible (literally, noûmenon). On this subject, see Josef Seifert, Back to ‘Things in
Themselves’ (New York, NY: Routledge & Keagan Paul, 1987).
2. 1. 1. Attempts at Negation

A few decades ago, the trend was to refute any kind of morality, labeling it with the
pejorative term “moralism.” This cultural attitude received its impetus from the thinking of the
so-called “masters of suspicion”: Karl Marx, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Sigmund Freud.

According to Marx (1818-1883), morality is nothing other than a superstructure that

depends on the economic power relations. The only real structure for Marx is the relationship of
production and work. This structure necessarily generates a complex of superstructures capable
of supporting and defending the structure itself, such as religion, morality, metaphysics, law, the
forms of government, etc.27[27] Morality, therefore, would have no other end than the defense
of the “establishment,” prohibiting anything that disturbs the economic order (e. g., if this order
is based on private property, theft will be considered a sin) and imposing whatever supports it (e.
g., work, submission to employers, etc.). On the horizon of Marxist thought, then, moral
experience – analogous to religious experience – is seen as a sort of alienation (man seeks
himself in a mistaken direction) or mystification (power invests with mystical significance that
which is purely and simply instrumental for the conservation of existing relationships).

Nietzsche (1844-1900), for his part, held that traditional morality – what he called
“ascetic morality” or “the morality of slaves,” identifying it with Christian morality – is a
consequence of the resentment of the weak and powerless. Humiliated by the very existence of
the strong, unable to redeem themselves by the force of arms, the weak and powerless overturn
the perception of values calling what is good, “evil” (i. e., strength, pleasure, earthly attachments
. . .), and what is evil, “good” (i. e., humility, temperance, renouncement . . .).28[28] Though

27[27] “In the social production of their existence, men inevitably enter into definite relations,
which are independent of their will, namely relations of production appropriate to a given stage
in the development of their material forces of production. The totality of these relations of
production constitutes the economic structure of society, the real foundation, on which arises a
legal and political superstructure and to which correspond definite forms of social
consciousness. The mode of production of material life conditions the general process of social,
political and intellectual life. It is not the consciousness of men that determines their existence,
but their social existence that determines their consciousness.” Karl Marx, preface to A
Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy, trans. S. W. Ryazanskaya (New York, NY:
International Publishers, 1999), 20-21, emphasis added.

28[28] “The revolt of the slaves in morals begins in the very principle of resentment becoming
creative and giving birth to values – a resentment experienced by creatures who, deprived as they
are of the proper outlet of action, are forced to find their compensation in an imaginary revenge.
While every aristocratic morality springs from a triumphant affirmation of its own demands, the
slave morality says ‘no’ from the very outset to what is ‘outside itself,’ ‘different from itself,’
and ‘not itself’: and this ‘no’ is its creative deed. This volte-face [about face] of the valuing
standpoint – this inevitable gravitation to the objective instead of back to the subjective – is
typical of ‘resentment’ . . .” Friedrich Nietzsche, Genealogy of Morals, 1, §10, trans. Horace B.
Samuel (Mineola, NY: Dover Publications, 2003, reprint of 1913 edition), 19, original emphasis.
Nietzsche theorized his own morality, what he called an “aristocratic morality,” culturally his
thought led to the belief that moral experience as such is nothing other than the product of the
resentment of the weak toward the strong.

Freud (1856-1939) was the great discoverer of the unconscious. He revealed that a great
part of what happens at the level of our awareness is the result of something inside us, in our
depths, of which we are unaware. Consequently, moral experience, in particular, is the result of
unconscious mechanisms of repression and censure, above all regarding sexual desire (or
libido).29[29] Our “ego” is determined by the conflict between, on the one hand, an instinctive
part, called the “Id,” regulated by “the pleasure principle” (that is, oriented compulsively toward
what is pleasurable) and, on the other hand, a rational part, called the “super-ego,” regulated by
the “reality principle” (that is, by the consideration that determined pleasures cannot be pursued
here and now). The “Id” is man in his natural state – the child that pursues pleasure without
remorse. The “Super-ego” takes shape primarily through the intervention of the father figure
when the child is prohibited the pleasure deriving from the possession of the mother. The libido
is thus repressed, sublimated, and censured. Morality (the entire ensemble of rules, norms, and
models of behavior) is the result of this repression and its consequent identification with the
father figure. With such a schema, it’s easy to conclude that moral experience is nothing other
than the product of repressed sexuality.

On the basis of ideas such as these, some thinkers have theorized the end of any kind of
morality.

Nevertheless, morality is not dead. A good observer has noted: “The critique of morality
has often been maintained by militant attitudes that in their turn uncovered the moral inspiration
at the base of the moral criticism itself.”30[30] This is tantamount to saying that, in their effort to
destroy morality, protesters have demonstrated a notable amount of . . . moralizing! It’s as if they
thought (if I may make use of a play on words): It’s immoral to impose morality, therefore, we
have the moral duty to impose amorality.

While traditional models of behavior have been put in crisis, other no less “moralistic”
models have entered in to take their place. In the unconscious, taboos tied to sexuality have been
supplanted by other taboos, for example, that of death or suffering. In place of a resentment
against life and strength, there has been substituted a resentment against the weak which seeks
their liquidation, be they fetuses, deformed children, the sick, the aged, etc. Moreover, the
economic structures of society continue to produce their super-structural models, making use of
the powerful means of mass communication to impose rules of behavior that serve the system.

Yet, notwithstanding all this, there persist true moral attitudes that bear witness to how
much moral experience is rooted in the essence of human life. We will examine these

29[29] See Sigmund Freud, Beyond the Pleasure Principle, 1920, and The Ego and The Id, 1923.

30[30] Giancarlo Vendrame, “Il problema morale oggi,” in Corso di morale, I, ed. T. Goffi and
G. Piana, 2nd ed. (Brescia, Italy: Queriniana, 1989), 16.
experiences first in reference to our judgement on the behavior of others, and then in reference to
the judgement we make on our own behavior.

2. 1. 2. Judging the Behavior of Others

In front of the behavior of others, spontaneous reactions of approval or disapproval arise

within us.

2. 1. 2. 1. Scandal

A first phenomenon to take into consideration is that of scandal. The word (French:
scandale; Spanish: escandalo; Italian: scandalo) derives from the Greek skàndalon meaning “an
obstacle that causes someone to fall.” In current language, the word expresses a reaction of
indignation and vibrant moral protest against situations or events viewed as intolerable. The
sense of irritation and resentment implicit in scandal is expressed clearly by the German term
Ärgernis.

In the past, people were scandalized by an action that transgressed the dominant canons
of behavior.31[31] Later, paradoxically, such a transgression could “come into fashion.” I say
“paradoxically” because fashion itself is constituted by canons (rules) of behavior. Hence, to
suggest a “fashion of transgression” is a contradiction in terms, like a canon calling for the
refutation of all canons or a custom denying custom. As a matter of fact, however, this is just
how things are proceeding. You would think that nothing could scandalize us anymore. Yet, in
reality, we continue to be scandalized by many things. We express this experience more or less
explicitly by saying: “No one should ever act that way! It shouldn’t be allowed!”

Clearly, the existence of scandal affirms the permanence of moral sense. “To be
scandalized, in fact, means still being able to be surprised that certain deeds can happen. It means
bestowing on these deeds, even implicitly, a negative value judgement. This not only supposes
that there is no moral apathy; it implies reference to an axiological horizon [i. e., a framework of
values] in the light of which some deeds provoke scandal differently than others.”32[32] In the
past, libertinism scandalized; today, intolerance scandalizes. The framework of values has
changed (this mutation must be examined critically), but moral sense remains. This is to say that
the attitude persists by which we judge a certain type of behavior “inadmissible” because it is
“incompatible with human dignity” or “unworthy of man.”

31[31] In this sense, the New Testament speaks of the “scandal of the Cross” (cf. Mt 9:6; I Cor
1:23). Søren Kierkegaard (1813-1855) also expresses this idea, for instance, in Practice in
Christianity, part II, where he exalts scandal as a healthy spiritual crisis that brings reason to the
point of “understanding that it can no longer understand.”

32[32] Vendrame, 17.

2. 1. 2. 2. Admiration

Another phenomenon to consider is admiration. The term (visually identical in French

and English: admiration; in Spanish: admiración; in Italian ammirazione) derives from the Latin
ad-mirari: to behold. The Latin word expresses the esteem and wonder that is felt in front of
things that are both beautiful and extraordinary. This sense of wonder is underlined by the
German expression Bewunderung, from Wunder: marvel, wonder.

We feel admiration before very different objects. In fact, our admiration changes
essentially according to the type of object eliciting it. In classical terms, we can say that the
concept of admiration is not univocal, but analogical. I can admire a natural spectacle (an alpine
panorama, a sunset on the sea, etc.), or I can admire a work of human hands. Clearly, the
meaning of admiration is different in both cases: in the first, it turns exclusively on the
consideration of the beauty or sublimity of natural scenery; in the second, there also enters in
esteem for a person or his accomplishment.33[33]

Let us concentrate, then, on the second case. Admiration for a human work includes
appreciation for its author. We can call this appreciation an “admiration-of-esteem.”

Nevertheless, this admiration-of-esteem does not have a univocal meaning, either. For
example, I can admire the work of an artist and appreciate him in as much as he is an artist
without admiring and esteeming him as a man. Indeed, a man can be a great painter and at the
same time be given to violence and thievery! The same can be said of the work of a technician, a
scientist, a man of letters, etc. I can say: “John is great in his field, but as a human being he
doesn’t amount to anything.”

But a person’s conduct can also elicit admiration for its originator as a man. When we
read Plato’s Crito or the Apology of Socrates, for example, we feel esteem not only for
Socrates’s behavior as someone accused, imprisoned, and condemned, but for Socrates as a man.

This admiration-of-esteem for a man as a man is a moral experience. We have said (1.1)
that morality is born from the question: “How must we be to fully realize our human
personality?” Well, when we admire someone as a human being, we are implicitly on the way to
responding to this question since we are in front of the concrete evidence of a human personality
fully realized.

33[33] The contemplation of nature’s beauty can be a prelude to religious experience by giving
rise to admiration for the Author of nature. Nevertheless, the religious outcome of the admiration
of a natural spectacle is not necessarily connected with the admiration itself. On the other hand,
it is not possible to admire a human work without admiring the author as author.
 Clearly, we cannot be scandalized by something or admire someone if we have no idea,
even if only embryonic, of how a human being should be and behave. Such a sentiment would
be impossible if we did not have a framework of values on the basis of which to judge. But let us
proceed with our analysis.

2. 1. 3. Judging Our Own Behavior

Not only our neighbor’s behavior can give rise in us to reactions of approval of
disapproval. Our own behavior is also subject to the judgement we make of ourselves and
generates diverse phenomena.

2. 1. 3. 1. Remorse

Let us begin with the phenomenon of remorse. The word (French: remords; Spanish:
remordimiento; Italian: rimorso) derives from the Latin remordere, to bite again, signifying the
interior torment consequent on the awareness of an evil that has been committed. The Jewish
Dutch philosopher B. Spinoza (1632-1677) called remorse “the bite of conscience” with a Latin
expression (conscientiae morsus) which translates literally in German as Gewissensbiss.

The feeling of interior suffering . . . is so profound as to subtend, condition, and bring

about a complex range of other sentiments, such as anguish, sadness, fear, awe, despair,
etc., so well expressed in the biblical narration of the fratricide of Cain at the dawn of
guilty humanity (Genesis 4:9-12) and in the vast literary production of every time period,
from Euripides’s Orestes (vv. 385-447) to Shakespeare’s Macbeth, to Dostoevskij’s
Crime and Punishment.34[34]

Remorse is the tragic experience par excellence in which a guilty past raises itself against
the present, creating fractures in the soul of the subject. What is it that creates this inner division?
The awareness of having “done evil,” that is, of having broken, by one’s own actions, the right
order of things; of having contradicted “pleas and appeals of value that resound strongly within
us.”35[35] Implicit in the experience of remorse is a sense of absoluteness: accusation comes
from the intimate depths of our soul and yet transcends us. We cannot manipulate or eliminate it.
The right order that we have broken is not “posed” by us, but “im-posed” upon us, that is to say,
from on high. In fact, if I myself had determined this order, I would be able to change it,
adapting it to what I have done in such a way as to no longer stand condemned by it . . . Yet,

34[34] S. Pignagnoli, “Rimorso,” in Enciclopedia filosofica, vol. 7 (Florence, Italy: Sansoni,

1979), col. 125.

35[35] Sabatino Majorano, La coscienza. Per una lettura cristiana (Cinisello Balsamo, Milan:
San Paolo, 1994), 18.
despite whatever I do, judgement is rendered in virtue of a law that I do not give myself – a law
which transcends me.36[36]

2. 1. 3. 2. Gratification

The experience opposite to remorse is that of gratification. We feel this in ourselves

when we are aware of having acted (or of acting) rightly. We commonly express this experience
with words such as “serenity,” “satisfaction,” or “joy.” Perhaps the action for which I now feel
gratified was rather difficult; perhaps it “cost” me fatigue or pain. Probably I have lost some
benefit by behaving in this way . . . But “it was worth it!” The price paid has bought me an
incomparable good: I was “myself.” I did not sell myself. I continued to direct my life toward the
ideals in which I believe. I can walk with my head held high. I can return my own gaze when I
look in the mirror.

The significance of this experience emerges by contrast when someone accuses us

falsely. For example, if someone tries to lay the blame on me for a fault I have not committed, I
might be bothered by the accusation, but it cannot rob me of my deepest interior serenity because
I know that I didn’t do anything wrong. And again, if someone maliciously interprets my
innocent behavior, I still do not lose my peace of mind because I know that I have acted
honestly. When Socrates was accused of impiety and corrupting the youth, he responded: “What
do I deserve for behaving in this way? Some reward, gentlemen, if I am bound to suggest what I
really deserve, and what is more, a reward which would be appropriate for myself.”37[37] And
then he asked to be maintained as a champion, with room and board at the expense of the city!

2. 2. Essential Characteristics of Moral Experience

Let’s go deeper now into the meaning of these experiences, examining their essential
contents. First of all, we will look at how these experiences always have some voluntary
behavior as their object (2.2.1). We will than see that in these experiences the will is moved in a
very special way: it is obligated by duty (2.2.2). We will then explain how this duty, far from
being “against” man’s freedom, presupposes and involves it. Consequently, we will consider the

36[36] I will leave in suspense for the moment the problem of this transcendence in the
conscience as, to use the language of Husserl, a “transcendent transcendence” or an “immanent
transcendence,” that is to say, the question if moral values are objective in the strong sense or if
they are simply perceived as objective. Let us content ourselves for now with this “suspension of
judgement” (epoché) which is not to be taken as the last word since the subject is merely
postponed. We will take it up again in the following chapters, particularly chapter 9.

37[37] Plato, Apology, 36b-37a. This and subsequent citations are taken from the translation by
High Tredennick in The Collected Dialogues, ed. Edith Hamilton and Huntington Cairns
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1989).
dimension of responsibility inherent in duty (2.2.3). Finally, we will describe the rapport
between duty and happiness (2.2.4).

2. 2. 1. Experiences that Concern the Will

A first, evident characteristic of moral experience is that it regards the will. This becomes
clear if we reflect on the “positive” experiences described above: admiration and gratification.

The object of moral admiration is precisely the will of the admired subject.

We can admire someone because they have beautiful eyes – but clearly this is not an
admiration-of-esteem since there is nothing “meritorious” in having beautiful eyes. Possessing a
beautiful quality does not depend on the will of the subject; hence, there can be no merit attached
to it. A quality can be appreciated, but not esteemed in a moral sense.

Similarly, I can admire and appreciate someone’s intelligence. Yet, if this intelligence is
simply a gift of nature, something the person himself has never cultivated or put at the service of
the community, my esteem – which perhaps here would better be called “appreciation” – regards
only the intelligence and not the person. There is no merit in having a “gift of nature.”

I can admire and esteem someone who is very capable in his work or art. But here, even
if my esteem should not extend to the whole personality of the subject, it is clear that admiration
also regards what the subject, through his voluntary behavior, has accomplished to become the
professional or artist that he is. It is for this that he deserves merit.

In the case of genuine moral admiration, the kind we experience when we consider the
actions of Socrates, or M. Atilius Regulus,38[38] or Maximilian Kolbe,39[39] etc., what we

38[38] M. Atilius Regulus (died 247 B.C.) was a Roman consul in 267 and 256 B.C. St. Augustine
records:

“M. Atilius Regulus, a Roman general, was held in captivity by the Carthaginians. As
they preferred to have their own men liberated from Roman bondage rather than to
hold Romans in their prisons, they dispatched to Rome no less a man than Regulus,
accompanied by their own legates to negotiate the exchange. At the same time, they
bound him under oath to return to Carthage, in case he failed to accomplish what they
proposed. Regulus set out on his mission, but, on reaching Rome, he persuaded the
Senate not to accede, urging his view that the exchange of prisoners would not be to
the advantage of the Roman republic. Having made his plea, he did not have to be
compelled to return to the enemy. Of his own accord, Regulus kept the word he had
sworn and returned to Carthage. There, Rome’s enemies slew him, after subjecting
him to fiendish torture.” St. Augustine, City of God, bk. 1 chap. 15, in The Writings
of St. Augustine, vol. 6, trans. Demetrius B. Zema and Gerald G. Walsh, in the series
esteem – as has already been said – is the person of these heroes as such. The motivation for our
admiration, if we reflect well on it, is nothing other than their voluntary conduct.

Socrates could have escaped his condemnation by means of the flight prepared for him by
his disciples, or by agreeing to compromise with his accusers. He did neither. To his disciples, he
offered this explanation:

Gentlemen, I am your very grateful and devoted servant, but I owe a greater obedience to
God than to you, and so long as I draw breath and have my faculties, I shall never stop
practicing philosophy and exhorting you and elucidating the truth for everyone that I
meet.40[40]

He draws an admission out of the friend who proposed flight to him:

SOCRATES: Do we say that one must never willingly do wrong, or does it depend upon
circumstances? Is it true, as we have often agreed before, that there is no sense in which
wrongdoing is good or honorable? Or have we jettisoned all our former convictions in
these last few days? Can you and I at our age, Crito, have spent all these years in serious
discussions without realizing that we were no better than a pair of children? Surely the
truth is just what we have always said. Whatever the popular view is, and whether the
alternative is pleasanter than the present one or even harder to bear, the fact remains that
to do wrong is in every sense bad and dishonorable for the person who does it. Is that our
view, or not?
CRITO: Yes, it is.
SOCRATES: Then in no circumstances must one do wrong. . . . Well, here is my next
point, or rather question. Ought one to fulfill all one’s agreements, provided that they are
right, or break them?

CRITO: One ought to fulfill them.41[41]

The Fathers of the Church (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press,
1990), 42-43.

39[39] Maximilian Kolbe (1894-1941), a Franciscan priest proclaimed a saint by John Paul II in
1982, was imprisoned in the Nazi concentration camp at Auschwitz. He offered his own life to
save that of the father of a family who was condemned to die of starvation as retaliation for the
escape of a prisoner.

40[40] Plato, Apology, 29d.

41[41] Plato, Crito, 49a-e, trans. High Tredennick, in The Collected Dialogues, ed. Edith
Hamilton and Huntington Cairns (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1989).
 Hence, Socrates’s greatness, the thing that moves us to admiration, lies in his will not to
betray his mission for wisdom and justice.

In the same way, M. Atilius Regulus could have escaped the horrendous torture that his
enemies prepared for him either by encouraging the Roman Senate to accept terms favorable to
Carthage, or by not returning to the city of his imprisonment. But he willed to remain faithful to
the oath he had made.

Maximilian Kolbe could have avoided the “starvation bunker” of Auschwitz if he hadn’t
offered himself voluntarily to die in the place of his fellow prisoner.

An analogous discourse could be made for the experience of gratification of conscience:

we “feel good” because we have willed to act one way rather than another. Our will was stronger
than the flattery and seduction of improper behavior.

We can conclude, then, that moral experience arises only in the presence of voluntary
behavior.

2. 2. 2. Experiences that Obligate the Will

Moral experience also has to do with a peculiar “movement” of the will. We can see this
more clearly by comparing it with other kinds of experience.

There are human experiences that do not move the will. Knowing some truth of
mathematics or natural science, for example, can leave the will completely indifferent. Does
knowing that the square root of 196 is 14 move you to want or not want something? And when
you know that water reaches its greatest density at 4° centigrade, is there any movement of your
will? Probably not.

Now, compare these experiences with some others. Take, for example, the aesthetic
experience of contemplating something beautiful. Looking at a landscape or work of art, or
listening to music, does not only involve the senses (vision, hearing) or the intelligence
(understanding the meaning, the “message” of what the senses perceive), but also the will. In
fact, the experience of the beautiful gives rise to a desire to prolong or extend the experience.

It’s not difficult to see that this involvement of the will is very different from what
happens in moral experience. In aesthetic experience, the will is attracted by pleasure, while in
moral experience, it is obligated by duty.

This becomes clear if we compare these “positive” moral experiences with the “negative”
moral experiences described above, particularly scandal, remorse, and the objection of
conscience. We are scandalized by deeds that should not happen, that cannot be permitted, that
someone (society, the authorities, etc.) has an obligation to stop. We feel remorse when we
understand that we have betrayed our duty to do or to avoid something. We were obligated to do
something, but we willfully fled from this obligation. Before the prospect of consenting to an
injustice, a voice rises within us that shouts firmly: You must not! You are obligated to deny
yourself no matter what the cost!

The drama and fascination of ethical experience consist precisely in this appeal of duty to
the will, an appeal we call “moral obligation.”

2. 2. 3. Duty, Freedom, and Responsibility

Let us concentrate now on the phenomenon of moral obligation. In appearance,

obligation or duty seem to be realities that exclude the freedom of the subject: I am free if I am
not obligated. I feel free when I have no duty to fulfill.

In reality, this is a very superficial way of looking at things.

Let us consider our experience somewhat more attentively. In what circumstances do we

perceive a duty? I have no sense of duty in regard to being tall, or being born on such and such a
day, or having had these parents . . . I cannot perceive these things as “duties” because I am not
free in their regard!

We see easily enough that the perception of a duty obligating us to behave in a certain
way would be impossible if we were not simultaneously aware of our capacity to behave in
another way.

Let us take a banal example: On a deserted street, I find a wallet containing a notable sum
of money and the identifying documents of the owner. I know very well that I have a duty to
return the wallet, a duty that startles me because I realize I also have the power to keep the
money for myself. I must do something, but I must to it freely – meaning that I could just as well
not do it.

Hence, the experience of moral obligation involves freedom. Where freedom is lacking,
there is no moral experience.

Moral duty presents itself, then, as an appeal, a call that we must freely answer. This
means that moral experience is always an experience of responsibility (from the Latin
respondere, to answer).

Responsibility, however, makes sense only insofar as it regards a subject who calls and
“asks an accounting” in the form of determined behavior. For believers, moral responsibility is
distinguished first of all before God, to whom we must “answer” for our actions. But we are also
aware that our lives unfold in a context of relations with other people, in a society. Hence, we
must all render account for our conduct to other human subjects and to the community as such.
And finally, each of us is ultimately responsible to himself, to his own conscience, with regard to
the “outcome” of his own life, to the attainment of that exceedingly desirable end which we may
call “the good life” or happiness.

2. 2. 4. Duty and Happiness

If it is true that duty obliges my will, it is also true that I can perceive a duty only if a
good is presented to me. I mean to say that a certain action (for example, to return the wallet to
the legitimate owner) presents itself as good, and therefore, I feel that I must do it.

Everything depends on understanding why some actions present themselves as good (and
their contraries as bad). We must take this discourse a little further, entering again into the depth
of the conscience, asking ourselves about our desires, our aspirations, our hopes, and our plans
([Link]). We can then clarify the concept of good in view of moral action ([Link]). Lastly, we
will consider what approach to take to the problem of moral evil ([Link]).

2. 2. 4. 1. Living Fully

It’s possible to spend our days in boring, banal monotony with nothing to engage us,
nothing “worth it” to which we can devote ourselves – just existing.42[42] Living this way
makes it easy for the will to be moved by the attraction of the moment, by the desire for
immediate pleasure.

There are those, in fact, whose sole aim is to satisfy every impulse as quickly as possible.
After a while, however, this way of life ends up being . . . unsatisfying! I can’t help but think of
the future: How long can I keep living like this? What do I have to look forward to when I’m
old? Why live at all? The search for an end begins, and many hopes come to mind.

The fact is that behind the many kinds of desires we have there is one fundamental desire
that motivates them all and gives sense to our very capacity to “aspire” to something: the desire
to be happy. But the concept of happiness is one of the most vague and undetermined to appear
on the horizon of our minds. What does it mean to be happy? For some, it means simply “to
enjoy,” to go in search of pleasure wherever it is found. From this perspective, the good life is
simply the “pleasurable” life, the “dolce vita” (sweet life). Søren Kierkegaard described this kind
of life with the theatrical image of Don Giovanni, the seducer who always succeeds in his
libertine pursuits but is forced to fulfill them again and again in different ways because as soon
as he grasps the object of his desire, it dies in his hands, leaving him with an always greater void
to fill.43[43] In effect, pleasure is fleeting, and when it is sought for itself, inevitably disappears,

42[42] For this paragraph and those that follow, see Francesca Rivetti Barbò, Essere nel tempo.
Introduzione alla filosofia dell’essere come fondamento di libertà (Milan: Jaca Book, 1990),
185-213.

43[43] See Søren Kierkegaard, Either-Or (1843).

leaving us a profound sense of frustration that leads to a disgust for life, as well as mental illness
– as clinical psychology demonstrates.44[44]

On the other hand, as everyone knows, technology today has made possible the “virtual
experience”: A subject is linked to a certain machine that stimulates him in such a way as to
transmit all the sensations he desires without the presence of that reality which normally procures
them for him. Let us imagine that someone suggests we live out our existence in a very
pleasurable “virtual reality.”45[45] Would we consider this a happy life? I don’t think so.

The fact is that the object of our desire is not pleasure but the thing that procures
pleasure! Certainly, we want to enjoy . . . but enjoy something! Or better said, we want
“something,” and we welcome the pleasure that it brings. We can define this “something” that
we desire as “the good.”

What we hope for is something desirable. But even something scarcely desirable in itself
can be considered attractive in view of a further end. For example, a long journey on a train can
be boring in itself, but very desirable if it leads me to the embrace of someone I love.

And you, Dear Reader, as you read these pages, perhaps you are finding it a bit tiring or
boring . . . What keeps you going? Maybe the desire to learn – or the fear of exams? But why
learn – or why pass exams? Perhaps to carry out a certain service? You see, we return to the
central question: “Why live at all?” I can face an experience that is unpleasant (having a cavity
filled) or tiring (getting up early in the morning to study) or boring (reading certain books . . .),
provided that it forms part of the global end of my life.

In effect, there is something for which I must desire and hope, something which
represents the meaning of every one of my desires: I want to be happy. I want to realize fully my
existence, that is, to develop completely my personality. All that I desire, all that I hope for, I
desire and hope for because I believe that it can contribute to my true happiness.46[46]

44[44] On this subject, see the fundamental research of Victor Frankl, On the Theory and
Therapy of Mental Disorders: An Introduction to Logotherapy and Existential Analysis, trans.
James M. DuBois with Kateryna Cuddeback (New York, NY: Brunner-Routledge, 2005).

45[45] A mental experiment with an “experience machine” was proposed by Robert Nozick
when “virtual reality” was still only science fiction. See Nozick, Anarchy, State, and Utopia
(1974; repr., Oxford: Blackwell, 1995), 42-45. Pages refer to the 1995 edition.

46[46] Nota bene: Even someone who spends his life just drifting along “from day to day” does
so because he thinks that in this way he will find happiness. He believes that by doing this he is
realizing his personality. He acts miserably because he has a miserable conception of himself!
2. 2. 4. 2. Positive and Negative Values

If we think about it, the things that we know and the things that we do appear to us as
desirable and attractive, as positive values, when we find some merit in them that attracts our
desire. In other words, something presents itself to me as a value by appearing to me as an end or
goal of a certain tendency of mine. This end is desirable if I don’t have it yet, or satisfying if I
possess it already. In every case, it in some way contributes to my happiness.

Something presents itself as a negative value if it constitutes an impediment to the

acquisition of a positive value, or if I recognize it as repugnant to one of my tendencies or plans.
A negative value foreseen in the future elicits fear; experienced in the present, it entails
disablement or pain.

At this point, we can formulate some first definitions:

 Whoever acts does so in view of an end. This indicates the intentionality of human
action.

 What appears as an end manifests some good which attracts my desires (a value).

 What we desire, we call “good.” This good presents itself as the end of action. We call its
contrary “evil.”

We should note that the concept “good” we are describing here is slightly different from
that of everyday language. For example, the goal of an assassin is murder. Objectively, such an
end is evil, but the assassin could not desire it if it did not appear to him (hence, subjectively) as
a good for him (that is, he hopes to profit from it). In effect, everything that is desired, that
moves the will, must necessarily appear, at least under some aspects, as a good.

2. 2. 4. 3. Good, Useful, and Delightful

From what we have said above, it is clear that the concept “good” is not univocal, but
analogous.47[47] It indicates something that corresponds to desire . . . but we can desire
something in very different ways. This is evident in the example described above: I can desire to
track down the owner of a wallet that I have found. I can desire to return to him what he has lost.
I can desire the gratification of my conscience which will come out of this act of restitution.

To track down the wallet’s owner is a useful good, that is to say, a means through which I
realize a further end: the end of returning the wallet. Therefore, whatever is useful is called
“good” in function of some other good.

47[47] See St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I, q. 5, a. 6.

 On the other hand, to experience the gratification of my conscience is a delightful good.
Here also, the gratification arises from the presence of another good, that is, the returning of the
wallet. Therefore, whatever is “delightful” is called “good” in function of some other good.

However, to return the wallet is a good in itself, that is, a good not as a means or a
consequence of something else. It is good in itself as an action that corresponds to the truth of
things, to the dignity of the human person. For this reason, this action is a “duty”: it elicits in the
conscience the obligation to submit to it. As soon as an action concerns a true and proper good, it
is designated a virtuous good.

We have, then, some definitions:

 A useful good is a means to reaching a further end.

 A delightful good is that which procures pleasure.

 A virtuous good is that which is an end in itself.

Furthermore, it’s evident that among these three analogues there is a hierarchical and
dependent relationship:

 We can be delighted by something. It follows that whatever procures delight is more

important (= it is good in a stronger sense) than the delight itself.

 A thing can be useful for another thing. Hence, the end is more important (= it is a good
in a stronger sense) than the means of reaching it.

Consequently, the “good” in a full sense is the virtuous good – that which is desired for
itself and not in relation to anything else.

2. 2. 4. 4. And What about Evil?

But if everything we want is wanted because it represents a good for us, what then is
evil?

We must distinguish two levels: that of being (the ontic level) and that of acting (the
moral level).

On the plane of being, everything, in as much as it is, is good in itself. Its being, in fact,
constitutes its perfection. The in-depth investigation of this concept is the job of metaphysics;
here we can only give a brief illustration of it.

What kinds of things can be defined “bad”? Can a material object (a stone, a liquid, a
gas) be bad? Certainly, a stone can be a bad conductor of electricity, that is, bad in as much as it
is little or no use for a determined end. But this end (to conduct electricity well) is a finality that
we ourselves impose on the stone. It is not that of the stone itself! A liquid can be bad as a drink;
a gas can be bad because it is toxic for man – but neither of these material objects is bad in itself
in as much as it is.

Perhaps, then, a living being (an animal, a plant, a virus) can be bad? Our fables our full
of “big, bad wolves,” for example . . . But why are these creatures bad? Because they are
damaging for man, or for sheep, but certainly not because in themselves and for themselves they
constitute any evil. If fables were written by wolves, they would be full of big, bad hunters!

Assuredly, we can express certain “value judgements” (which are not, however, moral
judgements) on objects. For example, we can say that a chair is a bad chair if it has one leg
shorter than the others; or that an eye is a bad eye if it does not see well. But let us understand in
what the “evil” of these objects consists: in a privation of order, form, or measure that renders
them in some way lacking or deficient.48[48] At this level, moralists speak of ontic evil, not in
the sense that evil is something, but that it is the privation of some element that contributes to the
perfection of a determined being. Illness and death are evils in this sense.

Returning again to the moral plane, we should recall that the good and evil we are
considering regard man’s voluntary behavior. We have said that everything we want and choose,
we want and choose because it appears to us as a good, that is, as desirable. Consequently, bad
human behavior does not consist in choosing what is bad, but in choosing badly. We have
observed that there is an analogy and a hierarchy among goods. Evil, then, consists in choosing
an inferior good instead of a superior good, that is, in giving priority to the useful or the
pleasurable to the detriment of the true good, since the good of man, the good of life, consists
precisely in a virtuous life.

From this perspective, it is clear that an action which involves an ontic evil can be good (for
example, Socrates drinking the Hemlock). In fact, in the qualification of human behavior as good
or bad, it is completely misleading to limit oneself to the consideration of the ontic goods
involved.

At this point, we have described the essential elements of moral experience. We are still
very far, however, from determining what constitutes a good and virtuous life, a life that realizes
true and proper happiness. This will be the theme of the chapters to follow.

3. Voluntary Behavior

The phenomenology of moral experience described in chapter two has shown us that
moral experience arises before voluntary behavior. We must now take a close look at this latter
notion. We will do so first of all by asking ourselves under what conditions we can define a
behavior as “voluntary” and by studying the role intelligence and will in our behavior (3. 1).
Since our being cannot be reduced to intelligence and will alone, important though they may be,
we will also examine the role of emotions and feelings in our actions (3. 2). At this point of our

48[48] Cf. St. Augustine, De natura boni.

investigation, we will be able to tackle the fascinating and complex theme of freedom (3. 3), a
freedom that builds itself up, act after act, through our own action, thus enabling us to change not
only the world around us, but our very own personality (3. 4).

3. 1. Conditions of Voluntary Behavior

Under what conditions can our actions be defined as voluntary? This might appear to be
an idle question with an all too easy tautological response: A behavior is voluntary when we
want to do it! This is true . . . but not enough. We will try to bring some light to the subject by
first of all introducing a classical, terminological distinction between acts of man and human acts
(3. 1. 1). We will then do a phenomenological analysis of voluntary action (3. 1. 2) in order to
prepare ourselves to examine the respective roles that intelligence (3. 1. 3) and will (3. 1. 4) play
in it.

3. 1. 1. Acts of Man and Human Acts

It’s very easy to see that not everything we do depends on our will. Think, for example,
of all the operations relating to vegetative life (digestion, respiration, sleep, dreams, etc.), the
neuro-motor reflexes, the tic (which is precisely an “uncontrolled movement”), and so forth. I am
truly the subject of these processes insofar as I am the one who digests, who dreams, etc.
However, such processes occur in me without the cooperation of my will. On the same plane,
though in a qualified sense, we can speak of acts performed under psychological compulsion
(sleep walking, hallucinations, raptus, hypnosis, etc.) or pharmacological influence (drugs,
alcohol). A person who is “not himself” can perform determined acts, but – precisely because he
is “not himself” – he performs them without having any real power over the acts themselves.

We have seen in the preceding chapter that one of the characteristics of moral experience is the
possibility of judging behavior as worthy or not worthy of the human person. Let us consider,
then, the case of a sleepwalker who, in his sleep, throws himself from a balcony and dies. Would
we say that he committed suicide? Obviously not! He really killed himself, but he did not do it
voluntarily.

With this we reach a first terminological and conceptual clarification:

 Only voluntary acts are moral acts (that is, morally qualifiable as good or evil.)

Properly speaking, non-voluntary acts, even though accomplished by a human being, are
not qualifiable as human. We can make two classical distinctions in this regard:

 acts of man = every act of a human subject (thus including non-voluntary acts).

 human acts = every act in which man expresses himself as man, that is, every act that
bears the specific imprint of humanity.
 But what is the specific imprint of humanity? What renders man different from all other
beings? Man is a rational animal: “animal” is the proximate genus to which man belongs (it
indicates that man is not mineral or vegetable or pure spirit); “rational” is the specific difference
that distinguishes the human species from all other animal species.

Now, by saying man is “rational,” we basically want to affirm that he is endowed with
those characteristics that are called, in everyday language, intelligence and will. This is to say
that man is capable of understanding and willing. Hence, we can conclude:

 When an action is performed with both intelligence and will, it is a human act, that is,
a moral act.

In the preceding chapter (2. 2. 4), we said that our actions aim at something, and it is
precisely from this fact that the concept “good” is born: the “good” is that to which a person
tends or aspires. This aspiration or willing is defined as intentionality (from “in-tend” = to tend
towards).

“Good” is something that appears “worthy of being desired, worthy of being an object of
aspiration,” insofar as it is judged such by the acting subject. Clearly, this judgement is correct
when it is rational.

We have, then, the two sides of the question: on the one hand, the human faculty of
aspiration (will); on the other, that of judging (intelligence). We must now look at the
relationship between these two realities.

3. 1. 2. Phenomenology of Voluntary Action

If I reflect on my actions, I notice some constant characteristics49[49]:

1. Before acting, I more or less represent to myself what I am about to do. For example, if
I think about getting a degree in philosophy, this goal appears to my mind as a good.

2. My will adheres to this good: obtaining a degree in philosophy seems to me desirable.

But I have not yet decided anything in its regard.

3. I then ask myself if it is effectively possible that I pursue such a degree. I reason about
it, asking myself if I am up to it, if I have the means, and so forth. If I make a positive
judgement on the possibility of attaining my goal, then I proceed.

4. I decide to earn my degree in philosophy: I am seriously bent on doing it.

49[49] See Joseph de Finance, An Ethical Inquiry, trans. and adapted by Michael O’Brien
(Rome: Editrice Pontificia Università Gregoriana, 1991), 35-43.
 5. I think of all the steps I have to take to graduate (applying, getting registered, attending
classes, studying, taking exams, writing the dissertation, etc.), that is, I look into the
necessary means for reaching the end I have set for myself, the actions that will permit
me to acquire the degree.

6. In the face of all that must be done, I could be discouraged . . . But, I express my
consent: I commit myself to making the effort.

7. Then comes the moment when I must get down to work. Where do I begin? I have to
think about it. Of the different possibilities before me I judge one better than the others.

8. I choose, then, to put the preceding judgement into practice.

9. In front of the means chosen (to attend lessons on these certain days, to study at these
hours, etc.), reason then commands me to make use of them.

10. I use the means necessary to obtain my end.

11. At last, I obtain the degree and I enjoy the results of my efforts.

In the first part of this process (1-4), the acts performed regard the end; in the
intermediate part (5-10), they regard the means. The final act (11) is the accomplishment of the
end – that which was willed from the beginning and set the entire process in motion.

 What is first in intention is last in execution.

Note that in the acts listed above there is an alternation between intelligence and will.
This is represented in the following schema50[50]:

50[50] Ibid., 45.

 INTELLIGENCE WILL

1. Simple thought of the good 2. Simple inefficacious will of the good

3. Judgement by which the end is presented as 4. Efficacious intention of this end

possible

5. Deliberation 6. Consent

7. Practical judgement on the most suitable means 8. Choice of such means

9. Command of the reason 10. Use of the means

11. Enjoyment of the good

Let’s go deeper now into the specific role of the intelligence and the will in human
action.
3. 1. 3. Intelligence in the Human Act

Intelligence contributes to the realization of the human act in as much as it allows us to

know both the end of an action and the means to pursue it. A principle of classical ethics says:

 Nothing is willed that is not first known (nil volitum nisi praecognitum).

This is a self-evident principle that has no need of demonstration; in fact, a demonstration

in the strict sense would be impossible. On the other hand, it is possible to present some evidence
in support of this principle. Take the case of finding yourself in a foreign restaurant. You are
given a menu written in a language that you do not understand. The waiter asks you to choose
among the dishes indicated. Can you really make a choice? Clearly not, since you do not know
the items from which you are asked to choose. You could “want” this dish rather than that dish
only if you received some explanation, even summarily, on their composition. It is clear, then,
that the will wants something in response to the intelligence that knows this something and
recognizes it as a good.

To clarify the moral relevance of this principle, let’s look at some examples. It can
happen that a woman is sterilized under different conditions:

a) The woman herself submits to the operation knowing what it will mean for her and
knowing also that such an action in itself is gravely disordered. Nevertheless, she judges
that in her condition it would be convenient to be sterilized.

b) The woman submits to the operation knowing its end, but without any awareness that
it is a morally disordered act.

c) The woman submits to the operation without knowing the end, simply trusting in her
doctors who profess they have her best interests at heart.

d) The woman is sterilized without her knowledge after having been given narcotics.

In cases “a” and “b,” the subject performs a human act because she knows what she is
doing, that is, she understands the physical nature of the act. Hence, she acts knowingly. Full
moral responsibility, however, is present only in example “a” since the subject understands the
moral quality of the act, something lacking to the subject in example “b.”

In cases “c” and “d,” the subject does not perform a human act at all and clearly cannot
be considered morally responsible for her own sterilization. In example “c,” the woman’s
condition is one of ignorance: she does not know what the operation will mean for her. In
example “d,” the woman’s condition may be called inadvertent since she is not aware of being
sterilized.
 We can give the following definitions:

 Knowledge = the awareness of an act in its physical consistency and its end, as well as its
moral quality, that is, its rightness or wrongness. The opposite of knowledge is ignorance or
doubt.

 Advertence = the awareness of accomplishing a determined act, an awareness that

appears and disappears together with the act itself. The opposite of advertence is
inadvertence.

 A human act necessarily requires both knowledge and advertence.

3. 1. 4. The Will in the Human Act

We have said that the will acts in response to a known good. It should be stressed,
however, that the will has its own way of responding and its own characteristics in responding
which are not to be confused with the acts of intelligence. As we can easily verify, it’s one thing
to see and know the good, and quite another to want that good and tend toward it with the
appropriate action. As Ovid said: “I see the right way and approve it, but follow the wrong”
(Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor).51[51] I know, for example, that it is good to study .
. . but that doesn’t necessarily mean that I want to study!

We have said that an act can be called moral or human only in so far as it is voluntary.
We must now define this concept more precisely by first of all distinguishing what is voluntary
from its contrary (the involuntary), and then by distinguishing the different species of the
voluntary (simple or relative, willed or tolerated).

3. 1. 4. 1. Voluntary and Involuntary

The will guarantees that an act I perform is “mine,” that is, that my behavior proceeds
from me myself, from within me. It ensures that I am the “author and protagonist” of my actions
and not the passive object of the actions of others.

To return to the preceding example of the woman being sterilized, let’s take the case of
the woman who fully understands the nature of the operation she is having but is compelled by
force to submit to it. Who would say that such a woman has committed a human act? Who would
consider her responsible for being sterilized? She is not, in fact, the one acting; she is only
submitting to an action, and doing so against her will. We can speak of voluntary sterilization
(hence, a human act), only when the woman herself asks for such an operation because that is
precisely what she wants.

51[51] Ovid, Metamorphosis, 7, 20, trans. David Raeburn (New York, NY: Penguin Books,
2004), 249.
 But what about this case: Due to an operation, a woman is rendered sterile in a non-
voluntary way. Once aware of her condition, however, she approves it with her own will. In this
case, the sterilization, even though involuntary, is nevertheless willed. Such would be the case
for a husband who wishes his wife to be sterilized but does nothing to induce her to submit to the
operation. In this instance, the wife’s sterilization is willed by the husband, but it is certainly not
voluntary on the husband’s part because he has not acted.

Hence, we can formulate the following definitions52[52]:

 An act is called voluntary when it is caused by the will of the subject.

 An act is willed when it is approved by the will (even when not caused by it).

 An act is involuntary when performed against the will of the subject.

 An act is non-voluntary when it is done without the approval of the subject’s will.

3. 1. 4. 2. Simple Voluntary and Relative Voluntary

We have arrived, then, at a definition of “voluntary action.” However, we should note

that in the realm of this category of acts important differences exist.

Let’s consider two cases:

a) A man meets a child, the son of his worst enemy. On whatever pretext, he slaps him in
the face.

b) A father sees his son do something wrong, something for which the child has been
admonished many times. To correct him, he feels compelled to give him a slap – though
he does so with a heavy heart.

We have here two voluntary actions, but there is a substantial difference.

In the first case, the man’s will tends directly to striking the child. In his senseless anger,
he wants to slap this boy whom he takes for an enemy. In the second case, however, the father
does not want to hit his son since this means suffering for both the child and the parent;
nevertheless, given the unfavorable circumstances, the father wants to strike the boy because
otherwise, uncorrected, the child would be on the path to even greater suffering.

52[52] Anyone wishing to go deeper into these topics is warmly invited to read Aristotle,
Nicomachean Ethics, 3.1, a splendid example of the phenomenology of voluntary action.
 In the first case, we are looking at the simple voluntary, that is, an action to which the
will of the subject fully adheres. The second case, on the other hand, illustrates the limited
voluntary, that is, an action to which the will of the subject adheres only in relation to a
determined, unwilled circumstance.

We can define, then:

 the simple voluntary as an act that constitutes in itself the object of the tendency of the
will of the subject;

 the relative or limited voluntary as an act to which the will of the subject tends, much to
his regret, in order to respond to a particular situation.

3. 1. 4. 3. Willed Voluntary and Tolerated Voluntary

Let’s examine two other cases, very similar in appearance, but very different in
substance:

a) A pregnant woman with serious health problems procures an abortion so as not to

aggravate her condition (an act rather incorrectly labeled “therapeutic abortion”).

b) A pregnant woman discovers that she has cancer of the uterus and has her uterus
surgically removed, with the consequent death of the fetus.

These cases seem similar because the effects are analogous: the health of the mother and
the death of the child. In reality, however, they are very different in terms of the central point. In
the first case, the will of the woman tends directly to the killing of the fetus. One could say that it
concerns a “relative voluntary” because the abortion is willed as a means to obtaining a further
end, that is, the improvement of the woman’s health.53[53] Nevertheless – in fact, exactly for
this reason – the abortion is willed and procured in a direct way on a healthy fetus and not the
sick organs of the mother.

In the second case, on the other hand, the will of the woman tends directly to the removal
of the cancer. The removal of the uterus has no other end than this: it is an infected organ that
cannot be cured and must be taken out. The death of the fetus is foreseen from the start as the
result of a voluntary action (the removal of the uterus); however, the fetus’s death is not pursued
by the will, neither as a means nor much less as an end. It is tolerated as a “collateral effect.” In
the language of moralists, this “collateral effect” is called “the indirect voluntary.” Such a
designation may cause some perplexity since the will of the surgeon removing the cancerous

53[53] See below, chapter 9, section 4. 2.

uterus does not intend to kill the fetus! For this reason, I propose to qualify this effect “unwilled
voluntary” or “tolerated.”

Hence, we can state the following definitions:

 In the direct voluntary, the effect constitutes the true end of the will either as an end or as
a means to an end that is willed.

 In the indirect voluntary, the will tends directly to another end and is limited to tolerating
the collateral effects of its action.

We have, thus, given some precision to the concept of “voluntary” according to the principle
shades of meaning it assumes. This treatment has resulted in certain distinctions which may seem
a little too “technical”; nevertheless, Dear Reader, you will find them useful when you examine
the problems of special ethics.

For now, I am content with having given you a sufficient overview of the role of
intelligence and will in human behavior.

3. 2. Emotions and Feelings in Human Action

Intelligence and will manifest the rational nature specific to man. But we should
remember that man is not an angel! I mean to say, we are not reducible to our rationality alone.
Our intelligence and will are incarnate in a body with structures and operations that in varying
degrees work in synergy with the faculties of the spiritual/rational order. As the great French
thinker, Blaise Pascal (1623-1662), has remarked: “Man is neither angel nor beast, and it is
unfortunately the case that anyone trying to act the angel acts the beast.”54[54]

Consequently, when we place ourselves in front of a good to perform or an evil to avoid,

not only intelligence and will enter into play, but also our sensibility. For a comprehension of the
human act, therefore, we must take into account the interaction between our sensible, corporeal
life and the life of the spirit. Such interaction is called psychicism and its most important natural
components for the comprehension of the human act are the feelings or emotions (in classical
language these are called sensible motions or passions).

Consider, for example, the decision made by Gianna Beretta Molla, a mother who,
though ill with a uterine tumor, renounced her own healing so as not to damage the child she
carried in her womb. She died a short time after giving birth.55[55] Can a person humanly make

54[54] Blaise Pascal, Pensées, trans. A. J. Krailsheimer (New York, NY: Penguin Books, 1995),
215 (#678).

55[55] See Pietro Molla and Elio Guerriero, Gianna la donna forte. La beata Gianna Beretta
Molla nel ricordo del marito (Cinisello Balsamo, Milan: San Paolo, 1995).
a choice of this kind only on the basis of rational considerations? I think it is nearly impossible.
An emotional, sensitive – I would almost say “visceral” in the noble sense of the word –
component enters into play: a profound love for the child in the womb and a desire that it live
(though, of course, this is not the only component that determines behavior).

We can see this in some other common examples: Can the choice to marry this person be
dictated exclusively by rational considerations? Clearly, the sentimental component plays an
important role! Would we say that the act of defending our life or the lives of those we love is
motivated only by reason and not also by fear, which is – precisely – an emotion?

Feelings and emotions act as go betweens assuring the link between sensible life and the
life of the spirit. They influence action to various degrees. They can enjoin and contribute to
some kinds of behavior while restraining and obstructing others.

Emotions, sentiments, and the movements of our sensibility are many and varied; yet,
they can be traced back to two common roots: love and hate.

Love concerns something presented to us as a “good.” When this good is absent, we

experience desire; when present, we feel joy. Hate concerns something presented to us as an
“evil.” When this evil is imminent, we are afraid; when present, sad or angry. A very varied
range of nuances articulates these fundamental “passions.”

Ordinarily, emotions and feelings are accompanied by somatic alterations in blood

circulation, neuro-motor reflexes, hormonal secretions (the famous “rush of adrenaline”), and so
forth. These are spontaneous responses in front of determined objects and, as such, are not
voluntary in themselves. Nevertheless, they can become voluntary either because they are
commanded by the will or because the will does not resist them.

But let’s look at some examples of passions commanded by the will. Whoever makes use
of pornographic materials wants nothing other than to procure sexual excitement. Certainly, the
excitement in itself is an involuntary motion of sensibility; nevertheless, to the measure in which
it is sought, it becomes voluntary. Another example is music played beyond a certain number of
decibels, marked by frenetic rhythms, and accompanied by “psychedelic” lights and dancing (in
addition to the consumption of alcohol or other “substances”). What is sought in this
environment if not emotion? We could continue to multiply examples, as you like.

Let’s also take into consideration an example of passion which the will does not want to
resist: I know that I am getting angry, but I let my anger increase without stopping myself to
think until finally I give vent to it without restraint . . . The anger itself, in origin, was not
voluntary, but my choleric behavior is voluntary because I do nothing to oppose my
accumulating wrath.

In what way do emotions, sentiments, and the movements of our sensibility influence
voluntary behavior? Clearly, when these states of soul arise without the will, or precisely against
the will, they can diminish the voluntariness of an act even to the point of eliminating it
completely. Take, for example, a soldier who has decided to obey the order to defend his
position. In the heat of battle, however, seeing himself assailed by the enemy, he panics and,
gripped by terror, flees. Is his flight “voluntary”? In a certain sense, yes, because the action
depends on him, but in another sense no, because the terrorized subject is not fully “master” of
his actions. This kind of behavior could be called semi-voluntary. What if this soldier loses
consciousness from terror? Such a faint, and the following omission of duty, are clearly
involuntary!

It is very different in the case of passions that a subject wants to procure or decides not
to oppose. Whoever decides to make use of psychotropic substances to provoke particular
emotions and then, on the wave of these emotions, accomplishes acts of vandalism is afterward
responsible for these acts because he has performed them and because he has voluntarily put
himself in the condition to act in a rash way. Therefore:

 When the passions arise without or against the will, they can render the acts of the
subject semi-voluntary or even involuntary.

 When the passions are commanded by the will, they make the voluntary act more
complete, that is, they augment the voluntariness.

Human maturity requires discernment and control of ones emotions and feelings – though
certainly not their indiscriminate repression. An individual who lets himself be guided blindly by
passion does not behave in a manner worthy of his humanity; but neither is it truly human to
behave with cold rationality alone, deprived of feeling. We must differentiate and choose
between those emotions and sentiments that incline us toward behavior worthy of a human being
and those that do not. In this way, we can direct the proper emotions and sentiments to the true
good of the person.

3. 3. Freedom in Human Action

Having discussed passion, we can now pose the problem of freedom. First of all, it should
be said that an essential characteristic of human volition is that it can become the object of
reflection. This fact distinguishes human behavior from that of irrational animals who cannot
reflect on their own inclinations. A hungry wolf finds some food and tends immediately toward
eating it with a simple and un-reflected act which it does not have the power to oppose. On the
contrary, man has the power of “reflection,” that is, of returning by an act of the will to acts
previously posed by the will itself.

Let’s take an example. At first, on the basis of certain criteria, I make an act of the will:

1a) I see something sweet that delights me and I want to eat it.

2a) I smell the odor of bitter medicine and I do not want to take it.
In a second moment of reflection, on the basis of other criteria, I persist in my previous act of
will or I do not will it anymore. For example:
1b) I know that this sweet will not be good for me, so I renounce my desire to eat it: I do
not want to want it!
2b) I know that this medicine is good for me, so I want to take it notwithstanding its
bitterness: I do not want my not-wanting it, that is, I want to want it!

This capacity of reflection is the foundation of human freedom. Yet, such freedom is
exercised in different forms and grades. Let’s look at some other examples56[56]:

I break a pen in three different ways:

a) I inadvertently step on the pen and break it.

b) Yesterday, I noticed that the pen was “used up,” so today I decide to throw it out, and
do so.

c) I want to write quickly, but the pen doesn’t work well. In a fit of rage, I break the pen.

By now it should be clear that case “a” does not represent a human act since the breaking
of the pen does not proceed from my intelligence or my will.

Case “b” does represent a human act because my intelligence moves me to judge it better
to throw the pen out. Thus, I decide with my will and I do it. My decision is, therefore, entirely
free; so also is my gesture of throwing out the pen.

Case “c” also represents a human act since the breaking of the pen is determined
according to my will (it is a voluntary act) and my intelligence is aware that, using my hands in a
certain way, the pen will be broken. Is this still a free act? Yes, but only in part. It is a free act
because it springs from my interiority without any constrictions. Nevertheless, my anger (a
passion) is, so to speak, blinding my intelligence and dragging my will along with it.
Consequently, this act is rather less free than others which, on the contrary, are fully dependent
on the respective acts of judging and willing.

It can also happen that I “lose my patience” unexpectedly but then succeed in putting a
break on my reaction. In a second instance, as soon as I reflect on the situation, I master my
emotion by an act of will. The first, sudden movement escaped my thought and will and was not,
then, a human act in as much as it was not willed by me. Hence, I am not responsible for it.
Classical morality speaks of these movements as moti primi primi which in themselves do not
represent morally qualifiable behavior.

56[56] See Rivetti Barbò, Philosophy of Man, 176-177.

 However, it is also possible that I have allowed myself to be dragged along by the
tendency to “lose my patience” and have thus acquired an uncontested tendency to wrath. For my
preceding acts, I am, yes, responsible. I am responsible for this present fury also, but as a cause,
since I have allowed the cause, the motive, to be produced.

Recapitulating, we can say:

 The human act is always free, though it can be more or less free.

 The level of freedom in a human act is directly proportional to the lucidity of the
intelligence and the dominion of the will.

 Freedom implies responsibility: the subject can be asked to “give a response” for his acts.

 The responsibility for a determined action can be in act or in cause of an act.

3. 4. Human Action as Immanent Activity

Reflecting on our behavior, we begin to see that a human act does not end at the object of
its action but “bounces back” on the subject.

“Moral action” is not “the way we behave with objects,” “realizing something outside of
us,” “producing,” but the “realization of that which we can be, the realization of our own
human being.” Acting well makes the agent a good man . . . Through moral action, we
first of all and above all transform that part of the world which we are ourselves.57[57]

We will now focus on the first of the phenomena included in this transformation of the
self (3. 4. 1); then, we will make explicit its extent by clarifying the concept of habitus or stable
disposition as a thing in itself and in the order of moral action (3. 4. 2).

3. 4. 1. Human Acts Modify the Personality of the Acting Subject

Every human act – even certain acts of man that are not fully human – leaves a trace in us
and modifies to a certain degree our tendencies, will, thinking, and even our bodies.58[58]

57[57] Rhonheimer, 43.

58[58] On this subject, see Rivetti Barbò, Philosophy of Man, 188ff.

 If, for example, I eat and drink something that I like, I am inclined to eat and drink it
again. If I always follow through on a series of gestures under the same circumstances (e. g.,
making myself a cup of coffee as soon as I get up in the morning), I take on the habit of these
gestures even to the point that it is difficult for me not to repeat them. Think of what has
happened to many people in regards to the television: as soon as they enter a room, they pop in a
video without even thinking – precisely “by habit.” These people would probably find it difficult
to recognize that at bottom they themselves are the ones wanting to turn on the television. And
when we imagine something or someone that attracts us and give ourselves up to the thought and
desire of that object, this desire and the image that provokes it will come back to us again easily,
influencing our successive decisions.

Why and how does all this happen? Every one of my acts of thinking, sensing (seeing,
hearing, touching . . .), and imagining expresses a certain meaning (an idea, an image, etc.). This
meaning is in me, in my thinking or imagining, in such a way that it can present itself to my
memory and be remembered. And if, with a human act, I will to give myself up to that idea or
that image, then my tendencies toward the meaningful object presented to me are reinforced.

It is clear, then, that my acts “flow back” on the very faculties that set those acts in
motion. There is a kind of retro-activity, a feed-back, that shapes me and causes my faculties to
acquire a stable orientation to act in one way or another.

3. 4. 2. Habitus

These modifications are not only inevitable, they are also indispensable for existence.
Experience teaches us that human activity would not be possible without the adequate training of
different faculties.

The word “training” makes us think immediately of sports. Everybody knows that when
someone begins regular athletic activity, his muscular strength increases, eventually putting him
in a condition to do things he could not do previously.

We can also speak of the training of the senses. If an experienced musician and a non-
musician hear an orchestra play, they will both take in the same sounds, but the first will
perceive the shadings of timbre, along with any embellishments or mistakes, while all of this will
be lost on the other. It’s merely a question of “training”! The same can be said of a painter
regarding colors, etc.

But we can also speak of “training” in regard to our intellectual capacity. Consider what
happens when we study arithmetic or the grammar of a foreign language. At first, we learn
certain rules and try to apply them. Our early efforts require a lot of time, and we often make
mistakes. But then we pick up the rhythm of what we are doing: we can go more quickly, with
greater facility and precision.
 The same can be said of our will. If we are not habituated to sitting in a room and
studying, the first few days of doing so will seem long and unbearable. We will have to make
hard and repeated efforts of will to resist ourselves and not go wandering. With perseverance,
however, we will acquire the capacity of self-domination and, in time, self-control will become
easy – even pleasurable.

To what can we owe this greater facility of action? It is commonly said that it depends on
habit. But what is habit?

On the experiential plane, from the phenomenological (descriptive) point of view, we can
only say that something exists that is beyond singular repeated acts, but comes from them
and prepares other similar successive acts easier to follow with respect to the preceding.
To call this “something” habit is not enough. In our lives, in fact, we notice a vast
typology of what are usually called “habits.” We often experience a certain conflict
between habit and freedom. Consider such statements as: “What do you want? I’m used
to using obscene language. I couldn’t control myself even if I wanted to.” Moreover, we
judge various habits on the basis of their utility and morality. Hence, there are useful
habits and damaging habits, good habits and bad habits.59[59]

On this subject, contemporary psychology prefers to speak of aptitudes rather than

“habits” to designate what we are describing. This is certainly a fortunate choice of words. We
could also call them “stable dispositions” of the subject (or better: of the faculties of the subject,
that is, his senses, intelligence, will . . .) to effect this or that operation. In classical terms, such
an aptitude or stable disposition is called a habitus.

 A habitus is an aptitude or stable disposition of the faculties of the subject toward a

determined type of act.

 A habitus is acquired through the repetition of a determined type of act.

This being the case, it is clear that science, art, technical ability, and so forth, are also
habitus. Scholastic, Latin language designates these habitus with the word virtutes (virtue). We
have preserved a trace of this notion in common parlance when we say, for example, that
Paganini was a “virtuoso” violinist, that is, that he was very good at playing the violin. Still, in
modern language we use the term virtue to refer only to good moral habitus.

It is clear, in fact, that science, art, technical ability, and so forth, are not moral virtues
since in these disciplines habitus perfects only specific faculties of man, finalizing them to a
limited and particular good (right judgement in a branch of science, artistic expression, etc.). In
other words, they render the subject a good scientist or artist. But a good scientist or artist is not
necessarily a good man!

59[59] Mario Pangallo, Habitus e vita morale. Fenomenologia e fondazione ontologica (Naples-
Rome: LER, 1988), 13. Anyone wishing to go deeper into this subject would benefit greatly from
reading Pangallo’s entire book.
 It is also evident that not every habitus “perfects” our personality. If a certain behavior
“damages” our personality, yet we nonetheless have procured for ourselves the stable disposition
to behave in that way, clearly we have acquired a bad habitus, or vice.

In summary, by our actions we construct our own personality, that is, we acquire certain
habitus that “stabilize” us to behave in a certain way. It is clear that if we “habituate” ourselves
to acting freely, responding with the will to a known good, we become ever more free, ever more
capable of knowing the good, and ever more resolved to pursue it. Virtue is an aptitude that
develops the personality in a way worthy of being human. On the contrary, if we “habituate”
ourselves to loose living, to letting ourselves be guided by irrational motives, to not exercising
control over our actions, then we become ever less free, ever less able to recognize the good, and
ever more lethargic in tending toward it. This is what is meant by vice.

4. The Virtues in General

At this point in our journey, Dear Reader, I would like to remind you of the question with which
we began: How should we be to fully realize our human personality? In light of our discussion in
the preceding chapter, I think we can give a first answer to this question: we must be virtuous.

On its own, this affirmation doesn’t get us very far in our inquiry. As a matter of fact, it sounds
almost tautological since we have already defined virtue as a habitus that develops our
personality in a way worthy of a human being.

And yet, if you think about it, we have taken a substantial step forward. We have seen that
human behavior is worthy of man insofar as it responds to the exigencies of reason and is
controlled by the will. Moreover, we have shown that it is precisely because of these elements
that human action can rightly be called “free.”

In light of all this, we have come to see virtue as an attitude or stable disposition of authentically
free behavior, that is, of action that responds to the exigencies of reason through the willful
mastery of one’s own conduct.

In this chapter, then, we will look at this subject in more detail. First of all, we will underline the
importance of virtue in ethical discourse (4. 1). We will then point out the essential elements of
virtue and vice (4. 2) and classify individual virtues (4. 3). Lastly, we will see how the virtues
enter operatively into human action, thus reinforcing freedom and leading to happiness (4. 4).

4. 1. Importance of the Virtues in Ethical Discourse

In the not-too-distant past, there existed a somewhat “juridical” way of presenting

morality which tended to concentrate on singular human acts alone, classifying them as licit or
illicit, good or bad. But, as the great thinkers have always noted, human acts are
incomprehensible in isolation and abstracted from the whole life of the acting subject.
4. 1. 1. Acting Manifests Being

A classical principle affirms that acting manifests being. This can be taken in at least two
ways relative either to the choice of actions to be carried out or to the fulfillment itself of these
actions.

Choice, says Aristotle, is a deliberate desire.60[60] We choose to behave in one way

rather than another because we are disposed to recognize and give precedence to certain values
rather than others. For example, we choose to earn a living working rather than stealing because
we recognize the value of honest earnings and the idea of theft revolts us. When such a
disposition is deeply rooted in us, even if the chance to earn ourselves an illicit living should
come along, we easily recognize such a deed as dishonest and not to be undertaken.

Ethics scholars can sometimes expend rivers of ink demonstrating that a certain kind of
behavior is or is not licit, while a virtuous person can reach the same conclusion at once without
any great study or argument. He does so by means of a certain “connatural” knowledge: being
good himself, he recognizes the good when he sees it.

On the other hand, as we have seen, to choose to behave in a certain way does not yet
mean to perform the actions we have chosen! To accomplish a known good (or resist a known
evil) requires interior strength, determination, and tenacity to help us overcome the inevitable
difficulties and temptations involved.

From what we said in the preceding chapter, it is clear that the repetition of certain acts
reinforces our tendency to behave in a particular way. If we have habituated ourselves to eating
in a disorderly and excessive fashion, and are then forced to follow a strict diet, we will suffer a
great deal and face many difficulties in our efforts to realize our goal. If, on the other hand, we
are used to eating with moderation, mastering our desire for more food, it will not be difficult to
resist the temptations of gluttony. In fact, it will be more difficult for us to overeat and thus
abandon the wise equilibrium we are accustomed to following.

Hence, the best and worst of our dispositions in regard to moral values, as well as the
degree of interior effort we show in tending toward a recognized value, depend on “how we are
inside,” that is, on the habitus, good or bad, that we have acquired.

4. 1. 2. The Discourse on Virtues

Now, as we have seen, the “habitual interior dispositions” that allow for the appearance
of particular acts in the course of our moral life, enabling us to choose the good and follow
through on it, are classically called virtues.

60[60] See Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 6.2.1139a23.

 We will continue to use this word, though we should be mindful of an erroneous idea that
has crept into common language. This is the notion that the “virtuous” person is someone “who
doesn’t” – someone who doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t betray his or her spouse, doesn’t
give in to gluttony, etc. Taken in this sense, virtue means “putting the break” on disordered
passions.

Certainly, virtue entails “not doing” some things – but this is not its principle function.
The Latin term virtus derives from vis which means “strength.” Hence, virtue is first and
foremost the “motor” of the moral life, rather than its “break”!

Furthermore, common opinion tends to think of virtue as a “possession,” that is,

something you have and can use. Virtue, rather, is a “way of being.” It is our most intimate way
of being as far as our morality is concerned.

When we act virtuously, we relive our past and anticipate our future. In fact, we act in a
certain way because we are a certain way. We have become what we are thanks to the actions we
have performed up to this very moment. Moreover, with the action we undertake now, we further
dispose ourselves to become a certain way and to repeat a certain kind of action.

4. 2. Virtues and Vices

In light of what we have said above, we can understand the definition of virtue inspired
by St. Augustine:

 “Virtue is a good spiritual quality, by which we live rightly, and which no one can
put to bad use (virtus est bona qualitas mentis, qua recte vivitur et qua nemo male
utitur).61[61]

We already know that such a “quality” is a habitus. We must now distinguish between good and
bad habitus and then ask ourselves on the basis of what criteria such discernment is possible.

4. 2. 1. Good Habitus and Bad Habitus

Of themselves, man’s natural faculties are indeterminate, that is, they can be directed toward
good or bad behavior. Thus, we can use our intelligence to promote our humanity and the
humanity of others, or drag it down; we can use our will to build up or to destroy; we can allow
our passions to incite us toward the good with enthusiasm and energy, or toward evil . . .

Virtue is a habitus that perfects our operative faculties, orienting them toward the good. It is, so
to speak, a supplementary inclination, almost a “second nature,” that makes these faculties able
to tend habitually toward the good, simplifying its performance. Vice, on the other hand, is a
markedly contrary habitus which orients the faculties toward evil, rendering it more attractive
and easier.

61[61] St. Augustine develops this subject extensively in De libero arbitrio, bk. II, chap. 19.
But – and with this we come to the central point of our inquiry – on the basis of what criteria can
we discern what is good and what is evil? How can we distinguish between virtue and vice?

We have already seen how reason is the criteria of human good. We have also seen how the will,
illumined by this criteria, must exercise dominion over human behavior in order for it to be free
(and, therefore, worthy of man). Hence, virtue’s task is to put reason and will in a position to
govern the passions and the sensitive realm, notwithstanding the conditioning that can be
derived from this.

. . . [S]ince moral virtue is a state of character concerned with choice, and choice is a
deliberate desire, therefore both the reasoning must be true and the desire right, if the
choice is to be good, and the latter must pursue just what the former asserts.62[62]

4. 2. 2. The “Mean”

To say “virtue,” then, is tantamount to saying “governance by the reason.” This already
gives us a first point of reference.

Nevertheless, to govern you need some kind of criteria, a “plan.” According to classical
tradition, the plan for the moral life is found in “the just mean.” To better understand this reality,
let’s go back to the Aristotelian definition of virtue:

 “Virtue, then, is a state of character concerned with choice, lying in a mean, i.e., the
mean relative to us, this being determined by a rational principle, and by that
principle by which the man of practical wisdom would determine it.”63[63]

This definition indicates that bad behavior is such because of excess or defect, for
example, eating too much or too little, while virtue, on the other hand, consists in eating in the
right measure. Similarly, you can be fearful (refusing any kind of risk) or reckless (exposing
oneself to excessive risk), whereas virtue lies in courage – the just mean between fear and
recklessness.

Further, Aristotle emphasizes that the mean is not something abstract since it must be
determined “in relation to us.” What does it mean to eat according to a just measure? If, by
hypothesis, 5000 calories a day are too much and 500 are too little, this doesn’t mean that
everyone should consume 2750 calories daily (that is, the mathematical mean between 500 and

62[62] Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 6.2.1139a22-26. This and subsequent citations are taken
from the translation by W. D. Ross in The Basic Works of Aristotle, ed. Richard McKeon (New
York, NY: The Modern Library, 2001).

63[63] Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 2.6.1106b36-1107a2.

5000). Such a quantity might be too little for an athlete and too much for a sedentary
person.64[64]

Moreover, reliance on “the mean” as the criteria of moral action must not be confused
with that of a mediocre, bourgeois morality that advocates the avoidance of extremes. In some
cases, “a lot” cannot be “too much” (for example, to desire one’s own wife “a lot”), while in
other cases “a little” can be “too much” (for example, to desire someone else’s wife “a little”!).

We should note here that the concept of the mean doesn’t get us very far in our inquiry.
In fact, Aristotelian ethics ends in a kind of vicious circle: the “mean relative to us” is
determined by a rational principle – not just any kind of reasoning. Aristotle tells us that it must
be the reasoning of a “man of practical wisdom.” But wisdom is the virtue of the reason.
Consequently, it’s as if Aristotle were saying, “virtue consists in being guided by virtue” or, in
other words, “the virtuous person is guided by right reason” – and what does “right” mean? It
means . . . “virtuous”!

This inconsistency in Aristotelian ethics was revealed by St. Thomas Aquinas. He closed
the circle by affirming that right reason points out the appropriate means for attaining the end
(i.e., the good life). Moreover, the meaning of “the good life” is not arbitrarily determined by
human reason, but established “by nature.” Reason, then, does not make arbitrary judgements
concerning means, but bases itself on certain indications present in a person’s humanity.65[65]

We will consider the above notions in detail in chapter 9. For the moment, it is enough to
say that, thanks to Aristotle, we have reached an understanding of virtue as equilibrium or
harmony, understood in a rational way. In other words, virtue is a state of harmony, under the
guidance of the reason, which makes for a balanced relationship with the object of our actions.

Vice, on the other hand, is disharmony and a lack of equilibrium because it consists in an
habitual usurpation of the rule of right reason. Consequently, vices are often at odds with
themselves (for example, avarice vs. prodigality, or recklessness vs. cowardice), while the
virtues, directed by reason and finalized to the good of the person as such, are always in accord
with each other.

Thus, the harmony produced by virtue constitutes the “good life,” that is, the realization
of the human person.

64[64] Cf. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 2.6.1106a14-1106b5.

65[65] See St. Thomas Aquinas, In Ethicorum, bk. VI, 1. 2.

4. 3. Classification of the Virtues

We should now take a closer look at the different virtues.

We have said that the essence of ethical virtue consists in the dominion of reason over the
inferior faculties. Does this mean, perhaps, that it is enough to have a strong, well-trained
intellect in order to possess the moral virtues? Certainly not. It’s not enough to know the good to
carry it out. Knowledge is a necessary condition, but in itself it is not sufficient.

To clarify this point, we will first separate the intellectual virtues from the moral virtues
(4. 3. 1); then, we will concentrate on the most important moral virtues: the “cardinal” virtues (4.
3. 2); finally, we will see how these virtues are intrinsically connected among themselves, and
how they find their full coordination in love (4. 3. 3).

4. 3. 1. Intellectual Virtues and Moral Virtues

Let’s begin by recalling Ovid’s words: “I see the right way and approve it, but follow the
wrong.” As you will remember, we used this quote to point out that it is not enough to know the
good – we must also want it (3. 1. 4). This means that there can be a conflict between the reason
and the will. To understand how this is possible, let us take a somewhat distant example.

When the mind orders bodily movement, the muscles obey without offering any
resistance other than that of their physical limitations. Aristotle says that the mind governs the
body “with despotic power,” that is, as a tyrant who commands subjects who do not have the
power to contradict his orders, only to follow them.

Some philosophers, Socrates among them, held that the reason can exercise this despotic
rule over all the operative faculties of man, that is, the will and the “sensitive appetites” (i. e.,
sensual desires). From this perspective, if a man’s reason were perfect, his behavior would
necessarily be good. As is well known, Socrates believed that a man in possession of knowledge
cannot sin. Anyone who sins does so out of ignorance. A conclusion of this way of thinking is
that there exist only intellectual virtues.

This affirmation presupposes an insufficient anthropology since, in reality, our desires do

not promptly and blindly obey the reason the way the body obeys the mind. As Aristotle says,
the power of the reason over the desires is of a “political” and not a “despotic” kind. The
situation is similar to that of a governor who rules over free citizens who can contradict his
measures. The governor must persuade and educate the citizens to follow his directives.66[66] In
other words, the intellectual virtues are not sufficient. We also need moral virtues, that is, the
good dispositions of our desiring faculties.67[67]

66[66] Aristotle, Politics, 2.1.

67[67] Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I-II, q. 58, a. 2, c.

 The intellectual “virtues” are not in themselves moral virtues but simply habitus of the
reason by which it tends correctly to its own object, that is, the truth. “Intellectual habits can be
called virtues not in as much as they themselves bring about the good, because that is properly of
the will, but in as much as they procure the capacity to realize the good.”68[68]

All of this is evident in St. Thomas’s classification of the intellectual virtues. First of all,
St. Thomas distinguishes the virtues of the speculative intellect from those of the practical
intellect: the former are oriented to the contemplation of truth, the latter to the knowledge of the
principles suitable for guiding action. It is clear that the virtues of the speculative intellect
(intelligence, knowledge, and speculative wisdom), not being oriented to action, are not moral
virtues. As for the virtues of the practical intellect, St. Thomas distinguishes between art (or
technique) and practical wisdom. Clearly, art is not a moral virtue since it can be abused. As we
have noted (1. 4. 3), art and technology can either promote or degrade human dignity. But
practical wisdom (as we will soon see) is a moral virtue since “it occupies itself not so much with
the conformity of the intellect with things known (that is, with truth), as with conformity to right
desire.”69[69]

In conclusion, we can say that the criteria for distinguishing moral virtues derives from
this aspect of “willing rightly,” that is, as habitual dispositions to choose and pursue what is
worthy of man.

4. 3. 2. The Cardinal Virtues

Classical philosophical tradition has specified certain moral virtues as the “cardinal”
virtues (from the Latin word cardo, cardinis = hinge) because all our actions turn upon them like
a door on its hinges. In fact, our actions are more or less good in so far as they are governed by
these virtues. There are four such cardinal virtues: wisdom, justice, fortitude (or courage), and
temperance. We can also speak of “annexed” virtues which constitute a kind of offshoot or
articulation of the virtuous life. In the following chapters, we will examine these virtues in detail.
Here, we will take a first look at them, beginning with the reason for this subdivision in relation
to the human faculties that render action possible.

68[68] Battista Mondin, “Virtù,” in Dizionario enciclopedico del pensiero di san Tommaso
d’Aquino (Bologna, Italy: Edizioni Studio Domenicano, 1991), 654, with reference to St.
Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, I-II, q. 57, a. 1.

69[69] Mondin, 655; cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I-II, q. 58, a. 5.
4. 3. 2. 1. Reason, Will, and the Irascible and Concupiscible Appetites

The reason for the four-part division of the cardinal virtues becomes clear if we consider
the faculties that render us capable of moral action. On the one hand, we have reason and will
which express our specifically human potential; on the other hand, we have a passionate
component called the “sensibility” or the “sensitive appetite.”

But the sensitive appetite, in its turn, includes two, distinct appetitive powers: the
concupiscible appetite which directs us to pursue what is suitable to our senses and to flee that
which appears harmful, and the irascible appetite which moves us to resist whatever may inflict
harm on us or hinder or deprive us of the things we find pleasant.70[70] These powers cannot be
reduced to one principle in as much as they can sometimes oppose each other. For example, we
can compel ourselves to accept suffering (contrary to the inclination of the concupiscible
appetite) in order to triumph over something hindering us (in accord with the irascible appetite).
Also, we can observe that on some occasions when the powers of concupiscence are aroused,
wrath (the typical passion of the irascible appetite) diminishes and, vice versa, when wrath is
aroused, concupiscible desire diminishes.

The irascible appetite is usually defined as a tendency toward goods which are difficult
to obtain, thus requiring of us both struggle and commitment. The concupiscible appetite, on the
other hand, is defined as a tendency toward goods that are easily attainable.

We have, therefore, four faculties that make action possible: reason, will, irascible
appetite and concupiscible appetite.

Now, virtuous action lies in the harmonic inclination to the good of all these four
faculties under the guidance of reason. In common experience, however, the passions of the
sensitive appetite tend to follow their own impulses to the detriment of the governance of reason
and will. The will, for its part, always tends to what is (or, at least, what the reason presents as)
good for the subject and can have notable difficulty in promoting the good of others. Passion,
moreover, can overcome reason and will, distracting or even opposing the higher faculties,
swaying and disturbing the organism to such a point that a person can “lose his head.”

Thus, each of these faculties must be regulated by a special virtue. All these virtues,
working together, lead us to the good life.

4. 3. 2. 2. Practical Wisdom

Reason must be firmly oriented toward the true good. It must also have the capacity – the
aptitude – for choosing the appropriate and concretely available means for achieving its end in

70[70] Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I, q. 81, a. 2.

any given situation. This capacity or aptitude is called “practical wisdom.” Practical wisdom
ensures that man acts rightly in the choice of those means that serve the end.71[71]

Virtues are virtues because they are guided by wisdom and oriented by it to concrete acts.
For example, paying back a loan is a just act (hence, virtuous) in as much as wisdom (the right
orientation of the reason) tells me that I must perform this act, here and now, to realize a just end.
Indeed, the acts of all the virtues can be labeled “virtuous” only if and in so far as they are
directed by wisdom. For this reason, practical wisdom has been defined as the forma virtutum
(the form of the virtues).

If we recall what we said in chapter three (3.1.2) concerning the phenomenology of

voluntary action, it will be clear that practical wisdom consists in right deliberation, in the right
practical judgement concerning the most suitable means available, and in the command to act.
Deliberation prepares judgement, and judgement leads to action. Whoever judges rightly but
does not act is not really wise. The wise person is the one who puts what is appropriate and right
into effect.

4. 3. 2. 3. Justice

The will is spontaneously oriented to a good that is known. By nature, it possesses an

habitual orientation toward a person’s own good. This is not a problem as long as the pursuit of
one’s own good does not conflict with the good of others. The fact is that the will’s spontaneous
direction entails the preference of one’s own good to that of another. And yet, a more profound
analysis reveals that it is not worthy of man (= it is not good) to prefer one’s own good if in so
doing an evil (= the privation of a good) may result for another person. St. Thomas speaks of a
“natural instinct” that leads us toward others and urges us to support each other.72[72] But it is
above all the reason that enables us to recognize the good of others as something to do and to
realize as much as our own good (“Do unto others what you would have done to yourself”;
“Love your neighbor as yourself”). While the will does not need a special habitus to tend toward
ones own good, it does need one to tend toward “the good of the other.” The virtue that renders
the will firm, constant, and joyful in giving “to each his own,” that is, the good that is due to each
person, is called justice.

If practical wisdom is the virtue par excellence, one can say that injustice is the vice par
excellence, the perversion of the will itself. And since the will is always interacting with the
reason, and can condition it profoundly, “then the unjust man is not only one who habitually
inclines to committing unjust actions, but also to considering good that which is unjust . . . True
wickedness is injustice.”73[73]

71[71] Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa contra Gentiles, III, c. 35. On this point and what
follows, I invite you to see Rhonheimer, 183-221.

72[72] See St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa contra Gentiles, III, c. 117.

73[73] Rhonheimer, 213.

4. 3. 2. 4. Fortitude or Courage

The irascible appetite, for its part, tends toward a particular good with two types of
actions. On the one hand, it faces up to the work to be done, “putting the hand to the plow,” so to
speak. On the other hand, it steels itself to the hard work and difficulties that arise in the
realization of the good. The task of fortitude or courage consists in perfecting these actions. It is
manifest in the habitual readiness to avoid both fear of effort and cowardice, as well as the
recklessness that exposes an individual to unnecessary or disproportionate dangers. Patience and
perseverance are two essential dimensions of this virtue.

“The strong person is characterized by serenity. He is capable of giving support and

assurance to other people. He can control his imagination, which sometimes induces fear, and
maintain himself calm and above trifles so as not to be distracted from the essential. He does not
act to win eulogies and praise, but because he wants what is truly good.”74[74] Fortitude
protects a person from despair and keeps him open to hope; it distances him from anger and
leads him toward meekness.

Without the virtue of fortitude, a person cannot become wise, just, and temperate. In fact,
if a wise person is someone who effectively does the good, anyone who is fearful and impatient
cannot be wise. Moreover, it should be noted that not every form of courage or perseverance is
virtuous. A person who has no fear of danger while committing injustices might be a “hero” in
the eyes of many, but he is not a good person. True fortitude will always be found in the
company of courage and justice.

4. 3. 2. 5. Temperance

The concupiscible appetite needs to be disciplined in such a way that it submits to the
measure of reason and does not take the upper hand over the will. This is the task of temperance.
The concupiscible appetite directs itself to that which, according to the estimation of the senses,
appears pleasurable. Temperance consists in the stable disposition to maintain the order of desire
in the entirety of man’s personal unity, both corporal and spiritual. If this equilibrium is
conserved, the passions are not repressed, but ordered. Thus, the enjoyment of pleasure has its
place in a truly satisfying life.

On the contrary, intemperance destroys pleasure itself. The fact is that human reason is
characterized by a desire for the infinite. In letting ourselves be dragged down by sensuality, we
seek the infinite where it cannot be found: in the experience of sensible pleasure, which by its
very nature is always limited. We go from one desire to another, from one pleasure to another, in
an endless spiral where desire increases while pleasure constantly diminishes. We seek out ever
more “intense” experiences, even perverse experiences, at the same time deriving less and less
enjoyment from them. The inevitable outcome of this process is an abyss of despair.

74[74] Ibid., 214.

 Aristotle defined temperance as the “custodian of wisdom”75[75] because sensibility, left
to itself, can corrupt reason, dragging it into the vortex of the passions. “Whoever is truly,
viciously intemperate will finally be convinced that it is good in principle to follow the purely
sensible appearance of the good even at the level of principles. Thus, he also becomes
unjust.”76[76] And clearly, the intemperate person, being habitually oriented toward easy
pleasure, will be incapable of courage and fortitude.

4. 3. 2. 6. “Annexed” Virtues

The cardinal virtues are the principle virtues to which all the other moral virtues can be
traced back. However, the expression “to trace back” can be understood in three ways77[77]:

a) Some virtues are subjective parts of a cardinal virtue, that is, they constitute different
aspects of that virtue. For example, practical wisdom is the virtue of good governance,
but clearly it is one thing to govern oneself, another to govern one’s family, and still
another to govern a people. We can say, therefore, that self-governance, the good
administration of a home, and political prudence are subjective parts of the cardinal virtue
of wisdom. The same thing can be said of sobriety (which concerns the use of alcoholic
beverages) and chastity (which concerns the enjoyment of sexual pleasure) in that they
are both subjective parts of temperance, and so forth.

b) Some virtues are integral parts of a cardinal virtue in as much as they constitute
elements of its essential structure to such a degree that, if lacking, the virtue itself would
not exist. For example, docility (the capacity to learn and the humility to accept the
judgements of those who have more experience than we do) and diligence (the capacity
to welcome with promptness the good to be realized) are intrinsic dimensions of wisdom.
A man who is lazy or lacking in docility will never be wise! In the same way,
magnanimity, patience, and perseverance are integral parts of fortitude, and so forth.

c) Finally, some virtues are potential parts of a cardinal virtue, that is, they are ordered to
certain behaviors which have some connection with that virtue, though they do not
entirely realize its essence. For example, the capacity of giving good advice (called
“eubulia”) is strictly linked with practical wisdom, even though it is not necessary that a
wise man be a good counselor. Also, “piety” as a virtuous attitude toward parents is a
potential part of justice in as much as it concerns, so to speak, reciprocation to those who
have given us life . . . But clearly our relationship with our father and mother cannot be
reduced simply to “give and take.” While having something to do with justice, this
relationship at the same time greatly surpasses it.

75[75] See Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 6.5.

76[76] Rhonheimer, 215.

77[77] Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 48, a. 1, c.

4. 3. 3. The Connection between the Virtues and Love

From what we have said, it is clear that a connection exists between the virtues. In fact, it
is not possible to cultivate one of the virtues without cultivating the others; it is not possible to
neglect one of the virtues without neglecting the others. For this reason, the singular word
“virtue” is used very often in ethical discourse to indicate the entire spectrum of virtuous
dispositions and practices.

But maybe we can give a name to this single “virtue” which embraces every virtue. St.
Augustine teaches that what orders the virtues – the very principle and substance of their
connection – is love. We can say, then, that the virtues themselves are nothing other than the
order of love.78[78]

Virtue, as an ordered love of self and neighbor, makes us worthy and able “to live in
harmony with others and with God, knowing how to be in their presence, communicate with
them, and receive from them those experiential and substantial goods which, beyond being
appreciated and desirable in themselves, are even more so when they are gifts of true love
between persons and on the part of God, and when they are understood, appreciated, and desired
as such.”79[79]

4. 4. Virtue, Freedom, and Happiness

We never see virtues in their pure state. No one walking along the road has ever met Mrs.
Wisdom or Mr. Courage. It happens, however, that some people’s actions can make wisdom and
courage visible. When we realize that these actions are performed with habitual readiness, with a
certain facility – notwithstanding the difficulty they involve – and with joy, we know that we
have found a virtuous person. This experience provides us with a direct route to knowing virtue:
proceeding from virtuous behavior to recover the fundamental attitude from which it springs.

As we have said, virtuous habitus are the result of choices and actions that leave a mark
on the subject. They orient a person’s faculties to function in a certain way; hence, they
constitute that person’s “moral character,” assuring the prompt, safe, joyful, and regular
execution of good acts. In this wider view of virtue, a single act is no longer just a “one shot
deal.” Rather, it is inserted into the whole of a subject’s moral life as the fruit of his past and seed
of his future. The virtues as stable dispositions permit human behavior to remain one and
continuous through the incessant variations of a diversity of choices in concrete
circumstances.80[80]

78[78] See St. Augustine, De moribus ecclesiae catholicae et de moribus manicheorum, I, 15.

79[79] Abbà, Felicità, vita buona e virtù, 66.

80[80] On this point and the following, see Abbà, Felicità, vita buona e virtù, 174-181.
 We can see, then, the difference between habitus and habit: a habit is the tendency to
repeat certain actions in an almost “automatic” way. Anyone acting “by habit” does not stop to
consider the reasons for his behavior. Habit leads directly to thoughtless acts, thereby making
those acts less free.

A virtuous habitus, on the contrary, strengthens the subject’s awareness, his capacity for
choice, and his comprehension of the reasons for his choice. First of all, it orients the intentions
toward good and responsible ends (to act wisely, to realize justice, to behave oneself in a strong
and courageous way, to be temperate, etc.). Then, it enables us to specify the acts that will realize
these ends in concrete circumstances and to choose them for exactly this purpose. The result is a
good and virtuous life.

The stability realized by virtue, then, far from diminishing freedom (and responsibility),
augments it.81[81] On the other hand, true freedom does not consist in “doing whatever you
want” but in tending unrestrictedly toward the true good. From this perspective, it is clear that
virtue, as a disposition for the good, constitutes a reinforcement of freedom, while vice
constitutes a true and proper slavery.82[82]

Man is free when he knows the end for which he acts and directs himself fully toward its
realization. Man is fully free when he knows the ultimate end of all his actions, of his whole life,
and when all his faculties are mobilized in readiness to act in view of that end: “To live a truly
good life does not require only the exercise of reason and free will, but also the exercise of
educated passions. A truly good life is that of a subject who not only knows how to choose
rightly, but participates emotionally in good conduct, who is passionate about moral good and

81[81] St. Thomas Aquinas affirms: “. . . [T]he habit that resides in the soul, does not, of necessity, produce its
operations, but is used by man when he wills. Consequently man, while possessing a habit, may either fail to use
the habit, or produce a contrary act . . .” Summa theologiae, I-II, q. 71, a. 4. A virtuous person, then, cannot
presume to being “impeccable” even if he is firmly oriented to the good, and even if it is easier for him to do good
than evil. He must always be vigilant and attentive. Such vigilance is a dimension of wisdom itself! (Note: This and
subsequent citations from the Summa theologiae in English are from the 1947 Benzinger Brothers edition available
online at [Link]/a/aquinas/summa/[Link]).

82[82] A person habituated to vice is really less free in as much as vice is an inclination against
reason, a weak attitude of the will. Nevertheless, such a person is not totally irrecoverable as
long as a glimmer of reason remains in him. “There is a difference between a sin committed by
one who has the habit, and a sin committed by habit: for it is not necessary to use a habit, since it
is subject to the will of the person who has that habit. Hence habit is defined as being something
we use when we will . . . And thus, even as it may happen that one who has a vicious habit may
break forth into a virtuous act, because a bad habit does not corrupt reason altogether, something
of which remains unimpaired, the result being that a sinner does some works which are
generically good; so too it may happen sometimes that one who has a vicious habit, acts, not
from that habit, but through the uprising of a passion, or again through ignorance.” St. Thomas
Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I-II, q. 78, a. 2.
evil, desiring or refusing it passionately, for he feels love or hatred, pleasure or sadness, hope or
fear, etc.”83[83]

We can understand, then, the link between happiness and the good life. The virtuous man
is happy because, realizing the good in his life, he obtains exactly what he wants, what he desires
in the depths of his being – what he really loves.

5. Wisdom

We have said that practical wisdom is a habitus that firmly orients the reason toward the
true good, conferring on it an aptitude to choose the suitable and concretely available means for
reaching the end in a given situation. After some terminological clarification (5. 1), we will
examine the reasons for the primacy of wisdom in the order of the cardinal virtues (5. 2), its
operations (5. 3), and, finally, its presuppositions and opposing vices (5. 4).84[84]

5. 1. Terminology

We are using the term “practical wisdom” for that virtue which Aristotle called
phrónesis, and Latin tradition has denominated prudentia, a term often translated simply as
“prudence.”85[85] I prefer to speak of “practical wisdom” because the meaning of the word
“prudence” has unfortunately suffered many alterations. In everyday language, prudence has
come to be synonymous with caution, circumspection – the propensity to avoid risks . . . The
expression “excessive prudence” is a clear indication of the misunderstanding of which I speak.
From the perspective of an ethics of virtue, such an expression has no meaning whatsoever. True
prudence cannot be “excessive” – if it is excessive, it is not “prudence”! Virtue, as we have said
above (4. 2. 2), is the aptitude for choosing the “just mean,” which is, by definition, contrary to
every excess.

Even a great philosopher like Immanuel Kant (1724-1804) fell prey to serious
equivocation concerning prudence. He defined it as “the maxim of self-love” and confused it
with that ability or dexterity of the reason (which all of us more or less possess by nature) to find
ways of reaching the ends we desire.86[86] From this perspective, we could call “prudent” the
behavior of a very clever thief who pulls off a job without getting caught. But this use of the

83[83] Abbà, Felicità, vita buona e virtù, 176-177.

84[84] My treatment of these themes is inspired by (among others) Josef Pieper’s The Four
Cardinal Virtues (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1966), keeping ever in mind
Book VI of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics.

85[85] In English, we must add the adjective “practical” since the substantive “wisdom”
translates two different Greek terms: sophia, corresponding to the Latin sapientia, which we can
qualify as “theoretical wisdom,” and phrónesis.

86[86] Immanuel Kant, Critique of Practical Reason, P. I, L. I, c. I, § 8, note II.

word is clearly absurd. The thief’s natural ability or dexterity of mind is not prudence because it
is not a virtue, that is, it does not make the acting subject a good person. What I mean to say is,
although such ability can improve a person’s performance in a particular area (i.e., as a good
musician, a worthy builder, an excellent . . . thief!), it does not improve him as a man.

For this reason, I prefer to use the term “practical wisdom” to indicate the true virtue of
prudence as that which makes us capable of choosing the means adapted to the attainment of
those ends by which we realize our personality in a way worthy of our humanity. To put it more
simply, practical wisdom is the virtue that guides our choices, orienting them toward the full
realization of a meaningful life.

5. 2. Primacy of Wisdom

There is an end that gives meaning to all the other ends of our life – an “essential” good
for which all other goods are sought. This end, this essential good, is nothing other than to live
humanly or, to put it another way, to be truly human.

Reflecting on this statement, we may notice that it implies reason twice: at the level of
being and at the level of knowing. Reason is implied at the level of being because it constitutes
the specific characteristic of the animal-man; hence, we can say that human good consists in
living according to reason. Further, at the level of knowing, reason allows us access to truth in
general and the truth of the human being in particular.

What, then, is the behavior that is good and worthy of man?

The good of man as man is: that reason be perfect in the knowledge of the truth, and the
inferior desires be regulated according to the rule of reason; in fact, the essential
characteristic in force of which man is man, consists precisely in his being rational.87[87]

This phrase basically says two things: first of all, for the good of man, human reason
must perfect itself in the knowledge of truth; second, reason thus perfected must be the rule of
the lower desires. Let’s examine these two ideas in order:

1. Reason must perfect itself in the knowledge of the truth. Why? Because this is precisely
the essence of reason! Reason is the specifically human regard on reality; it is an
openness to reality. And truth reveals reality. The necessary premise of every morally
good action is the truth. How can someone be “just,” for example, if he rejects the truth?
It is only in virtue of a true right that we can render true justice (that is to say, “justice”
tout court, because untrue justice – or false justice – is simply “injustice”). Reason is

87[87] St. Thomas Aquinas, Quaestio disputata de virtutibus in communi, a. 9, c.

 measured by reality: the “wise” person is the one who conforms his mind to objective
reality.88[88]

2. Reason, improved by the knowledge of the truth, must become the form and intimate
rule of the desires. Consequently, practical wisdom – the virtue of the practical reason –
is the first cause thanks to which the other virtues are truly virtues. In other words, the
acts of all the virtues can be called “virtuous” only if and in as much as they are directed
by wisdom. For this reason, as we noted before, practical wisdom is called “the form of
the virtues” (forma virtutum). Virtue in general, as well as every single virtue, is a
perfection of man as a rational being. Justice, fortitude (or courage), and temperance
reach such perfection (that is, they are properly virtues) only when they are founded on
wisdom.

For example, the sensitive appetite for food and the tendency to eat in sufficient quantity
and not to excess is undoubtedly a spontaneous inclination toward the good that is present even
in irrational animals. This tendency, however, is elevated to a spiritual dimension when it enters
into the dynamic of human acts by way of man’s rational decision. Thus, we can speak of “the
virtue of temperance” only when wisdom embraces the instinctively just and impulsive
predisposition of the sensitive appetite in order to complete it in a specifically human – that is,
rational – way.

The analogy between moral act and artistic creation is instructive in this regard.89[89] At
the beginning of a work of art, an artist elaborates on an idea in his mind. It is precisely this idea
that gives to the work its “form.” The form that exists in the creative mind of the artist is the
model and the archetype of the work to be made. Hence, we can say that the work is true and
real when it accords with the prototype image that is in the mind of the artist. Similarly, the
command of wisdom is the idea in virtue of which the moral act is what it is. The command of
wisdom is the model and the archetype of every morally good action. An action becomes just,
courageous, or temperate only in view of the fundamental resolve of wisdom.

Wisdom gives form to the other virtues by conferring on them that “measure” (Aristotle’s
“mean relative to us”) without which virtue is unthinkable. It is understandable, then, why
classical tradition has said: Prudentia auriga virtutum, meaning that the virtues are such because
they are guided by wisdom, receiving from wisdom their orientation to the concrete act.

88[88] At this point, I think we should give an ear to those professional philosophers who make a
display of their skepticism asking, “Who in the world can claim that he knows the truth?” or
“How can one presume to speak of objective reality?” In turn, I would like to ask these people,
“Would you want to be judged by a jury that has no interest at all in the objective reality of facts?
And what would you say if you found in your pay envelope, instead of your usual salary, a note
from the administration citing Schopenhauer to the effect that the world is nothing but will and
representation?”

89[89] Cf. Pieper, 29-30.

5. 3. The Operations of Wisdom

Wisdom is primary because you have to know reality before you can do what is good. As
we said above, practical wisdom is essentially an intellectual virtue. But its object – choice –
touches directly on the moral virtues. In short, we can say that practical wisdom’s task is that of
“finding the just mean in the moral virtues.”90[90]

We have said that it is not possible to want something (an object, an activity, a
relationship, etc.) if we don’t know it first. We can want this “something” as an end in itself or as
a means.91[91] When something attracts us, presenting itself to our reason as an end in itself,
desirable for itself, wisdom enters into play concerning the means necessary to obtain it
(deliberation), as well as the most suitable means presently available (practical judgement
concerning means). Practical wisdom’s principal act, then, is commanding the effective use of
these means.92[92] Hence, deliberation prepares judgement, and judgement leads to action. As
we have said, whoever judges rightly but then does not act is not really wise. The truly wise
person is the one who puts what is right and appropriate into effect. Consequently, it is practical
wisdom’s final act that is decisive, that is, the command to act. Wisdom reveals herself in the
command of the practical reason that tells us, “This is good. This must be done here and now.”

Wisdom shows us the means that we should desire and use. And what about the end?
Certainly, some ends are merely means ordered to greater ends (for example, graduation is an
end for a student, but also a means to the further end of getting a job). Since, however, we can’t
go on to infinity with ends and means, there must inevitably be some ends that are desirable in
themselves: “virtuous” goods, as we noted above.93[93] This concerns the ends of virtue: just,
courageous, and temperate behavior. These exist before wisdom itself and are recognized
habitually thanks to the intelligence:

The end belongs to the moral virtues not because they establish it, but because they tend
to the end pre-established by the natural reason. In this they are helped by [practical]
wisdom that prepares their way, disposing the opportune means. Therefore, wisdom is

90[90] See St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 47, a. 7.

91[91] At this point, Dear Reader, you would do well to have in front of you the phenomenology
of voluntary action that we outlined above in chapter 3, section 3. 1. 2.

92[92] In the table presented in chapter 3, section 3. 1. 2, the acts mentioned correspond
respectively to numbers 5, 7, and 9.

93[93] See above, chapter 2, section 2. 2. 4. 3.

 more noble than the moral virtues and puts them in motion. But the practical intellect puts
wisdom in motion.94[94]

The “material” on which wisdom works is precisely the indication of the “mean” which
comprises virtue, as well as the use of the “opportune means” for its fulfillment. Therefore –
paradoxically – wisdom does not have its “own” matter, but is applied to the matter of the other
moral virtues that are regulated and measured by it.95[95]

5. 4. Wisdom’s Presuppositions and Their Opposites

Wisdom has, thus, an essentially cognitive yet immediately practical dimension in regard
to the concrete realization of a possible good.96[96] In order to exercise properly these two
dimensions, wisdom requires certain dispositions which we can better understand if we contrast
them with their opposing vices.

5. 4. 1. Wisdom as a Cognitive Virtue

To properly understand a situation and identify the concrete means available for reaching
the virtuous ends it entails, there must be reflection, silence, a patient questioning of the reality
involved, and an acceptance of the effort required. The contrary disposition would be that of
recklessness, that is, the thoughtless attitude of someone who rushes headlong into action,
exposing himself to every kind of disorder and failure.

But take note! Another contrary disposition is possible: irresoluteness, a very neglected
form of imprudence that consists in prolonging indefinitely the estimation of problems and
putting off their solutions, resulting in overdue and, consequently, fruitless decisions. The speedy
evaluation of a situation and its requirements is, in fact, an eminent form of wisdom called in
Latin solertia. This activity implies a capacity for “clear headedness” in front of unforeseen
events that can happen without warning. In such instances, the fool flees or falls into paralysis, or
closes his eyes and decides for the first thing that comes into his mind without any consideration.
On the contrary, the diligent, wise person maintains objectivity, knowing how to decide quickly
for a concretely realizable good.

The objective knowledge of concrete, workable reality must become the norm of action;
the truth of things must become the criteria for orienting our lives. For this reason, we need what
is commonly called experience. Aristotle says:

94[94] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 47, a. 6, ad 3m. Aristotle affirms: “. . .
virtue makes us aim at the right mark, and practical wisdom makes us take the right means.”
Nicomachean Ethics, 6.12.1144a7-9.

95[95] Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I-II, q. 64, a. 2; II-II, q. 47, a. 7.

96[96] Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 48, a. 1, c.

 Nor is practical wisdom concerned with universals only – it must also recognize the
particulars; for it is practical, and practice is concerned with particulars. This is why some
who do not know, and especially those who have experience, are more practical than
others who know . . .97[97]

A science that has only universals for objects (mathematics, for example) can be
practiced brilliantly by the young if they possess mental agility and intelligence. But when a
knowledge of particulars is required, the young will inevitably be found lacking. Wisdom
requires a knowledge that is accumulated over time. Hence, it is an eminently “senior” virtue.

On the other hand, the simple passage of time is not enough to transform an imprudent
person into a wise person. “Expertise” consists in conserving the memory of past experiences,
authentically storing them up in their truth. This is not an easy thing to do since memory can be
altered: We may have some unrevealed interest in deforming our memory of the facts; we may
be victims of an uncontrollable mechanism that brings about “slight retouches, displacements,
discolorations, omissions, shifts of accent.”98[98] Vigilance over the truth of one’s own
memories is an indispensable premise to becoming wise. As a corollary, the habitual practice of
the examination of conscience is a very valuable means of ensuring such fidelity.

The great number of situations we must face, and the almost infinite diversity of
particulars we must take into account before acting, mean that no one can presume to be self-
sufficient in acquiring wisdom:

Hence in matters of prudence [practical wisdom] man stands in very great need of being
taught by others, especially by old folk who have acquired a sane understanding of the
ends in practical matters. Wherefore the Philosopher says: “It is right to pay no less
attention to the undemonstrated assertions and opinions of such persons as are
experienced, older than we are, and prudent, than to their demonstrations, for their
experience gives them an insight into principles.99[99]

Therefore, whoever wishes to become wise must begin by showing some proof of . . .
being wise! This is to say that a person must let himself be taught. He must renounce self-conceit
(the presumption of already knowing everything) and cultivate the virtue of docility – an integral
part of the very wisdom he is seeking.

97[97] Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 6.7.1141b14-18.

98[98] Pieper, 15.

99[99] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 49, a. 3, c., citing Aristotle,
Nicomachean Ethics, 6.11.1143b11-13.
5. 4. 2. Wisdom as a Commanding Virtue

The cognitive dimension of practical wisdom regards the past and the present as already
being real. This virtue’s imperative dimension, however, looks to the future, that is, to the “not-
yet-existing” from the point of view of “having-to-be-realized.”

From this perspective, wisdom consists essentially in farsightedness. The far-sighted

person is one who pre-sees future necessities and provides in the present what he will need to
obtain pre-determined ends. Farsightedness is undoubtedly the principle aspect of practical
wisdom since all the dimensions enumerated above (reflection, diligence, memory, docility, etc.)
are necessary to reach this goal: pre-disposing means ordered to ends:

For it is the chief part of prudence, to which two other parts are directed – namely,
remembrance of the past, and understanding of the present; inasmuch as from the
remembrance of what is past and the understanding of what is present, we gather how to
provide for the future. Now it belongs to prudence, according to the Philosopher, to direct
other things towards an end whether in regard to oneself – as for instance, a man is said
to be prudent, who orders well his acts towards the end of life – or in regard to others
subject to him, in a family, city or kingdom; in which sense it is said, “a faithful and wise
servant, whom his lord hath appointed over his family.”100[100]

We must remember, however, that from a moral perspective “the means” are always
actions. The farsighted person is capable of predisposing suitable actions for the attainment of
specific ends.

It is precisely here that farsightedness shows its dramatic side since it regards concrete,
contingent, future objects around which we can never have absolute certainty such that we can
avoid every worry.101[101] In these matters, to expect a kind of mathematical certainty – clear
and distinct ideas – is the sign of foolishness and leads to indecisiveness. The wise man “does
not expect certainty where it cannot exist, nor on the other hand does he deceive himself by false
certainties.”102[102]

The type of certitude required by practical wisdom is moral certainty. In some cases, this
certainty can be total (as happens primarily in cases where we know what we should not do: kill,
steal, etc.). In other cases (more numerous), we must be content with only relative probability.
Even in these cases, however, the sage acts in a secure and decisive way, drawing confirmations

100[100] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I, q. 22, a. 1, c., citing Aristotle, Nicomachean
Ethics, VI, chapters 5 and 12, and Mt 24:45. See also St. Thomas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 49,
a. 6, ad 1m, wherein St. Thomas maintains that the word prudentia itself derives from
providence.

101[101] See St. Thomas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 47, a. 9, ad 2m.

102[102] Pieper, 18.

from his life experience, personal vigilance, and awareness of the uprightness of his own inquiry
into the true good.

Im-prudence and in-decision are defects that oppose the virtue of wisdom. Moreover, this
virtue is also opposed to excesses, that is, to dispositions bearing an apparent similarity to
wisdom, but only as a caricature resembles the original by greatly distorting its substance. St.
Thomas gives us an interesting description of this false wisdom at work:

Even so a sin may be against prudence, through having some resemblance thereto, in two
ways. First, when the purpose of the reason is directed to an end which is good not in
truth but in appearance, and this pertains to prudence of the flesh; secondly, when in
order to obtain a certain end, whether good or evil, a man uses means that are not true but
fictitious and counterfeit, and this belongs to the sin of craftiness.103[103]

Hence, there can be a pseudo-wisdom that consists in cleverly seeking means for the
attainment of dishonest ends. The means themselves could even be good; nevertheless, the action
as a whole will be evil. There also exists a pseudo-wisdom that pretends to be obtaining a good
end, but with bad means. In this case also, the action is necessarily bad. Not only the ends of an
action, but also the means of its realization must conform to the truth of the subject and the
actual situation.

It is interesting to note how, according to St. Thomas, faults “by defect” against wisdom
are the fruit of the uncontrolled desire for sensible goods which dulls our rational capacities. This
is particularly true of lust; hence, chastity is necessary in the cultivation of wisdom.104[104]
Moreover, the defects of the young are opposed to the excesses of “prudence” typical of older
people. These excesses arise primarily from avarice, from that surplus of farsightedness that
tends to the anxious conservation of ones goods.105[105] Therefore, wisdom requires the
experience, memory, and chastity of the older person, as well as “a youthful spirit of brave trust
and, as it were, a reckless tossing away of anxious self-preservation . . .”106[106] Wisdom,
then, requires the virtue of courage.

6. Justice

As for wisdom in the preceding chapter, we will start our consideration of justice with a
premise of a conceptual kind and then go into detail on the principle parts of this virtue.

103[103] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 55, a. 3, c.

104[104] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 53, a. 6.

105[105] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 55, a. 8.

106[106] Pieper, 21.

6. 1. The Concept of Justice

Few words generate so strong a positive feeling as the word “justice.” This should not
make us forget, however, that justice is not a univocal, but an analogical concept.

The root of the word “justice” embraces notions of “fairness,” “proportion,” and
“equality” which are well represented in traditional iconography by the image of a balanced
scale. St. Thomas notes that in everyday language things are said to be adjusted to each other
when they are “made equal.”107[107] Everything depends on our understanding of this
adjustment.

In the Platonic system, the “just” man is someone who conforms in the greatest way
possible to the perfect idea of man, in other words, someone who fully realizes his humanity.
Plato teaches that justice consists in a harmonic relation in the soul of the good man between
temperance, fortitude (or courage), and wisdom. In a parallel way, Plato sees the city as
composed of three social classes, each with their own proper virtue. In the productive class (i.e.,
farmers, artisans, and merchants), the concupiscible element is predominant; thus, the virtue of
temperance must be cultivated. The guardian class, in which the irascible element prevails, must
be guided by fortitude or courage. Lastly, the governing class must operate according to wisdom.
The good society is one in which every citizen acts according to the virtue that is proper to him,
while justice consists in the harmonic orientation of every social component to the common
good.108[108]

If we consider that the rule or norm of this ideal should be expressed by the law, we can
say, with Aristotle, that justice consists in conformity to the law. Now, the end of the law is the
common good, but sometimes the common good requires the practice of personal virtue:

And the law bids us do both the acts of a brave man (e.g., not to desert our post nor take
to flight nor throw away our arms), and those of a temperate man (e. g., not to commit
adultery nor to gratify one’s lust), and those of a good-tempered man (e. g., not to strike
another nor to speak evil), and similarly with regard to the other virtues and forms of
wickedness, commanding some acts and forbidding others; and the rightly-framed law
does this rightly, and the hastily conceived one less well. This form of justice, then, is
complete virtue, but not absolutely but in relation to our neighbor. And therefore justice
is often thought to be the greatest of virtues, and “neither evening nor morning star” is so
wonderful; and proverbially “in justice is every virtue comprehended.” And it is complete
virtue in its fullest sense, because it is the actual exercise of complete virtue. It is

107[107] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 57, a. 1, c.

108[108] Cf. Plato, Republic, bks. I-IV.

 complete because he who possesses it can exercise his virtue not only in himself but
towards his neighbor also . . . 109[109]

Now, it is exactly this “relation to our neighbor” that brings Aristotle to recognize, along
with the general concept of justice as the application of all the virtues within society, the
particular virtue of justice which regulates the fair distribution of goods and their peaceful
exchange between men.

In the Latin world, the most famous definition of justice, subsequently adopted by St.
Thomas, was that of Cicero: “. . . justice is a habit whereby a man renders to each his due by a
constant and perpetual will.”110[110]

From this perspective, right (ius) appears prior to and more fundamental than justice
(iustitia). For this reason, we will look first at rights (6. 2); then, we will consider the virtue of
justice in general (6. 3), the kinds of justice (6. 4), and lastly, the vices opposed to justice (6. 5).

6. 2. Rights

“Right” is a primordial notion impossible to define in the full sense of the word.111[111]
Nevertheless, we can describe it as the consonant relationship between a certain good and the
person entitled to that good, who is said to have the moral faculty to claim it as his own.

In the first place, the notion of “right” indicates a particular relationship between a person
(or community of persons) and a thing or service. This thing or service constitutes the object of
the right (passive right) as that for which the entitled subject has an active right. Considered
from this perspective, right consists in the moral faculty of claiming a thing as one’s own
(possessing it, disposing of it), of acting in a certain way, or of requesting a service from others.
This schema can be represented thus:

109[109] Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 5.1.1129b14-33.

110[110] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 58, a. 1. This idea is present in Greek
culture though scarcely articulated. Plato refers to it by quoting Simonides’s statement that
justice consists in giving “to each what is owed,” but then acknowledges that Simonides “was
speaking in riddles – just like a poet!” Republic, I, 331d-332c, trans. G. M. A. Grube, rev. C. D.
C. Reeve, in Plato: Complete Works, ed. John M. Cooper and D. S. Hutchinson (Indianapolis,
IN: Hackett Publishing, 1977).

111[111] See Pieper, 47.

 Person (or Community) Thing/Service

Subject of Right Object of Right

Active Right Passive Right

Moral Faculty of Claiming Ownership

In this sense, it is easy to understand that only persons can be holders of rights, whether
as individuals or associated in community, since only persons have moral faculty. Animals, for
instance, do not have rights in a proper sense. Certainly, we can recognize that in our dealings
with animals we have specific duties; however, these duties are always in relation to persons: the
abuse of animals damages the dignity of the person who inflicts it; the uncontrolled
extermination of certain species infringes on the right of future human generations to a beautiful,
complete world, etc.

It should be noted that the existence of a right implies the existence of a subject (a person
or community) who holds that right, as well as a subject (a person or community) from whom the
right may be demanded and who is capable of delivering it. From this perspective, a right
appears as the vital space necessary for the development of the person.

Person/Community Person/Community

Holder of the Right Holder of What is Due

Vital Space Necessary for Personal Development

Society exists to create, conserve, and develop, with the help of all its members, the
conditions necessary for every person to live well and reach his end, that is, perfection or
happiness. We can define the common good as the matrix of conditions by which each person, if
he so desires, can reach his end.112[112] The different conditions or situations to which I refer

112[112] See above, chapter 1, section 1. 5. 2.

constitute the objects of rights. At the worst, an individual could choose not to avail himself of
these objects and renounce his own attainment of the good, but he cannot and must not damage
the personal and communal goods which are the rights of others.

By logical necessity, a subject’s right corresponds symmetrically with another subject’s

duty.

6. 3. General Justice and Particular Justice

A just person is someone who has a duty and fulfills it. Having clarified the notion of
right, we can now take a closer look at justice as the virtue which makes possible the habitual
performance of duty as respect for other people’s rights: “It is proper to justice, as compared
with the other virtues, to direct man in his relations with others . . . On the other hand the other
virtues perfect man in those matters only which befit him in relation to himself.”113[113]

Justice constitutes an openness to others in as much as it brings order to my relationship

with them and their rights. This has a double significance since “the other” can be an individual
or the whole community of which I am a part. In the first case, the virtue of justice consists
simply in giving to each person what is owed to him. In the second case, things are more
complicated because I myself am part of the whole toward which I have duties. These duties
concern me also as a member of the community since my good is ordered to the common good.
This means that my “private” virtues . . . are not so private!

It follows therefore that the good of any virtue, whether such virtue directs man in
relation to himself, or in relation to certain other individual persons, is referable to the
common good, to which justice directs: so that all acts of virtue can pertain to justice, in
so far as it directs man to the common good.114[114]

As we said at the beginning of this chapter, Plato and Aristotle had in mind this general
dimension of justice which, as St. Thomas says, “comprehends together every virtue, and is itself
the maximally perfect virtue.”115[115] Taken in this sense, justice has a global dimension which
cannot be inserted next to fortitude and temperance as a cardinal virtue since it enfolds these
virtues, ordering their acts to the common good.116[116]

This does not mean, however, that general justice can substitute for the other virtues
which are necessary for man to be ordered directly to particular goods, both in regard to himself,

113[113] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 57, a. 1, c.

114[114] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 58, a. 5, c.

115[115] St. Thomas Aquinas, In Ethicorum, V, 1. 2.

116[116] Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 58, a. 6, c.

through temperance and fortitude, and in regard to the rights of others, intended here as other
people, by way of particular justice.

In synthesis:

 General justice includes all the moral virtues (including particular justice) and
directs them to the common good.

 Particular justice gives to each his due, taking into consideration the common
good.117[117]

The special importance of justice emerges in the phenomenon of moral obligation.

Certainly, all the virtues oblige us to specific kinds of behavior in as much as they create a moral
duty. This is to say that I must act in a wise, strong, courageous, and temperate way in order to
realize my human personality and live well. I have, then, a responsibility first of all to myself in
the fulfillment of these duties. This reality has a certain resonance at the social level in the
construction of a better and more humane community. But particular justice also adds to this
duty another element: I must act justly also because my neighbor is entitled to it; he has a right
that creates in me a responsibility toward him whereby he can ask me to act in a certain way. My
moral duty to be just corresponds to a juridical debt in regard to another person.

To clarify this concept, let’s compare two different cases of duty in relation to our
neighbor:

a) A friend has treated me badly, but then repents and asks me to accept his apology. I
know, in conscience, that I must pardon him.

b) In a moment of financial difficulty, I receive a loan from a friend. The crisis is now
behind me and I know that I must repay the loan.

Certainly, in both cases a and b, I perceive a moral duty. The difference is that the friend
in case a can ask for my pardon, but he cannot demand it. In fact, he has no deed of ownership
that allows him to claim pardon as something owed. Not by chance, the word “pardon” comes
from the Latin per-donare, “to give a great gift,” indicating the dimension of gratuity and love in
the act of pardon. Thus, I have a duty to pardon my friend, but he does not have – properly
speaking – the right to be pardoned. If I do not forgive him, I commit a moral fault against the
order of friendship, but I do not infringe on the order of justice.118[118]

117[117] Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 58, a. 12, ad 1m.

118[118] Nota bene: Such a sin against friendship does not infringe on the order of particular
justice, but rather on that of general justice since the common good of society depends mostly on
peace, which is “the tranquillity of order” (St. Augustine, De Civitate Dei, XIX, 13), and there
can be no tranquillity without pardon (see John Paul II, Message for the Celebration of the World
Day of Peace, 01/01/2002).
 In case b, however, the friend can not only ask me to return the sum I have borrowed, but
he is also juridically entitled to demand the money as his. Therefore, I must restore the loan not
only because I am his friend, but because the money is his and due to him. If I do not restore the
loan, I infringe on the order of justice in addition to that of friendship.

We can see, then, that in considerations of justice exterior things (e.g., merchandise
exchanged) and exterior actions (e.g., the performance of a service to which I am held by
contract) play a role of fundamental significance. Respecting the rights of others implies a
certain measurability: I must be able to determine if and in what measure I have respected
someone’s right and what I must still do or give to fulfill its exigencies. The material nature of
the action to be performed or the things to be given provide an objective reference point for what
is just.

Notwithstanding this, at the base of just action there must be respect for the other person,
an attentiveness in his regard without which the virtue of justice does not subsist. If I lack respect
for another person, even though I perform just acts towards him (externally conforming to what
is right), I myself would not be just! Justice, in fact, is a virtue of interpersonal relationship;
consequently, though external things and actions are the immediate object of just behavior,
respect for the other person is its formal cause.

 The matter of justice consists of external things and actions which constitute the
object of a right or debt.

 The form of justice is respect for another person.

This regard is classically called aequitas and is a constitutive part of the virtue of justice.
Further on (10. 4. 3), we will see that equity entails the right interpretation of the law and, from
this point of view, is linked in a particular way with general justice. For the moment, we will
limit ourselves to considering the formal aspect of respecting and caring for another person,
without which justice cannot subsist. In this sense, considerations of equity may demand
surpassing the rigorous materiality of the exigencies of rights. This could mean, for example,
postponing the deadline for repayment of a loan when strict observance of the terms agreed upon
would place the debtor in great difficulty. The consideration of rights alone, without aequitas,
necessarily translates into injustice: summum ius summa iniuria.

6. 4. The Parts of Justice

From what has been said, it is clear that particular justice indicates three conditions:

a) First of all, there must be at least two subjects facing each other. To the first belongs a
right – to the second a corresponding duty.
 b) The object must be an authentic right, creating in the correspondent a juridical debt.

c) It must be possible to give what is owed.

Where all three of these conditions are met, we can speak of the “subjective parts” of
justice, commutative justice and distributive justice, which we will examine in the following
paragraphs. If one of these conditions is lacking, however, we have what may be called the
“potential parts” of justice. For example, as we noted earlier (4. 3. 2. 3), there is a certain
exigency of justice in the duty of assisting aged parents. They have the right to our help since
they brought us into the world, nourished us, and educated us. Nevertheless, the parent-child
relationship lacks the first condition in as much as the link uniting the subjects goes beyond mere
“otherness.” We can say that in the regulation of this relationship, “piety” is only a potential part
of justice. To give another example, in the case of gratitude, the second condition is lacking.
Certainly, there exists a moral duty to show gratitude to those who do us good since in a certain
sense they have the “right” to expect our gratitude . . . Nonetheless, if gratitude does not arise
freely, it cannot be demanded on the juridical level. Here also, then, we can speak of a potential
part of justice.

6. 4. 1. Commutative Justice

Let’s examine now the subjective parts of this virtue, beginning with the most basic:
commutative justice. We can say “basic” because this form of justice is strictly dependent on the
one-to-one relationship in which subjects exchange (“commute”) something (the first condition
of justice). Some common examples of this relationship are loans, trades, sales, and services.

The aspect of exchange makes it fairly simple to identify the object of a right and the
measure of a debt. At issue is a relation of “giving/having” in which what is given must equal
exactly what is received or owed. The measurement of this relation can be figured in terms of
arithmetic equality. It is usually evident right from the beginning of a transaction, making clear
the duty of restitution-compensation when it is not respected.

In fact, rights persist even when injustice is committed. If I steal something, I have a duty
to make restitution equal in value to what I have stolen. If I damage someone’s property, I have
the duty of compensating the owner. In this regard, St. Thomas maintains an apparently
paradoxical thesis: restitution is the most perfect act of commutative justice.119[119] The reason
for this is that, in a world marked by the struggle between competing interests, injustice seems
the most prevalent condition. As a result, justice inevitably assumes the connotation of a
“reparation” or “restoration” of equal value.

This means that the dynamic character of man’s communal life finds its image within the
very structure of every act of justice. If the basic act of commutative justice is called
“restitution,” the very word implies that it is never possible for men to realize an ideal
and definitive condition. What it means is, rather, that the fundamental condition of man

119[119] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 61, pr.; q. 62, a. 1.
 and his world is provisory, temporary, non-definitive, tentative, as is proved by the
“patchwork” character of all historical activity, and that, consequently, any claim to erect
a definitive and unalterable order in the world must of necessity lead to something
inhuman.120[120]

6. 4. 2. Distributive Justice

Distributive justice regulates the relationship between the community and its members.
Consequently, its subject is the ruler, that is, the administrator of the common good. What is
“distributed” is that portion of the common good which touches the individual. Social
organizations, professional bodies, and individuals collaborate with each other so that a people, a
“social whole,” has access to nourishment, clothing, lodging, the possibility of transport and
communication, health care, education, schools, etc. Distributive justice requires that all these
goods be divided and “distributed” equally among all the members of the community.121[121]

Distributive justice is commonly understood as impartial, equal, and appropriate behavior

that takes into account what is owed to each person. In fact, the concept of distributive justice
was developed to resolve problems due to a scarcity of resources in competitive situations,
problems of a political and organizational nature at the level of both “macro-division” (the
distribution of resources on a large scale) and “micro-division” (the distribution of resources to
some people rather than others). Different criteria have been proposed for the solution of these
problems.

Distributive justice has been the focus of different, even rival, theories which have,
nonetheless, commonly maintained the formal Aristotelian principle that equals must be treated
equally and un-equals treated un-equally.

The problem lies in determining who is equal and who unequal, and how inequality is to
be treated.

Numerous material principles have been proposed for distributive justice:

1. To each person an equal share

2. To each person according to need

3. To each person according to effort

4. To each person according to contribution

120[120] Pieper, 80.

121[121] Cf. Ibid., 96. On this subject, see also Tom L. Beauchamp and James F. Childress,
Principles of Biomedical Ethics, 5th ed. (New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2001), 226-
230.
 5. To each person according to merit

6. To each person according to free market exchanges122[122]

Some contemporary authors maintain that each of these material principles indicates
prima facie duties that always apply, except in those cases where they conflict with greater or
equal duties. Hence, the effective duty of a subject is determined by balancing the weight of
these juxtaposed prima facie duties.123[123]

Material principles specify what properties a subject must have to enjoy some part of the
available resources. Many people are skeptical about the necessity (or even the possibility) of
adhering to a single criteria: “No obvious barrier prevents acceptance of more than one of these
principles, and some theories of justice accept all six as valid.”124[124]

Different theories of distributive justice have been elaborated with a view to specifying
and making coherent different principles, rules, and judgements. These have tried to “connect
properties of persons with morally justifiable distributions of benefits and burdens.”125[125]

This is not the place to go into depth on the different models available for understanding
this form of justice. It is enough for us to note that these theories have meaning only in as much
as they preserve an essential regard for the person and his dignity. Such a regard provides an
objective base that is equal for everyone. Hence, it is just that each person be guaranteed an
equal portion of essential goods (principle 1). Where this is threatened, special concern must be
shown (principle 2). Worthiness is increased by subjective effort (principle 3), objective
contribution to the common good (principle 4), and special qualification for an office (principle
5). These differences must be recognized and adequately prized. With all this assured, there must
yet remain a “free” margin in which contractual exchanges can take place, regulated by
commutative justice (principle 6).

6. 5. Injustice

As we noted above (4. 3. 2. 3), injustice is the vice par excellence because it is the
perversion of the will itself. But the story does not end there. By its continual interaction with
reason, the will can so condition reason that the unjust person becomes inclined to consider
“good” what is really “unjust.”

122[122] Beauchamp and Childress, 228.

123[123] Cf. Walter D. Ross, The Right and the Good (1930; repr., Indianapolis, IN: Hackett
Publishing Company, 1988), 19-36. Pages here refer to the 1930 edition. See also Ross’s The
Foundations of Ethics (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1939).

124[124] Beauchamp and Childress, 228.

125[125] Ibid., 230.

 This is clear if we recall that general justice commands the acts of all the virtues,
maintaining them and coordinating them. Where general justice is lacking, for that very reason,
the virtues are lacking.

But an analogous discourse must also be made on the subject of particular justice, that is,
on our relationship with the rights of others. A “right” is something owed to another. Whoever
keeps for himself what he should give to another, or takes from another what rightfully belongs
to him, ends up by damaging himself. He perverts his own will – the intimate core of his own
being. Such a person becomes unjust, that is to say, “inadequate” in terms of his own human
dignity. By his own actions, he bars himself from the road that leads to the right development of
his own personality.126[126] For this reason, Socrates insisted that it is a greater evil to commit
injustice, than to suffer it:

I would not wish either, but if I had either to do or to suffer wrong, I would choose rather
to suffer than to do it . . . I maintain, Callicles, that it is not the most shameful of things
to be wrongfully boxed on the ears, nor again to have either my purse or my person cut,
but it is both more disgraceful and more wicked to strike or to cut me or what is mine
wrongfully, and, further, theft and kidnapping and burglary and in a word any wrong
done to me and mine is at once more shameful and worse for the wrongdoer than for me
the sufferer.127[127]

Injustice emerges from the egoistic search for one’s own good and the consequent
incapacity to see the good of others. It is often born from intemperance, which leads to satisfying
one’s own desires without considering the wrong that others might suffer. Sometimes injustice
springs from a lack of courage and fortitude. But there is a special type of injustice, very
prevalent today, which stems from a lack of wisdom. Justice, in fact, presupposes the truth: the
truth about rights, duties, and restitution. Thanks to wisdom, the truth about these things is
translated into decision. When, however, we lose this link with truth, we no longer try to
understand whether someone has a right to something or not, or if he is mistaken or not. As a
result, injustice reaches a profoundly inhuman level.128[128]

7. Fortitude or Courage

The fact that the title of this chapter requires two words instead of one for the virtue in
question tells us that we must once again begin with a clarification of concepts and terms (7. 1).
Following, we will take a look at the cultural aspects of this virtue in contemporary society (7.

126[126] Cf. Pieper, 47-48.

127[127] Plato, Gorgias, 469c; 508d-e, trans. W. D. Woodhead, in The Collected Dialogues, ed.
Edith Hamilton and Huntington Cairns (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1989).

128[128] Cf. Pieper, 52-53.

2). We will then consider the essential link between this virtue and vulnerability (7. 3). Lastly,
we will present the acts of fortitude: the endurance of evil and aggression against evil (7. 4).

7. 1. Terminology

The word “fortitude” comes from the Latin fortitudo, a word associated with physical
“force,” strength, and energy.129[129] On this basis, it takes on psychological significance,
being used to indicate constancy of soul, particularly in the face of effort and danger. As such, it
is called courage (7. 1. 1), tenacity (7. 2. 1), and magnanimity (7. 2. 3).

7. 1. 1. Courage

Andréia is the Greek word for courage. Literally translated, it means “virility,” the virtue
by which someone acts “as a man.” The summit of this virtue is a firm spirit in the face of death
in battle: “He is a man of courage who does not run away, but remains at his post and fights
against the enemy.”130[130] Obviously, this kind of terminology is limited by its ties to an
essentially chauvinistic and warlike culture. In reality, women must be no less strong and
courageous then men; in fact, they have often succeeded in being more so!

Plato took a step forward in determining this virtue by defining it as “the knowledge of
what should and should not be feared.”131[131] This definition has both limitations and merit.
On the one hand, it suffers from a Socratic intellectualism that holds “knowledge” to be a moral
rather than intellectual virtue (cf. 4. 3. 1). Furthermore, the meaning of the expressions “should”
and “should not” requires some clarification. Aristotle noted that this definition can give rise to
confusion between courage properly so-called and the special skill of someone, for example, a
mercenary soldier, who doesn’t experience fear because he recognizes a false alarm when he
sees one. When a real and difficult danger presents itself, a danger that should be bravely faced,
such a one is usually the first to run away!132[132]

On the other hand, Plato’s definition succeeds in establishing a boundary between what
we “should” and “should not” fear and avoid. For instance, a person should fear and avoid
dishonor and should not be afraid of the heroic sacrifice of his own life. Thus, as with every

129[129] Cf. T. S. Centi, “Introduzione e note,” in S. Tommaso d’Aquino, La somma teologica.

Traduzione e commento a cura dei domenicani italiani, XX, La Fortezza (II-II, qq. 123-140)
(Bologna, Italy: Edizioni Studio Domenicano, 1984).

130[130] Plato, Laches, 190e, trans. Benjamin Jowett, in Plato: The Collected Dialogues, ed.
Edith Hamilton and Huntington Cairns (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1989).

131[131] Plato, Protagoras, 160d, trans. W. K. C. Guthrie, in Plato: The Collected Dialogues,
ed. Edith Hamilton and Huntington Cairns (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1989).
Emphasis added.

132[132] Cf. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 3.8.1116b4-22.

virtue, courage must submit to the command of wisdom which orders flight from certain evils
and the pursuit of certain goods – even to the point of enduring evil and forsaking flight in order
to obtain those goods.

7. 1. 2. Tenacity and Patience

Along with this virtue, we can speak of the constancy of the man of character in front of
difficulties. The Latins called this virtue perseverantia, though we would do better to translate it
“tenacity,” a word that implies a kind of toughness, a capacity for temporal endurance in the
prolonged application of oneself to a difficult task. It goes without saying that tenacity
presupposes the judgement of wisdom concerning the suitability of persevering in a certain kind
of action. Consequently, tenacity is opposed to “pertinacity,” that is, the “impudent tenacity” of
the stubbornly obstinate person who seeks to persevere in his own opinion out of duty,
pigheadedness, or pride. Contrariwise, a defect of tenacity shows itself as a kind of “weakness,”
we could even say “sluggishness” or “fragility,” which tends to give in at the smallest impact or
abandon the good in the face of the pain caused by a lack of satisfaction.133[133]

Perseverance includes the modest, daily virtue of “patience,” the capacity to bear without
perturbation the inevitable sufferings connected with our everyday realization of the good. It
should be noted that “whoever is brave is patient, but the converse does not hold, for patience is
a part of fortitude.”134[134] Further, the strong person does not only “passively” bear the evil
that befalls him, but is also ready to act, to “jump into the fray,” so to speak, whenever
necessary.

7. 1. 3. Magnanimity

In a positive sense, fortitude (or courage) requires the ability to “think big,” to formulate
demanding objectives and pursue them with energy and decision. This virtue is called
“magnanimity.” It denotes “stretching for the mind to great things” – toward difficult goods,
rather than easy evils.135[135] Magnanimity is a desire for excellence measured by the
accomplishment of grand deeds, or the excellent execution of ordinary deeds, even the smallest.
Clearly, wisdom plays an important role in this virtue since it allows us to avoid the excesses due
to overestimation of our own strength (presumption), disordered ambition, or vain glory. It also
keeps us from falling into that meanness of spirit (“pusillanimity”) which leads to
underestimating ourselves or refusing the inclination toward an involvement that, though
difficult, is nonetheless proportionate to our strength.

133[133] Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 138.

134[134] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I-II, q. 66, a. 4, ad 2m.

135[135] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 129, a. 1, c.

 We should take a moment to consider the vice of pusillanimity, which someone has
described as the error of an eagle who thinks he is a chicken. This vice manifests itself in the
scattering of one’s energies into many little areas, to the detriment of what is really important,
and in a quarrelsomeness that disputes everything, attributing relevance to every trifle and losing
sight of the ends worthy of pursuit.

7. 2. Cultural Aspects

If we examine classical and modern literature, up to and including Romanticism, we will

find that fortitude was perhaps the most exalted and recommended virtue, so much so that that
poetry and the figurative arts were believed to exist primarily to celebrate the deeds of the strong,
thus presenting them as examples for future generations.136[136]

In more recent times, however, a “decadent” attitude has emerged which exalts cowardice
and pusillanimity and derides the courage of the strong. Josef Pieper’s explanation of this
phenomenon is suggestive: The bourgeois man of industrial civilization believes he has
explained the world. He feels himself at home in the universe, and cannot fathom that existence
implies a struggle against evil, a struggle marked by the double dimension of fault and penalty,
that is, the evil we do and the evil we suffer.137[137]

From the ideology of progress and the myth of indefinite growth toward ever brighter
horizons, an obtuse and disenchanting optimism has sprung up, based on the presumption that
every evil can be resolved with technology. The well-being realized in industrial society has
habituated people to abundance and ease, making them ever more dependent on pleasure and
comfort, incapable of sacrifice or the acceptance of the smallest privation or discomfort. A “soft”
society is necessarily “impatient.”

Though contemporary culture boasts an “uninhibited” mentality, it has as yet retained one
taboo that preserves every ancestral prohibition and fear: the taboo against suffering. Some
young people have rebelled against this leveling off of human experience by torturing their own
bodies with piercing and tattoos. They have created an aesthetic of ugliness and decay expressed
most acutely in the hard, desperate life of what in Italy are called the punkabbestia (wandering
bands of young people, tattered and torn, who live with their animals on the streets). Official
culture pretends ignorance of the messages behind these realities. Instead, it continues to declare
war on what it sees to be the only real evil for society: physical suffering. The attack on pain has
two dimensions: first, the use of drugs – painkillers, anti-depressants, tranquilizers, etc. – which

136[136] Cf. Centi, 7.

137[137] Pieper, 130.

leads eventually to abuse and dependency, and second, where drugs fail, eugenic
(“therapeutic”138[138]) abortion and euthanasia.

The immediate satisfaction of needs and the search for ephemeral pleasure – Horace’s
carpe diem – are the only criteria for action which our soft, impatient culture will accept. This
manifests itself in a pusillanimous spirit whose highest ideal is not virtue or happiness but, far
more banally, amusement and consumption. Vice receives public recognition and favor – even to
the point of being “worshipped.”139[139]

But the enthusiasm for science and technology, an enthusiasm which up until some
decades ago seemed “carved in stone,” is giving way to a pessimistic disquiet: the indiscriminate
exploitation of natural resources required by a consumer culture has lead humanity “to the brink
of the abyss.” Phenomena such as the hole in the ozone layer with its consequent climactic
catastrophe, as well as the pollution of air, water, and earth, demand that we take stock of our
place in time. We cannot continue to think in brief intervals; we must have the courage to face
our responsibility to the future. We must recover the ability to “think big” and be
“magnanimous.”

The “ecological bent” of our culture is post-modern humanity’s first and clearest
expression of its widespread sense of uneasiness. Awareness is growing that our actions produce
irreversible effects. Consequently, the pure impulse for possible pleasure can no longer serve as
the basis of our actions. “Philosophy can contribute by ensuring that education develop the sense
to foresee the long term effects of human action on the very delicate equilibrium between human
pretenses and nature’s efficiency.”140[140] This means that philosophers today must be
concretely engaged in a reflection on the virtue of fortitude – and its authentic practice.

In past epochs, the call to “terrestrial” fortitude was powerfully sounded whenever a
people were in danger and their young were mobilized, prepared to die in the defense of their
country. Clearly, the willingness to face the supreme sacrifice carried with it the readiness to face
every sort of difficulty. At the origins of Christianity we find fortitude in the martyrs who gave
their lives for their faith, and the ascetics who, for the love of eternal life, submitted themselves
to a demanding regime of worldly life. We can hope that the recovery of this virtue in our own
time will be assisted by the awareness of our responsibility for planet earth and her future
generations. We can hope that a healthy “fear” in front of foreseeable catastrophe will give rise
to the “courage” to change our soft, pusillanimous lifestyle and lead us to acquire firm habits
more worthy of our humanity.

138[138] Properly speaking, the so-called “therapeutic” abortion is motivated by concern for the
health of the mother, while the deliberate killing of a deformed fetus is called “eugenic
abortion.” Here, we are speaking of the latter.

139[139] Cf. Hans Jonas, Sull’orlo dell’abisso. Conversazioni sul rapporto tra uomo e natura
(Turin, Italy: Einaudi, 2000; orig. German: 1993), 42.

140[140] Ibid., 16.

 Also, on the aesthetic level, we can hope that the twilight whining on its own “little
pains” will be abandoned and the moral beauty of courage will once again shine forth to the
shame of cowards’ easy ironies sprung forth from their own resentment.141[141]

7. 3. Fortitude and Vulnerability

Whoever has meditated in depth on fortitude and courage is immune from the temptation
to see them as “titanic” virtues. On the contrary, they presuppose vulnerability.142[142] A
person who can’t be wounded doesn’t need to be brave! The strong person is one who can suffer
a wound in both the physical and moral sense. By “wound” we mean here any kind of damage to
our integrity, anything that causes pain, anguish, oppression – reaching its maximum degree in
death.

The concept of vulnerability presupposes a “weakness” of an ontic character. The virtue

of fortitude assumes such weakness and overcomes it on the moral plane. On this subject, the
stories of the martyrdoms of young Christians can be very enlightening. Even those who do not
share the Catholic faith can profit from these accounts if they read them in the spirit of
phenomenological research. We may recall, for example, the well known text of St. Ambrose on
the martyrdom of Agnes, a child of twelve years of age:

Was there room for a wound in that small body? And she who had no room for the blow
of the steel had that wherewith to conquer the steel. But maidens of that age are unable to
bear even the angry looks of parents, and are wont to cry at the pricks of a needle as
though they were wounds. She was fearless under the cruel hands of the executioners, she
was unmoved by the heavy weight of the creaking chains, offering her whole body to the
sword of the raging soldier, as yet ignorant of death, but ready for it . . . she filled the
office of teaching valour while having the disadvantage of youth.143[143]

It is clear that the suffering here was not accepted for itself as if it were a good. Such a
“love of suffering” would be contradictory; it would be pathological. Wounds are accepted
willingly only because to escape them would mean suffering even greater damage. In this
situation, suffering allowed the person to preserve an integrity of a different and more profound
character.

141[141] Cf. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 3.7.1115b7-15.

142[142] Cf. Pieper, 117.

143[143] St. Ambrose, De virginibus, bk. I, chap. 2, 7-8. Cite taken from the English translation
online at [Link].
 We have already said that the strong do not despise life; on the contrary, they love it
profoundly, surely more than the fearful do. But this love resides not only in their sensibility,
which is inclined to self-preservation, but also in the moral forces of their rationality. This covers
everything that comprises the integrity of the person: joy, health, success, etc. The strong man
recognizes all these things as good. He loves them and naturally seeks them. Nevertheless, he is
disposed to go without them rather than renounce the higher goods, the loss of which would be a
far more serious wound.

This means that the truly courageous person knows a natural man’s fear and overcomes it
not by instinctive optimism (“fortune aids the daring”), or presumptuous faith in his own
capacities, or because he fears “losing face” and being considered vile, but because he
remembers a greater and stronger good.

Putting all this together, we can say that “the specific character of fortitude consists in
suffering injuries in the battle for the realization of the good.”144[144] From this perspective, we
are not to seek after death or wounds, or even danger, but rather, the realization of a rational
good. From this it follows that only the fortitude of someone guided by wisdom and justice can
truly be called “virtuous.”

Moreover, we can see that fortitude and courage are not only opposed to vileness or fear
(an excessive and disordered fear), but they also stand opposed to that vice which is the
insensibility to fear. “Hence it may happen,” says St. Thomas, “that a man fears death and other
temporal evils less than he ought, for the reason that he loves the contrary goods less than he
ought [i.e., he loves himself less than he ought].”145[145]

This happens for different reasons. You may think, for example, that suicide is the
extreme act of courage. In reality, its being “extreme” reveals its vicious and contradictory
character: “Wherefore even those that slay themselves do so from love of their own flesh, which
they desire to free from present stress.”146[146]

Some people demonstrate an insensibility to fear when they think that the evils the wise
person fears will not happen to them. For example, anyone who drives a car in a dangerous way
is convinced that accidents only happen to other people! Pride and presumption are often at the
root of this attitude, though sometimes it is just stupidity, pure and simple. Aristotle speaks of
barbarians who fear neither “earthquake nor a storm at sea” because they are incapable of
recognizing what is fearful.147[147]

144[144] Pieper, 122.

145[145] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 126, a. 1, c.

146[146] Ibid.

147[147] Ibid.; cf. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 3.7.1115b18.

 The worst excess of audacity, however, is not to fear doing evil. The bandit guilty of
heinous crimes, the cruel warrior, the suicide terrorist – all these may appear courageous to some
people, but this “appearance” is nothing other than the corruption of true virtue. As the saying
goes, the corruption of the best produces the worst (corruptio optimi pessima).

In sum, anyone who is really courageous and authentically “prudent” is aware of his own
vulnerability. Such a person does not throw himself into danger without first reflecting and
wisely discerning if it is necessary. On the other hand, “a man does not expose his person to
dangers of death except in order to safeguard justice; wherefore the praise awarded to fortitude
depends somewhat on justice.”148[148]

7. 4. Endurance and Aggression

In our discussion of the passions (3. 2), we said that fear arises in the face of a
foreseeable evil. When such an evil is present, on the other hand, we feel sadness and anger. The
strong person is the one who succeeds in governing these passions in the right way, enduring the
right measure of sadness and attacking evil with the right measure of wrath.

Not to be sad over evil means not to love the good, to be dangerously insensible. To be
strong (in a patient way) means not losing one’s interior peace even in the event of great sadness.
It means keeping a clear head, not losing heart and becoming depressed, even under intense
duress. As always, virtue is found in the just mean, not in the excess or absence of sadness, but in
the measure appropriate to the present evil and compatible with the exigencies of a wise and
composed dominion over self.

Very rightly, St. Thomas affirms that endurance is the principle act of fortitude.149[149]
The essence of this virtue emerges in its entirety when a subject has no practicable alternatives
and must simply have the spirit to resist until the end. Endurance, however, must not be taken in
a purely passive sense: “Enduring comprises a strong activity of the soul, namely, a vigorous
grasping of and clinging to the good; and only from this stouthearted activity can the strength to
support the physical and spiritual suffering of injury and death be nourished.”150[150]

A strong person is not limited to “putting up with” evil. When it is wise to do so, he
courageously attacks evil with all the energy required, as well as faith in the resources
authentically available to him and the hope of success. In this regard, St. Thomas affirms that a
strong person makes use of anger and wrath in his assault on evil, “since it is proper to wrath to
hurl itself against that which saddens it, and, thence, in the attack cooperate directly with

148[148] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 123, a. 12, ad 3m.

149[149] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 123, a. 6.

150[150] Pieper, 128.

fortitude.”151[151] We should remember here that wrath is not of itself a vice or a virtue, but a
passion. It becomes a vice when it precedes the choice of the will; it becomes a virtue when the
action deriving from it is deliberated and ordered to a just end.152[152]

These considerations should move us to reconsider the bourgeois model of behavior

centered on a spineless mediocrity, on a passive resignation deprived of assertiveness in the real
world. The classical view of fortitude presents us with an ideal that is at once wise and youthful,
vital and reasonable. It can and must exercise a renewed interest in our formation.

8. Temperance

As with the other cardinal virtues, the modern context requires us to approach temperance
first from a terminological standpoint (8. 1). We will then consider the essence of this virtue in
itself (8. 2) and its importance for personal integration (8. 3).

8. 1. Terminology

Undoubtedly, the word “temperance” is out of style. Our culture of “transgression” seems
bent on destroying the concept of temperance with its suggestion of regulation, measure,
moderation, and sobriety. In no other area does virtue seem so much like “putting a break” on
our desires, inhibiting and repressing them. The “temperate person” is thought to be “lukewarm”
and incapable of great feeling – someone who doesn’t enjoy anything.

Now, certainly, the root of the Latin term temperantia is linked to the verb temperare (to
keep the right measure, to moderate) and, thus, to the substantive temperatura (the right blend, a
good composition). “Temperate zones” are characterized by a climate that is neither too hot nor
too cold. But this certainly shouldn’t lead to the conclusion that temperance equals tepidity!
There’s really no comparison. In fact, another verbal root of this word can enlighten us on its real
meaning: to temper, a material (e.g., glass or steel) is called “tempered” after it has been
submitted to a thermal treatment that makes it unbreakable. The word temperance belongs
precisely in this semantic realm where it indicates the connatural and in a certain way
unchangeable dispositions that form the basis of character. These dispositions, as the words
“character” or “temper” suggest, indicate a particular, personal energy that we describe in
everyday language when we say someone “has character” or “a strong temperament.”

However, the Greek word for this virtue, sophrosýne, reaches even further dimensions.
Literally, it means “directing reason,”153[153] and concerns a “con-tempering” of different parts
into a harmonic and well-ordered whole. In Latin, temperatio indicates such a proportioned

151[151] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 123, a. 10, ad 3m (Do read the entire
article!).

152[152] Cf. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 3.8.1117a5.

153[153] See Pieper, 146.

arrangement (e.g., the “tempered” tuning of musical instruments adjusts the commas between
semitones to bring about a correspondence of notes at different octaves), while a temperator is
someone who orders and governs.

In human beings, the job of “tempering” belongs to the reason; the elements that are
“tempered” are the desires arising from our natural inclinations:

Nature inclines everything to whatever is becoming to it. Wherefore man naturally

desires pleasures that are becoming to him. Since, however, man as such is a rational
being, it follows that those pleasures are becoming to man which are in accordance with
reason. From such pleasures temperance does not withdraw him, but from those which
are contrary to reason. Wherefore it is clear that temperance is not contrary to the
inclination of human nature, but is in accord with it.154[154]

From this, it follows that temperance can be called a “virtue” only in so far as it is ruled
by the virtue of the reason: wisdom. A person who avoids pleasure because of a certain
temperamental disposition or psychological inhibition may manifest external behavior that is
materially “temperate,” but he does not possess the virtue of temperance.155[155]

8. 2. The Essence of Temperance

Temperance consists, then, in the rational moderation of human actions and passions. Its
essence becomes clear if we compare it with fortitude: both have to do with the passions, but – as
we have seen (3. 2) – the passions themselves can be traced back to two fundamental roots:
repulsion and attraction. Repulsion arises in front of something we perceive as disagreeable.
Fear, sadness and anger are its fundamental expressions. As we know, the virtue of fortitude is
necessary to keep us from being overcome by these feelings as we tend toward the realization of
the true good according to reason. Contrariwise, attraction is aroused by what we perceive to be
pleasant or agreeable. Desire and enjoyment are its fundamental expressions. Temperance allows
the rational management of these experiences, resisting anything that attracts the senses in a
direction contrary to the dictates of reason.

In his treatment of virtue, St. Thomas does not weary of repeating that the sensible and
corporeal goods considered in themselves do not at all repel reason. On the contrary, they serve
reason as the instruments it uses to reach its proper end: a good and happy life. Hence, the goal
of temperance is not to hold off evil, but to regulate (temper) the desire for the good.156[156]

154[154] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 141, a. 1, ad 1m.

155[155] Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 141, a. 1, ad 2m.

156[156] Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 141, a. 3, c.

 Now, among the goods we desire, those pertaining to the preservation of an individual’s
life (eating, drinking) and the species (mating) have a greater power of attraction. Certainly, we
have a natural instinct to sensible enjoyment, particularly in the pleasure of eating and drinking
and sex, instincts born of the most powerful forces for human life’s preservation. It is precisely
because these energies are so strictly joined to our most radical impulses that they vehemently
overcome all our other powers when they degenerate into egoism.157[157]

Consequently, the principle task of temperance lies in these areas of human life where it
manifests itself primarily as moderation in eating, sobriety in drinking, and sexual chastity. Yet,
the exigency of moderation tied to temperance has even greater depths. In all areas of human
action, in fact, the desires must be “tempered” according to reason. For example, instinctive
pride must be moderated by humility; the natural need to avenge injustice requires the control of
meekness and mildness; the natural inclination to knowledge must be disciplined by genuine
studiousness so as to avoid degenerating into mere curiosity. This said, it is clear why
temperance is a cardinal virtue: its activity is required in every dimension of personal
virtue.158[158]

As with all the virtues, though in a more excellent way, temperance aims at that serenity
which St. Ambrose calls tranquillitas animi 159[159]:

It is obvious that this proposition does not imply a purely subjective state of mental calm
or the tranquil satisfaction which is the by-product of an unassuming, leisurely life in a
narrow circle. Nor does it mean a mere absence of irritation, or dispassionate equanimity.
All this need not go deeper than the surface of the intellectual and spiritual life. What is
meant is the serenity that fills the inmost recesses of the human being, and is the seal and
fruit of order.160[160]

Temperance permits us the self-possession necessary to give ourselves in a free and

altruistic way. Intemperance, on the other hand, is an egoistic attitude that “paradoxically” brings
about the subject’s own destruction. This becomes clear if we recall that man’s interior
equilibrium is not static, but dynamic. Our natural inclinations, whose aim is self-preservation,
become the vehicle of self-destruction when they are inordinately indulged: “The things about
which temperance is concerned have a most disturbing effect on the soul, for the reason that they
are natural to man.”161[161]

157[157] Cf. Pieper, 149.

158[158] Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 141, a. 7; also, II-II q. 123, a. 2; I-
II, q. 61, aa. 3-4.

159[159] Cf. St. Ambrose, De officiis, bk. I, chap. 43, 210.

160[160] Pieper, 147.

161[161] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 141, a. 2, ad 2m.

 You may be wondering how it is that these powers of self-preservation can become so
destructive. The answer lies in the dynamism of the human will. As we saw earlier (4. 3. 2. 5),
the will is not made to be centered on itself, but to transcend itself and adhere to the good as
such. The will is open to the infinite – but the goods that attract our sensitive appetites, precisely
because of their “sensible” nature, are necessarily finite in number and duration. It is not possible
to satisfy an infinite desire with a finite satisfaction!162[162] Temperance keeps us from getting
stuck on the particular so that we can stay open to the good presented by reason.

8. 3. Virtue of Personal Integration

The virtue of temperance, then, contributes to the integration of corporeal life with all its
desires and pleasures into the whole life of the person. To better understand this fact, it will be
helpful to recall some fundamental anthropological notions that shed light on the distinction
between the body, with its desires, and the person (8. 3. 1). We will then return to the concept of
virtue with a greater awareness of its dimensions.

Excursus 1. – Historical/Philosophical Panorama on Corporeality

In the history of thought, we can identify two fundamental views on man which have
profoundly influenced ethics: materialistic monism and spiritualistic dualism. The following is a
very brief description of these two positions.

A. Materialistic Monism

That man has corporeal existence is evident to everyone. According to the thesis of
materialistic monism, however, the human person exists only as a material body. This theory
evolved in the wake of positivist evolutionism from the 19th century onward. Its presuppositions
were present already in antiquity in the thought of atomists such as the Greeks Democritus (5th
century B.C.) and Epicurus (ca. 342-270 B.C.) and the Latin Lucretius (ca. 99-55 B.C.). It
appeared again in the Middle Ages and early Renaissance in the work of the Latin Averroists and
continued into modernity, above all with Thomas Hobbes (1588-1679). It passed through the
philosophers of the Enlightenment to find its most theoretically articulate expression in the work
of the left Hegelians, finally winding up with Marx and the Neo-Marxists.

In the existentialism of J. P. Sartre (1905-1980), man and body are one and the same
thing. There is no such thing as an experience or relationship that is not exclusively corporeal.
Radical thinkers have aligned materialism with the message of liberation: H. Marcuse (1898-
1979) thought that by making the body the site of pleasure and play he would pick the lock of a
bourgeois hold on the organization of society, a hold based on salaried work and marriage.
Historical feminism runs along the same lines (for example, S. de Beauvoir, 1908-1986) in its
battle for sexual liberation, contraception, abortion, etc. We should note that the materialism of

162[162] See above, chapter 2, section 2. 2. 4. 1.

these positions is a presupposition that is taken for granted and almost never discussed
theoretically. Hence, we can speak of materialistic “ideology” rather than “philosophy.”

B. Spiritualistic Dualism

Notwithstanding cultural trends, the evidence for a reality that is fully human and
irreducible to matter has never been lacking in the history of thought. Man knows many activities
of a material order, such as nutrition, growth, etc., which can be understood according to material
principles. But he also engages in activities of a superior order, such as the knowledge of
universal ideas, freedom, and the capacity to love in a spiritual sense. If every effect presupposes
a cause proportioned to it, then it is clear that there is a principle of a spiritual order in man.

In the attempt to understand the rapport between man’s spiritual and material
components, the most banal consists in seeing them as two substances, one next to (or “within”)
the other. The classic example of this dualism can be found in the thought of Plato, who
considered the union between soul and body completely accidental and, further, the fruit of an
“original fall” by which the body became a kind of prison for the soul. The dualistic conception,
attenuated by “unitarian” thinking such as Aristotelianism, never disappeared from the history of
thought and re-emerged powerfully in the modern epoch. Descartes (1596-1650) maintained that
man is constituted of two “things”: the res cogitans, that is, a thinking spirit, and the res extensa,
that is, a body organized in every way like a machine. Putting this idea in the simplest terms, we
can say that man is a robot with an indwelling angel. However, the contact between these res is
rather difficult to understand: Descartes hypothesized that it happens in the pineal gland, the
epiphysis, though he did not succeed in explaining how matter “touches” spirit. Malebranche
(1638-1715) thought that God intervenes in every corporeal sensation to communicate the
corresponding idea to the soul. Leibniz’s (1646-1716) solution was a pre-established harmony
fixed by a creator God (a “clockmaker” God) between the sensations of the body and the
thoughts of the soul.

Sad to say, spiritualistic dualism has in some measure infiltrated Christian thought.
Through Platonism, a legacy of contempt for the body came to influence much of Christian
asceticism, as well as Cartesianism, leading – with grave consequences – to conceiving the
rapport between body and soul in an extrinsic fashion. Platonism led to a distorted vision of
sexuality as a negative reality that is intrinsically sinful. Cartesianism, for its part, resulted in a
“disincarnated” vision of Christianity as something essentially passive and indifferent in the face
of temporal realities.

C. Ontologically Based Personalism

The writings of the Church Fathers manifest a certain polarity in their consideration of
the problem of man. The Antiochian Fathers underlined unity, while the Alexandrians
emphasized duality. The latter notion is to be found in St. Augustine:
 The real overcoming of the Neoplatonic-Augustinian conception of man happens only in
Thomas who gathers and transforms Aristotelian categories. Truly, his conception, which
corresponds to the biblical idea of the unity of man, does not automatically accept
Aristotelian anthropology, which remains in the sphere of Greek dualism, but corrects
and radically surpasses it.163[163]

It is well known that St. Thomas viewed man as a single substance with the soul as the form of
the body, but what this means exactly is not always clear to everyone.164[164] Let’s try, then, to
give a brief explanation of it.

First of all, we must ask ourselves what substance means. In Aristotelian terms, substance
is defined as that which is seperate from every other thing though unseparated in itself. Looking
at myself, I can see the color of my skin, I feel the beating of my heart, I am aware of my own
thoughts, etc. My skin color is in me, the heartbeats are in me, my thoughts are in me . . . but the
“me,” that is, my “I” – where is it? It isn’t in something else, but “in itself.” This being in itself
means being a real substance, while the color, the heartbeats, and the thinking are merely
accidents of this substance. By accident we mean something that causes secondary changes in a
substance already constituted in its essence. We can call these accidents “accessories” to
substance. My skin color can change (I can be tan, tattooed, etc.). My heartbeat changes
continually – and my thinking even more so. But I remain. Moreover, I see an enormous
complexity in the substance of this I. My body consists of numerous organs constituted by
countless cells. My mind manifests an even great complexity. But both body and mind are me,
that is, they make up the unique substance that is my I.

But what gives unity to this substance? There must be a principle that “unifies substance,
organizing its components and effecting its operations.”165[165] This principle, in Aristotelian
terminology, is called substantial form.166[166]

163[163] Francis P. Fiorenza and Johann B. Metz, “L’uomo come unità di corpo e di anima,” in
Mysterium salutis, ed. J. Feiner and M. Löhrer, vol. 4, 4th ed. (Brescia, Italy: Queriniana, 1985;
orig. German: 1967), 274.

164[164] St. Thomas elaborates extensively on this subject in Quaestio de anima. Also
interesting in this regard is his In Aristotelis librum de anima commentarium. For a synthetic
exposition, see Summa theologiae, I, qq. 75-93.

165[165] Rivetti Barbò, Essere nel tempo, 148. On this subject, the entire section of Barbò’s
book is very illuminating (pp. 145-160). For a theoretical treatment of an anthropological nature,
see also Rivetti Barbò’s Philosophy of Man.

166[166] This must not be confused with the sensible form we know through the senses. Though
the sensible form of our substance has changed enormously from the moment of conception until
this present instant, we are still ourselves! Sensible form, then, is also an accident. Substantial
form, which is unchanging, is not accessible to the senses, but only to metaphysical
investigation.
 Now, the substance of my I is constituted by different components which are material
(i.e., bodily organs) and immaterial (i.e., my thoughts). Since the I that feels cold feet and has a
headache is the same I that entertains the concepts of justice and infinity, there must be a unique
substantial form that serves as the organizing principle of these spiritual and material
components of my I, as well as its operations, both material (e. g., eating, drinking, sexual
relations) and spiritual (e. g., acts of thought and will).

Other living organisms are capable of material operations analogous to ours (e.g.,
digestion and reproduction), but they are incapable of spiritual activity. Their substantial form
can be called soul (in as much as it concerns living organisms), but only a vegetative or sensitive
soul destined to dissolve with the death of the living thing.167[167] The living organism that I
am, on the contrary, is capable of spiritual activity; therefore, my substantial form must be a
principle adequate not only for the maintenance of vegetative and animal life, but also (and
above all, since this is what constitutes the specific characteristic of man) for the exigencies of
spiritual life. This principle is a spiritual soul which includes in itself animal functions, too.

All of this leaves us with a very important point for our inquiry: Since the human soul is
the form of the body, corporeal action involves the soul; hence, when a man acts, it is the whole
man as such who acts.

8. 3. 1. Division between Body and Person

When the link between the body and the person, between physicality and spirituality, is
broken, we fall into different, equally dangerous errors. On the one hand, the body will be
understood as an inferior reality so that sex is seen as something “dirty” and tolerable only in
view of procreation (the error of gnosticism and puritanism). On the other hand, there will be the
risk of reducing the spirit to a more or less accidental manifestation of physical reality.

This last notion lies behind the work of Freud and others who drew analogies between the
physical manifestation of sexuality and other spheres of the person. These analogies were given
the value of cause-effect with the result that all forms of religious devotion, enthusiasm, and
ecstasy, no matter what their origin, were thought to constitute only a “sublimation” of sex. Such
a view was destined to lead to an idolatry of corporeal pleasure detached from its profound,
mysterious dimension and uprooted from the total reality of the human person. Love, every kind
of love, was reduced to sex appeal.

In the final analysis, the Freudian position can be classified as a form of materialistic
monism, while gnosticism and puritanism are markedly dualistic. In our time, however, dualism
has come to have different connotations. We have but to think of the contemporary practice of
self-manipulation, the negation of determined human, biological realities, and extreme vitalism.
When man intervenes in his own corporeality by altering sexual characteristics (sterilization,

167[167] The substantial forms of composites, though simple and, hence, incorruptible per se,
are nevertheless corruptible per accidens in the sense that they cease to exist when the composite
of which they are the form is corrupted (cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, In II Sent., d. 19, q. 4, c.).
transsexual operations), when he excludes one of the poles of the sexual act (love and fecundity,
sex and generation), when he pursues physical pleasure in a unilateral way as if it were an end in
itself without any reference to his own spiritual component – what is he doing if not rejecting
totally the link between sex and the person, between the “spiritual I” and the “physical I”? Isn’t
this the same thing that happens in pathologies tied to conflicts with food, for instance, anorexia
and bulimia? Isn’t it this link that is tragically ruptured in toxic dependence and alcoholism?

In the light of an integral view of the human person as a “unified whole” of soul and
body, we can appreciate two things: Corporeality does not exhaust the essence of the person, and
the person does not arbitrate the corporeality of his pleasures.

We use the expression “body language” to describe a means of communication between

people. “We can accept the meaning of this expression on condition that we understand
‘language’ in a derived sense. In fact, language, primarily and properly, is a system of signs.
Hence, a language is the more perfect for possessing the adaptability and transparency of pure
signs that perform in the best way possible their instrumental function in relation to the
spirit.”168[168]

Now, corporeality cannot be reduced to this function of pure sign and linguistic
instrument because it has its own natural finality. It is guided by powerful instincts over which
the spirit is always at risk of losing control since the unconscious also plays an important part.
Nevertheless, human beings have a profound desire to realize their corporeal life with its desires,
its goods, and its pleasures, without obstacle or opacity, in the transparency of the moment. To
this end two lives are possible. The first is that of virtue. The second – an aberration full of
illusions – consists in treating the body as if it were in itself the totally transparent language of
the spirit. From this perspective, which ignores elementary and evident data, there is a tendency
to go to extremes in the negation of every similarity between animal corporeality and human
corporeality.

8. 3. 2. A Unified Whole

Let us turn to virtue, then, as the only organic means of integrating corporeality and
spirituality. In this regard, we can define temperance as the “stable and growing submission of
the sphere of the senses and instincts to the influence of the will,”169[169] provided that we do
not mean by submission the subjection of one element (the sensual and instinctual sphere) to
another (the will) which is extraneous to it. In such a case, we would not have integration but
only obedience, perhaps heroic obedience, but rife with moralism and, ultimately, frustration.

168[168] Georges Cottier, Scritti di etica (Casale Monferrato [Al], Italy: Piemme 1994), 30.

169[169] Ibid.
 On the contrary, when we speak of virtue, we mean the stable dispositions that orient the
intimate center of the person toward the moral good. In this way, the moral subject himself is
rendered integrally good.

Temperance’s task is the full integration of the sensual, instinctual sphere into the life of
the person, thereby revealing corporeality as a specifically human reality and not just a
generically animal reality. The innate, consuming power of sensuality can take hold of the
spiritual person, “swallowing him up” in the body. In the face of this threat, the will may manage
to preserve itself from fault, but it cannot transform this negative “being swallowed up” into
positive “growth” or “self-giving.” Such a transformation is the special work of virtue which
orients the person to total “self-giving” without “self-dissipation.”170[170]

9. The Foundation of Morality

We have “turned a corner,” so to speak, in our search for an answer to the question with
which we started: How must we be to fully realize our human personality?

So far, we have seen that virtue is the key concept in our response to this question.
Virtue, we have discovered, is the stable disposition of free behavior, that is, behavior ordered by
the will and responding to the exigencies of right reason.

As you may remember, Dear Reader, further back (4. 2. 2) we saw that the concept “right
reason” constitutes a problem: On the basis of what criteria can we judge that reason is right or
not so right? We have already indicated one attempt at an answer to this question: Right reason
indicates the means necessary to reach the end of a fully realized human personality, i.e., the
good life.

Even so, it doesn’t seem as if we have taken a great step forward since we still don’t
know in what the good life consists! We know it must represent the “fullness” of life, that is,
happiness (cf. 2. 2. 4 and 4. 4), but even this doesn’t seem sufficient. Pascal once remarked that
everyone wants to be happy – even people who hang themselves.171[171] We might add to this
those who want to hang other people! So, are we to conclude that the good life consists in
hanging ourselves and others?172[172]

170[170] Cf. Vendemiati, Fenomenologia and realismo, 189-190.

171[171] Pascal, Pensées, trans. A. J. Krailsheimer (New York, NY: Penguin Books, 1995), 45
(#148).

172[172] Cf. Sofia Vanni Rovighi, Introduzione allo studio di Kant (Brescia, Italy: La Scuola,
1968), 244.
 Clearly, the good life consists in realizing what is good. But we have seen that the
concept good is used analogously according to what is useful, delightful, or good. When we talk
about “the good life,” then, we mean a life desirable for itself and not in view of something else.

We have learned that a good life is characterized by the repetition of morally good acts,
guided by right reason, that express, generate, and reinforce the virtue of the acting subject.
Nevertheless, we still do not know what constitutes this good life, that is, in what way it is moral,
right, and virtuous.

The moment has arrived to face this problem. We will begin by asking ourselves if the
foundation of morality, the good, is something objective and, thus, valid for every human person
– or if it is something every person determines for himself on the basis of subjective choices (9.
1). This reflection will put us on the trail of the true good (9. 2). We can then introduce a subject
of capital importance in moral research: human rights (9. 3). Lastly, in the light of all this, we
will be able to understand how a human act can be judged good or bad (9. 4).

9. 1. The Good: Objective or Subjective?

Moral theories can be divided into two large camps: On the one hand, we have the view
that good and evil are valid categories for all men and all times (i.e., universalist theories). On
the other hand, and to the contrary, we find the notion that good and evil are categories
depending on the historical, social, and cultural context (i.e., relativist theories).

* * *

Excursus 2. – Morality and Contemporary Thought

A. Universalisms

“Modern philosophy,” in its maturity, took a strongly universalistic approach to the

question of morality. It is enough to remember the great manifestos of the Enlightenment, the
Bill of Rights of the American Revolution (1776), and the Déclaration Universelle des Droits de
l’Homme et du Citoyen of the French Revolution (1789). These documents affirmed that all man
have the same rights. From this belief, a series of ethical and juridical norms could be deduced to
regulate human behavior.

The problem is that in reality not everyone enjoys these rights. Some people are slaves;
others live without a roof over their heads or food to eat . . . Since this is so often the case, on
what basis can we assert that it should be otherwise?

A. 1. The “State of Nature”

In their reflections on morality, Enlightenment philosophers usually referred to a state of

nature which, in their opinion, existed prior to the construction of society and the establishment
of juridical systems. According to this view, in their natural “state” all men are equal and guided
by the same moral norms.173[173]

What is good, then? It is however a “natural” man would behave! We have here the
famous “myth of the noble savage” which gave birth to many an ethnographic study seeking to
prove that so-called primitive societies (certain tribes of sub-Sahara Africa, the indigenous
peoples of America, the aborigines of Oceania, etc.) were guided by the same moral norms and
were “good.”

Unfortunately, anthropological-cultural research destroyed this illusion. In reality, it’s not

true that these societies teach and practice the same moral norms, or that the same rights are
accorded to everyone.

A. 2. Reason and the Passions

A foundation for morality was then sought for in reason. Reason would stand guard over
the desires of our spontaneous nature, allowing the fulfillment of those which lead to social order
and rejecting others that lead to social disorder.174[174]

But what is the criteria for this discernment? How should social life be ordered? In the
manner of Louis XIV . . . of Robespierre . . . of Napoleon . . .? The fact is that there are different
“systems,” each claiming its own perspective on justice and legitimacy. How do we opt for one
or the other? Such a choice risks being motivated by personal interest alone in as much as
preference would go to that social system which better promises to realize our individual desires.

We see, then, the vicious circle behind this approach. We must choose which desires
should legitimately govern behavior and which should be repressed or re-educated. Clearly, the
desires themselves cannot act as criteria for this choice!

Just because all of us have, actually or potentially, numerous desires, many of them
conflicting and mutually incompatible, we have to decide between the rival claims of
rival desires. We have to decide in what direction to educate our desires, how to order a
variety of impulses, felt needs, emotions and purposes. Hence those rules which enable us
to decide between the claims of, and so to order, our desires – including the rules of
morality – cannot themselves be derived from or justified by reference to the desires
among which they have to arbitrate.175[175]

173[173] Paradigmatic in this regard is the thought of Jean Jacques Rousseau (1712-1778)
whose theories are best formulated in Discours sur les sciences et les arts and Discours sur
l’origine et les fondements de l’inégalité parmi les hommes.

174[174] The tension between reason and passions is well represented by Denis Diderot (1713-
1784) in Le neveu de Rameau.

175[175] Alasdair MacIntyre, After Virtue. A Study in Moral Theory (London: Gerald Duckworth, 1985), 48.
A. 3. “Pure Duty”

A third approach completely excludes desire and passion from the foundation of
morality. Such is the plan inaugurated by Immanuel Kant.176[176] The key concepts of his
moral thought are: disinterest, autonomy, duty, and the universality of the law.

1. The idea of disinterest is fundamental in Kant. He writes: “It is impossible to think of

anything at all in the world, or indeed even beyond it, that could be considered good without
limitation except a good will.”177[177] Hence, Kant is not interested in a good “human being”
endowed with body and spirit, intelligence and will, as well as sensibility and sentiments. He is
only interested in good will. “The sacredness of good will and moral intention is such that any
thought of happiness, any desire for happiness entering into the motivation of our acts can only
soil that intention, and cause it to fall off from the order of morality.”178[178] The moral subject
is a “pure agent,” who acts rightly without needing to perfect or fulfill his being.

2. The sensible world is the reign of necessity, governed by the inexorable laws of nature.
To this world belong the body, the passions, and the desire for happiness and realization.
Contrariwise, the moral world is the reign of freedom since the will cannot be submitted to any
law except that which it gives itself and with which it is totally identified. The will is absolutely
autonomous. This totally excludes the possibility of a legislator God who would render human
will “heteronomous.” But it also excludes love as moral motivation, “because love, so it seems,
is irremediably heteronomous. Is there any worse heteronomy than to do the will of another, and
to say to another whom one loves: thy will be done, not mine?” 179[179]

3. The will so-conceived is “autonomous” and “disinterested.” It can be called good only
when it adheres to duty without any other motive than duty itself. Hence, the moral life is not
founded on the good, but on pure duty. At the most, one could say that the good is founded on
duty. With this approach, you can’t say that you have a duty to do something because it is good;
rather, you have to say that something is good because you have a duty to do it! “Duty is the
necessity of an action from respect for the law.”180[180] And what is the “law”? Kant calls

176[176] For anyone who would like to go into depth on Kant’s thinking, I would advise reading
S. Vanni Rovighi, Introduzione allo studio di Kant, cited above. For a careful examination of
Kantian morality that is also specific, critical, and systematic, I refer you to Jacques Maritain,
Moral Philosophy: An Historical and Critical Survey of the Great Systems (New York, NY:
Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1964; orig. French, 1960).

177[177] Immanuel Kant, Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals, trans. Mary Gregor
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 7.

178[178] Maritain, Moral Philosophy, 99.

179[179] Ibid., 104.

180[180] Kant, Groundwork, 13.

practical law a “categorical imperative,” that is, an imperative that does not say: “If you want to
obtain this result you must . . .”, but rather, “You must, and that’s all there is to it – you must
because you must.” Duty cannot arise from anything other than itself, and the law cannot arise
from anything other than the will itself: “Hence the will is not merely subject to the law but
subject to it in such a way that it must be viewed as also giving the law to itself and just because
of this as first subject to the law (of which it can regard itself as the author).”181[181] Kant’s
duty is a form without content. It can not be otherwise since any kind of content would have to
be drawn either from the sensible world (i.e., nature, the world, the body) or from God – in any
case, not from the pure and autonomous will of the subject.

4. Nevertheless, “pure duty” must claim some content for itself, otherwise it says nothing
in regard to action. I “must,” but “what” must I? The first formula of Kant’s categorical
imperative says: Act in accordance with a maxim that can at the same time make itself a
universal law.182[182] If, for example, I am thinking about repaying a loan, I see that it is
logically impossible, or contradictory, to raise to the level of a universal law the maxim that says,
“It is never necessary to pay back loans.” In effect, if this maxim were held universally, there
would no longer be any loans! But let’s take another example: I am deciding whether or not to
kill a man who has offended me. In this case, there is no logical impossibility involved in making
a universal law out of the maxim that says, “It is always necessary to kill people who offend us.”
Nevertheless, according to Kant, it is a logical impossibility to want that such a maxim become
universal law because I would myself one day offend someone and then I would have to want to
be killed. The contradiction is in wanting a law that includes the death of the one who wants it.
“In one case as in the other Kant deduces the content of the moral law from its pure universality:
an act is forbidden, or contrary to the moral law, because it is logically impossible, or
contradictory, either to universalize its maxim, or to will to universalize its maxim.”183[183]

Consistent with his theory of knowledge, Kant believed that morality could only be
“saved” by removing it from the order of finality. Human beings should not act in view of an
end. They should not seek happiness. They should not tend to anything . . . But this hyper-
disinterest, beyond being literally “inhuman,” does not reach any other end than to cut morality
off from existence. In fact, as we have already noted (2. 2. 4. 2), anyone who acts, acts for an
end.

We can illustrate the difficulty in Kant’s argument thus:

- If I have no intention of repaying the loan, or if I intend to kill the person who
offends me . . . why should I behave differently?

- Kant would respond: Because otherwise you are not fulfilling your duty.

181[181] Ibid., 64.

182[182] Ibid., 44.

183[183] Maritain, Moral Philosophy, 110.

 - And why must I fulfill my duty if I’m interested in doing something else?

- Because otherwise you would be immoral.

- But why should I be moral?

- Because it’s your duty . . .

As is clear, such thinking forms a vicious circle. The solution lies in showing that the content of
duty, not only its form, corresponds to the true interest of the subject because it indicates a good
in itself. But it is exactly this notion of “the good in itself” that Kant’s morality refutes, just as
“the thing in itself” is refuted by his theory of knowledge.

A. 4. The State

With the total separation between the world of morality and the world of nature, ethics
becomes an a priori system. The philosopher deludes himself into thinking that he no longer
needs to reflect on human moral experience to discover the principles of morality (cf. 1. 3). He
presumes to dictate for men “the articles of a legislation of Pure Reason despotically imposed on
their life.”184[184]

This is Idealism in full swing. The individual person is considered irrelevant since he is
the bearer of all the miseries of “needs, interests, and ends.”185[185] The morality of the
individual is “abstract,” empty, and unreal because it is egoistic. Individuality must be overcome
by acceding to the universality that is realized in the ethicity (German: Sittlichkeit) of the State:
“The State is ethical substance aware of itself.”186[186] The individual disappears, his only task
being to adapt himself to the will of the State as expressed by the laws.

We can discern easily enough in the history of the 20th century the tragic outcome of this
conception. On the one hand, it led to Nazism, and on the other, to Marxist-Leninism. In both
systems, the human person serves only to advance the “cause” of the State.

But on what basis are the State’s laws determined? In vain would we seek a response to
this question! Such criteria have been taken from the feeling of the Arian race, the future of the
proletarian revolution, the consent of the majority, the interests of lobbies . . Given such
vacillating criteria, the only important thing is that the laws be promulgated in a formally correct
way. First, the State orders me to exterminate the prisoners of a concentration camp; then it
orders me to execute the person who ordered their extermination. Hence, we pass from idealism

184[184] Ibid., 112.

185[185] We touch here on some aspects of the thought of Georg W. F. Hegel as illustrated in
Encyclopedia of the Philosophical Sciences in Outline, P. III, sec. II, §§ 503-552.

186[186] Ibid., § 535.

to juridical positivism. If we ask whether euthanasia is good or evil, the response must be that in
State “X” it is an evil but in State “Y” it is a good. Since the legislator can change, this order can
be reversed: from tomorrow onward euthanasia could be a good in State “X” and an evil in State
“Y.” This marks the end of universalism in ethics.

A. 5. Utility and Consequences

The last bastion of modern universalism is to be found in the consequentialist approach.

This theory has its roots in classical positivism and utilitarian morality. Utilitarianism asserts that
the good is that which brings about the advantage of the greatest number of people while creating
the minimum amount of disadvantage. A good act, therefore, is a “useful” act, that is, one that
produces good consequences. Universal moral duty means seeking a “maximization of the
good.”187[187]

We should note, first of all, a vicious circle in this formulation. An act is said to be good
when it produces good consequences. But what are good consequences? On the basis of what
parameters are they defined as such? Classical utilitarianism speaks of the greatest amount of
happiness for the greatest number of people, thus identifying ethics with a kind of “social
arithmetic.” The fascination that utilitarianism has exercised on contemporary culture depends
precisely on this presumption that moral values can be treated as if they are goods for exchange.
But soon enough it becomes clear that “happiness” is a concept that does not fall under additions
and subtractions. What makes one person happy can be an object of absolute indifference to
another person. Even for the same person, what he values and what he enjoys may lie on very
different, incommensurable planes. And if we succeed in coming up with a preference, the
criteria on the basis of which this is done is certainly not that of utility, but something else which
escapes utilitarians.

Moreover, if we apply the consequentialist theory consistently, we soon see how

untenable it is. For example, let us imagine that in village “X” a horrible crime is committed. The
identity of the guilty party is unknown, but he is believed to come from village “Y.” The
population of village “X” threatens heavy reprisals on village “Y.” There is risk of civil war with
hundreds of dead. Hence, the rulers of villages “X” and “Y” randomly select a citizen, declare
him guilty of the crime, and hang him in the public square thereby restoring calm among the
population. Their action, though resulting in the death of an innocent man, has as a consequence
the saving of hundreds of other people. Is such behavior acceptable? It would take some kind of
courage to say “yes” since everyone of us spontaneously puts himself in the shoes of the
innocent scapegoat. What if he were our father, our brother, our son . . .? Moreover, we can’t
allow anything to happen to someone else that we wouldn’t want to happen to us. But it’s exactly
this that puts a check on “consequentialist arithmetic.” Numerically speaking, a hundred is more
than one. For ethics, however, things are rather more complicated.

187[187] See John Stuart Mill (1806-1873), Utilitarianism, Liberty and Representative
Government.
B. Relativism

We are well aware these days of the complexity of moral reflection. The mass media has
habituated us to debates between “experts” of various cultural extractions who hold contradictory
positions on the same subjects. They build their arguments on concepts and references to values
or norms that are very different, even incommensurable, with each other. Anyone listening to
these exchanges can get the impression that no objectively valid position on the matter exists.
As a result, the question of what to do is relegated to criteria “relative” to every
individual.188[188]

If you analyze these discourses, however, tracing their arguments back from conclusion
to premises, you will find that they come apart at a certain point. Take the case of euthanasia, for
instance. In a televised talk-show, two “experts” face each other. The first one, on the side of
euthanasia, bases his arguments on the “right to choose.” The other one, on the contrary, founds
his discourse on the “sacredness of life.” While the latter affirms that in questions of life no one
has the right to choose, the former maintains that in questions of choice no one has the right to
interfere. Neither party seems to have reasons that can convince his adversary his founding
premise is the correct one. In the end, it looks to us as if the choice of the premises themselves is
essentially arbitrary.

B. 1. Emotivism

In fact, the use of moral language today is emotivistic.189[189] It sends out messages that
purport to be impersonal and objective but are in reality nothing more than expressions of
subjective approval or disapproval. To say: “This behavior is bad” is the same as saying: “I
disapprove of this behavior – and you should disapprove of it, too!” Since I do not have any
rational argument capable of convincing you to disapprove of the behavior in question, I will try
to bring you around with the most emotionally suggestive appeal possible, using subliminal
messages to condition you.

The tendency to “manipulate” the interlocutor (and, above all, the great mass of the
public) is one of the most dangerous social implications of emotivism. From this perspective,
there is no substantial difference between a commercial spot and an ethical argument.

To dialogue on the basis of rational arguments means accepting the “bi-lateral” nature of
confrontation (i.e., you speak and I listen, then I speak and you listen). This procedure appeals to
the intelligence and respects the freedom of others in a reciprocal contest. On the contrary, to
condition someone through emotional suggestions is a “unilateral” procedure intended to coerce

188[188] Alasdair MacIntyre furnishes an interesting examination of contemporary relativism in After Virtue
although, unfortunately, he himself is not immune. For a critique of relativism, see D. von Hildebrand, “The
Dethronement of Truth,” in The New Tower of Babel (Chicago, IL: Franciscan Herald Press, 1977), 57-100.

189[189] A clear example of the emotive theory of moral evaluations can be found in the work of
the American empiricist philosopher Charles L. Stevenson (Ethics and Language, 1946).
the freedom of others and deprive an opponent of the chance to examine a message critically and
respond to it. In short, we are dealing with a real act of violence.

And that’s not the end of it. From psychological violence we pass next to physical
violence: terrorism. When it is believed that no objective truth exists as a basis for ethical
judgements, brute force necessarily takes the place of law, oppression is substituted for
conviction, and terror supplants truth.

B. 2. Historicism, Sociologism, and Psychologism

Historicism is the classic relativistic theory. Its advocates maintain that every moral
choice and its justifying reasons are only the expressions of a determined historical epoch.
There’s no point in asking whether a certain behavior is good or bad or a certain moral
judgement true or false. Rather, enormous amounts of intellectual energy are spent in pursuit of
the historical background of these behaviors and judgements, that is, the factors that went into
influencing them . . . But the question of truth and good is drastically eliminated.

The form of historicism that is most in vogue today is sociologism which attempts to
make every choice and every moral judgement dependent on the sociological structure in which
it evolves. Here also we do not ask “what” is chosen and “how” such a choice is justified, but
only what are the “social-historical motives” for which a choice is made.

This attitude also informs the mentality of contemporary Psychologism, preoccupied with
finding the connection between choices, judgements, and the lived psychological experiences of
which a subject is more or less aware, while at the same time distancing itself totally from the
truth or good implied by these experiences.

This is not to negate the importance of history, the study of the socio-cultural ambience,
or the lived psychological experiences that underlie specific moral attitudes. Certainly, every
choice and every judgement is a “child of its history” since every person is a “child of his time.”
However, we can’t help but notice that the great figures of history, such as Socrates, M. Attilius
Regulus, and Maximilian Kolbe, proved their worth by breaking free of the “mediocre morality”
of their epoch, rising far above it to reach a higher level of good.190[190] It is this epoch-
transcending criteria that interests us here.

B. 3. Genesis, Evolution, and the Dissolution of Relativism

How did contemporary ethical relativism come into existence? The answer lies within the
complex history of the passage from modernity to post-modernity.

190[190] See above, chapter 2, sections 2. 1. 2 and 2. 2. 1.

 Until the 19th century, western culture was marked by a stable, strongly centralized social
system. The “center” of this system might have been the small polis or commune, or the capital
of the empire; it was represented by the temple or the cathedral, or by the municipality, the royal
palace or parliament . . . In any case, there was a clear “center” around which life gravitated and
in virtue of which every person had his own identity: noble, knight, cleric, middle class, servant,
etc. Such identity carried with it a clear framework of rights and duties and regulated life down
to the smallest particulars. We can describe this system as an “ethical totality” founded on great,
shared, metaphysical-religious conceptions.

In the nearly unanimous judgement of sociologists,191[191] modernity grew out of a

process of differentiation and individualization. On the one hand, society was differentiated into
innumerable, partial systems (not only family-village-state-church, but companies, schools,
agencies, organizations, parties, associations, unions, etc.); on the other hand, individual interests
and needs began to infringe on community concerns.

Our society, at least in the industrialized countries, is now “a-centric.” It is characterized

by “weak” ties, rapid changes, individualism, shifts and fluctuations in roles, instability, and the
need to adapt to ever new conditions. With no recognized center, and no shared metaphysical-
religious conceptions, we have seen the dissolution of “ethical totality” and the absolutizing of
the singular, individual conscience: No one can tell me what I should do (no one has the
knowledge or authority to teach me). I myself must “invent” my life, my plan, my “rules.”

No one believes any more that an objective sense of the world exists, that there is a
rational, objective order that human reason can understand, even if with difficulty, and realize at
the personal level. Society is divided into many spheres of separate values, and neither faith nor
reason has any longer the cultural resources to unify these values into a single, coherent
meaning. An individual subscribes to the values of the workplace while at work (e. g., primacy
of profit, competition, ambition, servility . . .), another completely different set of values when at
church, and still other, even contrary, values for what concerns his leisure activities, the schools
his children attend, etc. We may call the ethical framework thus erected a “polytheism of
values.”

It makes no sense to pine after the “ethical totality” of the past. Yes, that system
guaranteed a certain order and security, but often at a very high price. The unity and
irrepeatability of each person was strongly compromised since behavior tended toward an
homologous agreement with dominant canons and, often, social hypocrisy.

In the face of this ethical dissolution, culture at first fell prey to the wild exaltation of
difference, fragmentation, and the birth of a new individualism. Horizons of potentially
unlimited meaning opened up for everyone and any choice became comparable with any other.
There was nothing that could not be “overhauled.” Whatever we used to do, we could now do
differently. It no longer made any sense to distinguish truth from falsehood since everyone lived

191[191] On these themes, cf. Sergio Belardinelli, Il gioco delle parti (Rome: AVE, 1996), 15-
41.
in a “hypothetical” condition: I think like this today, but tomorrow I may think differently. I
won’t commit myself to anything or put too much at stake.

But the intoxication of infinite possibility, as Kierkegaard noted,192[192] generates

anguish. In fact, the most prevalent sentiments of “postmodern” culture are disorientation,
identity crises, and loss. Instead of freedom, we find disorder and an incapacity to manage
ourselves or our relationships with others and the world.

Moreover, the enthusiasm for science and technology, which up until some decades ago
seemed “carved in stone,” has given way to a worrisome pessimism. “Science and technology
have ceased to be instruments in men’s hands as they become more and more ends in
themselves. We could say the same, perhaps in even stronger terms, of the economy. We wanted
more freedom, but have become part of anonymous processes instead . . . More and more we
have the impression that things just happen on their own.”193[193]

The current “ecological turn” is a first, clear expression of a prevalent sense of

uneasiness. Everyone can see that nature is rebelling, that she does not accept being treated as a
mere object of arbitrary exploitation, and that to treat her in such a way results in serious injury
to the population of this planet. The conviction is spreading that we must recognize a specific
finality in natural things, a finality whose importance surpasses the usefulness man makes of it.

All this has lead to the rediscovery of the ethical category of responsibility.194[194]
Awareness is growing that our actions produce irreversible effects; hence, we cannot operate on
the basis of hypothetical, fallible theories of a relative kind. When action departs from
hypothesis, failure is always possible. But it is one thing for a scientific experiment to fail in a
laboratory and another for it to fail in the world of life – where failure has serious repercussions!

The conclusion is that we cannot move forward on the basis of flimsy, hypothetical
thinking. “What we need are strong convictions, a spirit of truth, and the capacity to bear witness
with firmness and without fanaticism.”195[195]

* * *

192[192] See Søren Kierkegaard, The Concept of Anxiety (1844) and The Fatal Disease (1849).

193[193] Belardinelli, 32.

194[194] Cf. Hans Jonas, The Imperative of Responsibility: In Search of an Ethics for the
Technological Age, trans. Hans Jonas with David Herr (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago
Press, 1984; orig. German: 1979).

195[195] Belardinelli, 36.

 The cultural-philosophical tendency that is most wide-spread today radically contests the
notion that an objective response to moral questions can be given at all. There is little belief in
the existence of universal and valid criteria on the basis of which we can establish what is right
and wrong. Good and evil are taken to be purely subjective categories. The virtuous good is a
“value” attributed to any kind of behavior whatever by free individuals.

But is human freedom really the source of values? In keeping with the method we have
pursued thus far, let’s go back to “the things themselves.”

Consider, for example, propositions such as these:

a) “We must defend the weak from the aggression of the strong.”

b) “Rape is never permissible.”

c) “Motor vehicles must drive on the right.”

We may feel that such a list offends our intelligence. For one thing, it is incongruent to
put proposition “c” on the same level as “a” and “b.” Why? Because proposition “c” is based on
a simple convention created by human law. We would not be perturbed if the legislator had
decided differently. We drive on the right because it is prescribed by law; if the contrary had
been prescribed, we would drive on the left.

Propositions “a” and “b,” on the other hand, do not depend on human convention. If there
are (and there must be!) human laws that prescribe in various ways what propositions “a” and
“b” affirm, it is not the laws themselves that give a positive value to the defense of the weak and
a negative value to rape. On the contrary, the laws must require defense of the weak because it is
“good” and prohibit rape because it is “bad.” The ideas “good” and “bad” are rooted in the
essence of the human person and the nature of the actions addressed.

When the weak are oppressed by the strong, my freedom does not establish that it is good
to help them. I can only decide to realize this good or not. Where rape is concerned, I am not
free to say: “It’s permissible.” The source of these values lies outside of me, that is, it is
“transcendent.” I do not create these values. I find them. I am in the truth when my thinking
accords with reality. The truth of all this is evident from moral experience itself and the moral
terms used in everyday language.

However, the manner in which we know and discern the true good is a much more
complex question.
9. 2. The True Good

We have already said that anyone who acts, acts for an end. The desired end of an action
is what we have called “good.” At this point of our journey, we must ask ourselves what is the
true good to which our actions should tend.

Since we are speaking of our actions – of human acts – it is clear that the end to which
these acts tend must be an end for man, that is, a good for man. Now, we should remember that
the actions of man are singular and concrete, and human only in so far as they are directed by
reason. Thus, the exigencies of both rationality and the concrete situation have to be reconciled.

In the light of what we have said in preceding chapters, it should be clear that good action
is rational action; hence, we must entrust our behavior to the guidance of reason. As we have
often repeated, a person acts in a way worthy of his humanity when his passions are controlled
by his will, and the will is right when it adheres to the good indicated by the intelligence.

But how does the intelligence grasp what is truly good? We have seen that this good is
not “created” by human reason, but simply “discovered.” Yes, but discovered where? And how?

9. 2. 1. Man’s “Humanity” as Source

The response that comes from the phenomenology of moral action and from traditional,
classical philosophy is that the good is discovered in man himself, in the “being-such” of man, in
his eîdos, in his most profound identity. In a word, the good is rooted in our humanity.

Now, our humanity is something we find actualized in ourselves and others, but not in a
static way. Humanity consists in being-human, but this in itself means becoming-human, making
oneself-human, drawing ever closer and better to what we are.

We need to dwell on this for a moment because the foundations of classical ethics, often
misunderstood by modern thinkers, can be found right here.

It’s easy to see that human beings need many things: food, a home, company, culture . . .
Man is a structurally “indigent” creature.

Now, this “indigence” is a fact; it is an empirically observable lack of something. But to

identify a lack means to discover in the “being as it is” the “should be” that points to the
removal of such a lack. Man finds himself to be “imperfect” both physically and spiritually. In
discovering this imperfection, however, he also discovers what direction he should take to realize
his perfection.

This truth is commonly passed over by many contemporary authors who accept as an
axiom the so-called “Law of Hume” (1711-1776) which affirms the impossibility of deriving
moral judgements from judgements of fact: “Having-to-be does not derive from being” (you
can’t derive “ought” from “is”).196[196] But man’s needy condition is precisely a “data of
fact” (an is) from which a “having to be” (an ought) rigorously follows. We are human beings,
and this is a fact; but we are imperfect, and this is also a fact. Consequently, our “being-human”
is not simply a fact: it is a task! Our end is to realize the potential implicit in our humanity by
developing ourselves in the direction indicated by our humanity. Our indigence, our
imperfection, our humanity directs us toward certain goals, certain “finishing lines,” if you will,
by inclining us toward specific goods.197[197]

9. 2. 2. Natural Inclinations

What is man? He is first of all a being – “something that is.” But a rock is also said “to
be.” So is God said “to be.” We have to distinguish things beyond mere being. Man, then, is a
particular “being” of an animal kind. Within this kind, however, man can be even further
distinguished by a specific characteristic: he is a rational animal.

Now, we can recognize in man three types of tendency or inclination: those which are
common to all beings, those which are common only to animals, and those which are specific to
man.

A reader who is unfamiliar with classical philosophical terminology might feel

perplexed: What does it mean to speak of tendencies common to all beings? Can an inanimate
being – a stone – have a tendency?! Modern language creates a problem for us here because
expressions such as “tendency” or “inclination” have assumed a mostly psychological
connotation. Of themselves, however, they do not have this sense. They are, rather, derived from
the language of physics: tendency comes from “to tend,” that is, to draw; inclination comes from
“to incline,” that is, to bend toward a direction. The way we are using them here, however, goes
beyond the physical. For us, they have a meta-physical meaning.

First of all, every being tends to “continue being” according to its own nature. If beings
did not have this tendency, they would not persist. A stone remains identical with itself as long
as an external cause does not interfere to modify it. We could say that in inanimate beings this
tendency is a passive, “static” inclination.

Animals as beings also have the tendency to persist in being according to their own
nature. However, they realize this inclination in a typically animal way. In common language, we
call this “survival instinct.” Beyond the inclination to being, animals possess other inclinations
proper to animal kind, such as that of reproduction and, in many species, the care of their young.

196[196] See David Hume, A Treatise on Human Nature, III, I, sect. I.

197[197] For what follows, see A. Vendemiati, La legge naturale nella “Summa Theologiae” di
S. Tommaso d’Aquino (Rome: Dehoniane, 1995), 148-150.
 As a rational animal, man participates in the inclinations common to all beings and all
animals, but in a specifically human, or rational, manner. The inclination to preserve his being
and to procreate and educate his children are manifested not only at the “static” or instinctive
level, but at the particularly rational level. Further, in man we find certain specifically human
inclinations, such as the tendency to know the truth (above all, the Supreme Truth) and to live in
society.

If, then, we ask what is the good to which all human existence tends, the response must
be sought at the level of human rationality. This answer does not exclude but includes the level
of being an animal. In other words, the preservation of life, procreation, and the education of
offspring, the knowledge of the truth, social life, and all the other ends to which our humanity
inclines us are “human goods.”

 The task inherent in our humanity, therefore, is to pursue the goods to which our
humanity itself is inclined.

9. 2. 3. Man’s Ultimate End

In this way, we can come to understand that “human goods” are ordered to the “good of
man.” The finalities we discover in our bodies and minds are in their turn finalized by the total
good of the person.

What is this good? It is the perfection of man as such, that is, the state in which we no
longer desire anything because we are fully enjoying the good obtained: complete happiness.

At this point, someone might wonder: So, have we worked our way back to basing the
good on happiness? Didn’t we excluded such an idea at the beginning of this journey? In reality,
we are not founding the good on happiness, but rather, authentic happiness on the good! We can
do this once we show that the concept of authentic good is founded on the nature of man.

9. 2. 3. 1. Happiness and the Good

Undoubtedly, if we had no desire for happiness we wouldn’t act at all (cf. 2. 2. 4). We
would have no reason for qualifying anything as “good” or “bad.”

To put it in philosophically precise terms, we can say that happiness “constitutes the
ultimate, formal motivation of choices, and precisely for this reason cannot itself be the criteria
of right choice, nor can the criteria of right choice be deduced from it. Happiness, the formal end
of conduct, cannot be the rule of conduct.”198[198]

198[198] Abbà, Felicità, vita buona e virtù, 52.

 In other words, everything we want, we want because we desire to be happy. But this
does not mean that the concrete objects of our choices and actions should be considered as mere
“means” to procure happiness! We do not decide, for example, to help a needy person because it
will make us happy, but because it is good to help him. Certainly, to realize the good means
making our lives “good” and, hence, “happy”; nevertheless, good remains an end in itself,
something desired and pursued for itself and not as a means to anything else. It belongs to the
category of the virtuous and not the useful good.

9. 2. 3. 2. Perfect and Imperfect Happiness

Every realization of the good constitutes a partial realization of true happiness. At this
point, however, we run into that “disproportion” where (to borrow a notion from Pascal) man
infinitely transcends man.199[199] This is to say that the human heart is characterized by a thirst
for total, absolute happiness which can never be satisfied by any relative, terrestrial good – as are
our actions and human virtues – since every “relative” good, by definition, still leaves room for
desire. The absolute, beatific Good can be nothing other than God alone.200[200]

This truth, about which the pages of St. Augustine and many of the mystics overflow, can
be phenomenologically noted by anyone who reflects dispassionately on human existence. Even
atheists and unbelievers catch a glimpse of it. I cannot help thinking of the poet G. Leopardi
(1798-1837) who expressed the “feeling of the nullity of all things, the insufficiency of all
pleasure to fill the heart, and our tendency toward an infinite that we do not
understand.”201[201]

Do we conclude, then, that we must believe in the existence of God to understand that
rape is an evil and helping the poor a good? Obviously not. Our study has taken us in the
opposite direction: inquiring into what is good or evil for human beings has lead us to recognize
that their supreme good and perfect happiness is in God!

Certainly, for anyone who refuses the notion of God or, in the spirit of fideism, leaves
Him outside the boundaries of rational knowledge, the desire for happiness is “absurd.” It comes
to be seen as a kind of curse that impedes the taste for pleasure and leads to disquiet. But isn’t
this, perhaps, an intrinsic sanction to remain obstinate and closed to the truth out of self-
sufficient pride? Man is made to know the truth (above all, the highest Truth) with his
intelligence and adhere to the true-good (above all, the highest Good) with his will. When he
refuses the truth, he deviates not only from his own dignity, but also from happiness. The “evil of
living” (to cite the poet Montale), despair with its train of violence, mental illness, toxic-
dependency and suicide – all this finds here its essential motivation.

199[199] Pascal, Pensées, trans. A. J. Krailsheimer (New York, NY: Penguin Books, 1995), 35
(#434).

200[200] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, I-II, q. 2, particularly a. 8, c.

201[201] Giacomo Leopardi, Zibaldone, 165.

 Openness to the truth, on the other hand, in keeping with the essential structure of our
nature, disposes us to recognize man’s end because it has a certain “connaturality” with it.
“Beatitude,” says St. Thomas, “is nothing other than the joy that comes from the truth.”202[202]

Obviously, the revelation of God in Christ opens new horizons at this level while denying
nothing of what has been gained by rational reflection. On the contrary, it helps to clarify it.

The happiness of the wise man who does not know God is the joy that comes from a
virtuous life ordered by reason. It reaches its summit in human friendship and the knowledge of
God through His works. This can be called “imperfect beatitude,” in contrast with perfect,
supernatural beatitude.203[203] But we should note right away that the concept “imperfect
beatitude” is problematic since “with the name of beatitude one means only the perfect good of
the intellectual nature.”204[204] Imperfect beatitude, then, would be “imperfect perfection”! We
might say that we find ourselves in front of a “dialectical” concept, at once full of assertion and
negation, inviting us to overcome it. Undoubtedly, the concept of “natural happiness” is clearer
for us as something proportioned to human nature. Man can pursue this happiness by his own
effort (though not without the help of God), using his natural faculties correctly to arrive at the
knowledge of humanly accessible truth. But the man who is “happy” in this way still lacks
something. And let’s not forget that the natural human faculties are in a state of habitual disorder
because of concupiscence, causing us to stop at transitory goods to the neglect of the ultimate
good.205[205]

Perfect beatitude, or beatitude pure and simple, infinitely surpasses the capacities of
human nature, making them only anticipations. Thus, happiness can only be a gift of God, that is,
supernatural. Philosophy can illustrate the desire for and suitability of happiness, but only
theology can describe its essence and modality.

9. 3. The Basis of Human Rights

Our inquiry now stands on solid ground:

202[202] St. Thomas Aquinas, In Evangelium S. Iohannis, c. X, lect. I; cf. Summa theologiae I-
II, q. 3, a. 4, c., citing St. Augustine, Confessions, X, c. 23.

203[203] See St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, I-II, q. 62, a. 1.

204[204] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, I, q. 26, a. 1.

205[205] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, I-II, q. 82, aa. 1 and 3. Christian revelation
teaches that this anthropological situation – which philosophy can only describe – is the
consequence of original sin.
  Reason grasps as human goods the objects of the inclinations (common and specific)
inscribed on human nature.

9. 3. 1. Nature and Reason

Reason enables us to know the good. To live well, then, means “to live according to
reason.”206[206] But this is not to say that reason draws the value and meaning of things from
itself. It finds the aim of duty, the good, in human nature as a whole: corporeal and spiritual,
animal and rational.

It is nature that inclines us toward the good. But this nature is not a hypothetical stage
prior to the development of society, nor is it simply the animal, biological dimension of the
human being. True, the “natural” basis of ethics must be sought in the “natural” inclinations
inherent in every person. But beware! These natural inclinations should not be confused with
spontaneous, subjective desires or with individual taste.

Natural inclinations are connected first of all with the anatomical structure of the body:
the eye is made for seeing, the digestive system for assimilating food, the genital organs for
reproduction, etc. Our somatic structure bears an intrinsic finality: to survive and propagate the
species. At a higher level, we discover in ourselves the exigency of knowing the truth, forming
bonds of friendship, and living in peace. These finalities or exigencies constitute inclinations
whose objects are present to the reason as goods to pursue, while their contraries (death,
extinction of the species, ignorance, enmity, etc.) are understood as evils to avoid.

Thus, the pursuit of these goods is adequate to and consonant with human existence not
because someone has arbitrarily decided upon them, but because human nature is made in this
way. Obviously, it is reason that grasps this consonance – but it is not reason that constitutes it.

9. 3. 2. Human Rights and Their Order

In classical terms, the consonant relationship between a good and a person is called
justice. It is just that a person be allowed to seek and obtain a certain good. He has a right to that
good (cf. 6. 2). And since this does not concern a relationship that is established or “put in place”
by any authority, but one that is inherent in nature, we can speak of “natural justice” or a natural
right.

This is the foundation of the famous “rights of man” which contemporary thought exalts
but cannot justify! Man has the right to life and to the integrity of his members because nature
inclines him to the possession of these things. The same can be said for the right to truth, to
freedom of conscience and religious liberty, to the free choice of a state of life, etc. On this basis
arise the precepts of natural law requiring us to respect other’s rights and avoid whatever is
contrary to them (as we will see in the next chapter).

206[206] See St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, I-II, q. 94, a. 4..
 In the notion of natural right, reason can also apprehend that there exists an order to the
inclinations and the precepts flowing from them. This order is founded ultimately on the fact that
the subject of these inclinations is one, that is, the same person who has the right to life and
physical integrity also has the right to live in society and freely practice his religion. On the basis
of this objective order of inclinations and precepts, it makes no sense to speak of a so-called
“quality of life” (i.e., comfort, ease, health, etc.) when life itself is at risk. “What shall a man give
in return for his life?”207[207] Moreover, this order tells us that it is also possible to renounce
an inferior good (e. g., a certain food) for a superior good (e. g., to help a friend), etc.

9. 4. Sources of Morality

Clearly, our singular choices (and the concrete actions that follow them) do not have the
beatific good for their object, but rather, singular concrete goods. This is why we are free to
choose. In the face of the absolute Good, our will could not NOT adhere totally; whereas, before
a plurality of relative goods, it is always possible to choose one and refuse another on the basis
of our own estimation and evaluation.

If we ask ourselves at this point in our inquiry what renders a human act good or bad, we
can already give a response: A good act is one that tends to a human good according to the order
of natural inclinations. But what is our criteria for determining if a good is ordered or not?

Human existence should be considered a succession of acts that have “successive”

character thanks to a particular subset of acts which permit these different moments to “hold
together.” That is to say linguistic acts that prepare, represent, and recount action. Now, to
describe action, minimally we need to consider three elements: the objective structure of the act,
its motivation, and the circumstances. These elements are known as the “sources of morality”
because they permit us to specify the essence of a moral act.

9. 4. 1. The Objective Structure of the Act

The first element required for the qualification of an act is its objective structure: What
has been done? This is an extremely important point that is not always expressed with due
clarity.

An action can be described in impersonal terms that consider only its physical aspects (its
“ontic” elements). For example: “Jim draws a banknote from his pocket and hands it to Bob who
then puts it in his pocket.”

It is clear that a description of this type tells us almost nothing about the identity of the
action itself! It could be payment if the money is given in exchange for goods; or compensation
if it is in exchange for services rendered; or an act of corruption if it is in exchange for an illicit

207[207] Mt 16:26.
favor; or a gift if it is given spontaneously with nothing in return; or an act of extortion if it is
given to avoid blackmail . . .

The mere description of an act’s ontic elements does not qualify the act’s structure. We
know, in fact, that an act is a human act only when it is voluntary, guided by a chosen action and
object. This means that the human act is always intentional. A description in terms of physical
categories (i.e., handing-over-a-banknote) does not make an act human if it does not proceed
from a will that in the accomplishment of these movements intends something.

We need to know why Jim gives Bob the banknote: as payment, gift, restitution . . . ?
Once we know, the objective structure of the act as “payment” or “gift” or “restitution” will be
revealed. It would never suffice to mention only the ontic aspects of the act.

The objective structure of an act is its fundamental intentionality, in classical terms, the
finis operis (the aim of the operation). The actions described can be called “base intentional-
actions.”208[208]

This constitutes the first level of intention. We can add a further level by asking again,
“What for?” For example, what does Jim makes this gift for? Is it a gift out of friendship? Is it to
fulfill a social duty? Is it to win over someone’s sympathies? As we will see, this constitutes
what we call the motive, though others have designated it intention in a stricter sense. Classically,
it is known as the finis operantis (the aim of the acting person).

In this sense, human acts can be described as means ordered to the attainment of an end.
If the end (the motive) is to win over someone’s sympathy, the means may be the giving of a gift
(base intentional-action). The money, then, is not a means, but only an ontic element that enters
into the base intentional-actions of the gift, as do the material objects and physical movements
that constitute the action. “The means, then, are always human actions defined on the intentional
plane: actions that are chosen, and as such are objects of acts of choice, that is, in as much as
they are born from a will guided by the reason.”209[209]

We should note right away that there are acts that correspond to the inclinations of human
nature and respect its objective order (e. g., eating), and other acts that oppose these inclinations
and contradict their order (e. g., suicide). Moreover, there are acts that in themselves neither
contradict nor correspond to natural inclinations (e. g., painting). An act, then, must be
considered from its fundamental intentionality as a species of morality that can be good or
bad.210[210]

208[208] See Rhonheimer, 85-94.

209[209] Ibid., 91.

210[210] “In fact, all the moral realities get their species from their end. Good action and good
habitus are specified by their order to the obligatory end; by virtue of this good the specific
difference of the habitus and the moral action is determined; bad action, however, is specified by
 9.4. 2. The Motive

To the fundamental intentionality of an act we may add the motive, or finis operantis,
which indicates the interior attitudes or personal finalities that lead a subject to perform one
action rather than another. Motive determines the ultimate finality of an act and allows us to
qualify it on the basis of its fundamental intentionality as a “means” to obtaining something.

Motives can be good or bad in themselves. Good motives are those that allow man to
realize the end of a virtuous life. Bad motives, on the contrary, subordinate the considerations of
a virtuous life to what is useful or pleasurable.

As we have seen (3. 1. 2), “choice” is an act of the will directed toward a means. In this
chapter, we have said that “intention” is an act which tends toward an ulterior end. In reality,
these two elements form one object of action (or one object of the will). We choose to give a gift
because we have the intention of “expressing friendship.” Hence, the object of the will is one:
to-give-a-gift-for-friendship.

Now, since “to-choose-a-means-in-view-of-an-end” is a single act of the will which

constitutes a unique intentional action, it is understandable why not every means is compatible
with every end. Let us suppose that my intention concerns a just end, for example, to help the
poor – but I choose to perform robbery as a means to obtain this end . . . The action taken as a
whole is contradictory in respect to the global end since justice cannot be obtained by an act of
injustice!

With this we have arrived at a point of extreme importance for the comprehension of
ethical discourse: An action whose objective structure conflicts with a fundamental human good
can never become good. No motive and no circumstance will ever be able to justify it. To choose
a behavior of this kind is always evil. Killing, stealing, betraying, and lying are a few examples
of intrinsically evil acts which, not respecting the human person in his constitutive nature, can
never become good.

If the objective structure of an act is good or indifferent, a good motive will augment the
goodness of the act and make it subjectively good. For example, it is objectively good to help our
neighbor; however, I might have to help a family whose house is burning simply because I am a
fireman. If I act only according to the obligations imposed on me by my superiors, only caring to
keep my job and without any interest in the people I am helping, I would objectively (or

its order to an end that is not obligatory, in which is mixed the privation of the obligatory end, by
virtue of which the concept of evil enters in.” St. Thomas Aquinas, In II Sententiarum, d. 34, q.
1, a. 3, ad 3m. One should note that “moral acts take their species from the proximate end that is
their object, not from the acts’ remote end.” St. Thomas Aquinas, De malo, q. 2, a. 6, ad 9m; cf.
q. 8, a. 1, ad 14m. “Since moral acts take their species or are assigned to a genus by reason of
their object, we can know that a moral act is evil by reason of its kind if the very act is not
properly related to its matter or object.” Ibid., q. 10, a. 1, c; cf. q. 12, a. 3, c. (Citations taken
from On Evil, trans. by Richard Regan, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003).
materially) be doing what is good, but such an action would not enrich me personally nor
contribute to making me a good person. If, on the other hand, my intention includes love for
these poor people and concern for the common good, my action also becomes subjectively (or
formally) good. I will then be not only a “good fireman,” but a “good man.”211[211]

In the same way, it can happen that an objectively good action becomes subjectively bad
if performed with a bad intention, for example, out of vainglory or hypocrisy.

Thus, if the objective structure of an act is bad, no good motive can modify its intrinsic
badness. Let us take the case of a pregnant woman who is gravely ill and chooses to abort her
baby to save her own life (the so-called “therapeutic abortion”). The intention may be good, but
the objective structure of the action undertaken is intrinsically bad. Consequently, the act is bad,
not only materially, but also formally, because a person cannot perform direct abortion without
wanting to kill the fetus, that is, without committing voluntary homicide which is always a
formally bad act. The end does not justify the means.

9. 4. 3. The Circumstances

To describe an action fully, we need to take into consideration the elements

“surrounding” the act, that is, the circumstances. Without modifying fundamental intentionality,
circumstances nevertheless help us to specify and qualify an act more precisely.

In the case of theft, for example, it is clear that the moral gravity of the act will be greater
if the thief is rich rather than poor. Moreover, to steal from a poor man is more serious than to
steal from a rich man. Hence, the identity of the subjects involved is an important circumstance.

Further, to steal an apple is very different from stealing a crown of jewels. Thus, the
material object of the action is also very significant!

We could also consider the place where an action is carried out. Breaking into a house for
the purpose of robbery adds violation of domicile to the crime of theft.

Penal codes attribute particular gravity to “associative actions,” that is, to those actions in
which two or more people reciprocally assist each other to commit an evil. If a theft is done with
the help of someone, this aspect must also be taken into consideration among the relevant
circumstances.

A man can steal because he is hungry, because of a challenge, out of avarice for money . .
. These aspects are normally part of the “motive,” but they also constitute circumstances which
must be taken into account.

211[211] The good man is the one who does good because it is good and not because he hopes to
draw any advantage from it. Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I-II, q. 19, a. 7, ad 3m.
 The way an action is performed also makes a difference and must be taken into
consideration. A person can rob others with violence or with cleverness; a theft can happen “by
force” or “by dexterity.”

Lastly, we must take into account the time in which an action is undertaken. Theft is
particularly vile if perpetrated in a house that is in mourning for the death of a loved one . .
.212[212]

When it concerns bad actions, we also speak of aggravating or attenuating circumstances.

But the moral weight of a good act can also vary depending on circumstances. For example, it is
objectively good to help a needy neighbor, but if this help is particularly difficult the goodness of
the act increases. We should note that an act good in itself can become bad if done in the wrong
circumstances, just as an act indifferent in itself can become good or bad, again depending on the
circumstances.

From what we have just said, I think the meaning of this classical saying should be clear:

 “Evil results from any single defect, but good from the complete cause” 213[213]

In order that a human act be good, all three elements that characterize it must be good:
the objective structure of the action must be good, or at least indifferent; the circumstances must
tend to the good; and the intention must be good.

If the objective structure of the action is intrinsically bad, no circumstance and no

intention can make it good.

If the motive is bad, even an action that is objectively good in structure and undertaken in
appropriate circumstances becomes bad.

If the circumstances are inappropriate, even an action that is objectively good in structure
and pursued for good motives becomes bad.

10. The Moral Law

In the preceding chapter, we determined the criterion for distinguishing good (i.e., virtue)
from evil (i.e., vice). Now it remains for us to see how this criterion becomes the rule of conduct
by being transformed into “law.”

212[212] With these examples we have intended to present the seven classical circumstances
enumerated in the noted verse of Cicero: Quis, quid, ubi, quibus auxiliis, cur, quomodo, quando
(cf. De Inventione Rethorica, I, 24).

213[213] “Bonum ex integris causis, malum ex quocumque defectu.” St. Thomas Aquinas,
Summa Theologiae, I-II, q. 18, a. 4, ad 3m, citing Dionysius, De divinis nominibus, iv.
 Since the concept of moral law is problematic in contemporary culture, we will begin
with a brief examination of the most prevalent attitudes about it (10.1). After this introduction,
we will probe the essence of moral law (10.2) and then concentrate on the concept of natural
moral law and its dimensions (10.3). Finally, we will cast light on the intrinsic limitations of the
law in regard to moral behavior (10.4).

10. 1. Attitudes toward Law

In our time, ethical discourse, like contemporary language, is recovering the terms law
and legality. This is so despite what could be described as an “allergic reaction” to such notions
that arose not too many years ago in a climate of protest. One such reaction found theoretical
expression in situation ethics, a moral theory which denies the value of universal norms so as to
make the subject and the situation the only criteria of right action.

Looking beyond ideology for a moment, we can find some justification for a hostile
attitude toward law. In fact, in the not-too-distant past, the importance of human law in moral
theory was emphasized to such a point that ethics became a kind of appendix to law or “state
theory” (see above, 9. 1, Excursus 2, A. 4). That this situation would have provoked such a
strong reaction is understandable. Though unacceptable in substance, theories directed against
this notion of law were motivated by a noble desire to exalt personal freedom and the dignity of
the conscience.

Ultimately, however, this effort failed to adequately express the relationship between law
and freedom. If freedom means doing whatever you want, law can have no other aspect than that
of an odious constriction or limitation. For the sake of what or whom is such a limit imposed?
Many times the answer to this question is to be found in “the will of the prince,” a will
unconstrained by law and “free” to command “whatever it wants and whatever it likes.” This
scenario is known as “voluntarism” (i.e., law as the will of the legislator), a strain of thought
traceable from the nominalism of certain medieval philosophers right up to the juridical
positivism of our own time.

We do not understand “freedom” in this way. On the contrary, we are convinced that true
freedom consists in the capacity to tend to the good without constrictions (cf. 4. 4). From this
perspective, law is not reduced to the arbitrary will of the powerful but places itself at the service
of true freedom and, therefore, personal virtue.

We have said that law today is making a come back given the open challenge of ethical
questions concerning life, politics, and the economy (to name only a few). We sense the need to
recover the notion of law – but we must be very careful. If this recovery takes the direction of
voluntarism and juridical positivism (as is often the case in “deontological codices” and “self-
regulation codices”), it’s not too difficult to foresee that the next generation, feeling the weight
of law, will once again wish to shrug it off their backs and return to the self as point of departure.
 Consequently, the best way to rediscover the value of law is to rediscover the concept of
law. This is precisely what we will attempt to do in this chapter.

10. 2. The Essence of Moral Law

The concept of law is clearly analogical. We speak of “chemical laws” and “physical
laws,” “sociological laws,” “state laws,” and “God’s laws”. . . Clearly, the word “law” concerns
very different realities. What is the common element in all these uses that allows us to call
something a “law”? We can say that it is the reference to rules or norms according to which an
event happens or should happen.

However, “law” for the particular sciences (chemistry, physical, sociology, economics,
etc.) is different from moral “law.” This is so for two reasons: First of all, scientific laws are
“partial,” that is, they regard particular aspects and ends and not “the” global end of human
existence. Secondly, scientific laws do not create a “duty” in the subject, that is, they do not
appeal to a person’s free will.

As we have repeated many times, morality is occupied with human acts. What concerns
us here, then, are only those laws that regard human acts. Hence, we can propose a first
definition:

 Moral law is a kind of rule and measure of human acts.

Throughout our lives, we encounter many kinds of laws, from the juridical ordinances of
the State to those of the Church, from school regulations to those governing our leisure activities,
from codified norms to the unwritten laws on which friendship, family life, and so forth, are
based. In all these instances, law concerns the rule and measure of human acts. But can we
consider all these sic et simpliciter “moral laws”? Clearly not! We know that we are dealing with
an authentic moral law when it presents the following characteristics:

1. It concerns an order of reason.

2. It is an order directed to the common good.

3. It proceeds from a legitimate authority that guides the community.

4. It is promulgated.

Let’s examine each of these points in order; afterward, we will be able to determine the effects of
the law.

10. 2. 1. Law as Rational Order

We know that moral acts bear the specific imprint of humanity: “rationality” (see 3. 1). It
belongs to the reason, in fact, to order actions to their proper end. Consequently, the moral law,
as the “rule and measure of human acts,” must be of the rational order.
 St. Thomas affirms that the law is “something that pertains to reason” (aliquid
rationis)214[214] and specifies that it concerns a universal proposition of the practical reason
aimed at directing action.

We can make this clear with an example: A man in difficulty asks for my help. I
recognize that it is my duty to help him. But I also recognize that in this concrete situation – this
specific man, with his specific difficulty, requesting help specifically from me – I am in front of
a “form” that is realized not only here and now, but always and everywhere whenever someone
asks for help. I am aware of an appeal to the realization of a value that can be rationally
formulated in a universal proposition: “We should always help someone in difficulty.” Following
Aristotle, St. Thomas speaks of action as the result of a practical syllogism (syllogismus in
operabilibus) in which the law serves as a premise alongside a description of a concrete
situation. The logic of practical reasoning can be schematized thus:

a) We should always help a neighbor in difficulty.

b) This man in difficulty is now asking for my help.

c) I must help this man now.

Conclusion “c” of this argument (which in the next chapter we will describe as the judgement of
conscience) arises from the application of the universal proposition “a,” which constitutes the
law, to the particular and concrete situation “b.”

In maintaining that law is of the rational order, we do not mean to exclude the role of the
will; in fact, if the reason succeeds in moving a person to act, it does so by virtue of the
will.215[215] We want to be clear, however, that the law’s formal aspect derives from the
practical reason and not the will. This is because the will cannot be the rule and measure of its
own acts. Speaking metaphorically, we can say that reason without will is paralytic, while will
without reason is blind. A blind man cannot find the road, and a paralytic cannot follow it.

10. 2. 2. Law and the Common Good

Reason’s task, then, is to formulate a universal proposition that serves as a rule for action.
This constitutes the “formal” element of the law. But if we stop there, we fall into the Kantian
error of holding the law as an empty form, deprived of material content (cf. 9. 1, Excursus 2, A.
3). We would content ourselves with defining law as an “order” of the reason, but without
understanding from where and to where the reason orders us to move. This is the great question
of the “material” element of the law.

214[214] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I-II, q. 90, a. 1.

215[215] Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I-II, q. 90, a. 1, ad 3m.
 If, as we have seen (2. 2. 4), every action is in view of an end – a good – the law’s task is
to indicate the right relationship between human actions and the ends of the virtuous life.

Man is “a person,” that is, an individual-in-relation. His social, political nature indicates
that he cannot reach his end, his true good, except with other people, in community. By devoting
himself to the realization of his authentic good, a person at the same time realizes the good of his
community. Vice versa, pledging himself to the good of the community, a person also realizes
his own personal good.

The community, in fact, is more than the simple sum of individuals who comprise it.
Community is essentially characterized by the order that reigns between the parts in view of the
end to be reached. As we have already shown, in ethics the “end” is configured as “the good.”
Thus, the common good is something more than the simple sum of goods for individuals in a
community. It is that to which all individual goods tend in an ordered way.

Now, since the law says order-to-the-good, this must necessarily mean also the common
good.

10. 2. 3. Law and Legitimate Authority

If the law is concerned with ordering things to the common good, it must proceed from
the subject of the common good, that is, from the community or from someone who legitimately
exercises the function of caring for the community.

This idea might seem rather banal, but it can help us understand better the relationship
between rationality and law. Certainly, we could say that every rational being is “a law unto
himself,” that he is “autonomous.” But this autonomy can be meant in two completely different
ways.

For some, “autonomy” means that an individual’s reason operates as an independent,

absolute, regulating principle. Such autonomy would clearly lead to anarchy and chaos – in
short, the destruction of the community.

On the contrary, the principle of autonomy must be understood in the sense that each
person, by virtue of his reason, is called to direct himself toward the good life in such a way as to
participate freely in the attainment of the common good. He is further called to a better
understanding of that good and the order that serves it. Into this realm enters both the activity of
the legislator and the obligatory critique of the order constituted by law – a critique that must be
exercised by every competent citizen – to keep watch over any possible discord with the
common good and to collaborate in the working out of solutions.

10. 2. 4. The Law’s Promulgation

It is evident that an unknown precept cannot obligate.

 Juridical obligation follows a formal act of promulgation, that is, when the law is inserted
into the official body of ordinances.

Moral obligation, however, is linked with the complex dynamic of conscience (which we
will examine in chapter 11). In this sense, the law must be interiorized within the moral
experience of the subject, while its content must appear in the light of the fundamental principle
“to do good and avoid evil.”

10. 2. 5. Effects of the Law

The effect of the moral law – of a law that is really worthy of the name – is to make men
good, that is, to make them virtuous.

As we said in chapter 4, virtue is characterized by full submission to reason. The law is

precisely an instruction addressed to reason to help it regulate action.

This matters as much for the individual as for society. The individual is virtuous when all
his faculties tend harmoniously to the good under the guidance of legislating reason. Society is
virtuous when all its components tend harmoniously to the common good under the guidance of
the legislator. The legislator of the common good, then, must show a superior degree of virtue in
a more profound submission to the dictate of right practical reason for the common good.

10. 3. The Natural Law

It’s very important to keep repeating that reason, not being an absolute principle, does not
create the moral law according to its own pleasure. From the inclinations written in human nature
itself, reason discovers the good as an end and formulates the law on the basis of this end. We
have defined “just” (iustum) or “right” (ius) as an ordered relation to an appropriate good that is
consonant with human existence and man himself (9. 3). It’s up to reason to recognize this
consonance and formulate it in a practical, universal proposition. Thus, we can say that:

 Law is the rational formulation of a right.216[216]

If a right derives not from man but from nature (e.g., the right to life), its rational formulation is
known as “natural law” (e.g., “Do not kill”). If, however, a right derives from human beings on
the basis of convention (e.g., the right to elect representatives in assembly), its rational
formulation is known as “human positive law” (e.g., an electoral law).

10. 3. 1. Precepts of the Natural Law

At this point, we should recall what we said in the previous chapter concerning natural
rights and their order (9. 3. 2). Since what is “good” has the aspect of an “end,” practical reason

216[216] Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 57, a. 1.

naturally apprehends as “good to do” everything for which man has a natural inclination and
“evil to avoid” everything which is contrary to him. For this reason:

 “According to the order of natural inclinations is the order of the precepts of natural
law.”217[217]

We have seen that the natural inclinations are an ordered system of relations
harmoniously directed toward man’s good.

Inclinations inscribed in irrational animals are activated in an unconscious way and do

not constitute true and proper “laws.” Wolves raise their young spontaneously following the “law
of nature” within them and certainly not the moral law! In man, however, reason grasps what is
just in an inclination and, on this basis, formulates a natural moral law: “Parents should take care
of their children.” This law holds even for a parent who has no “spontaneous” parental feeling. It
is valid because it is inscribed in human nature and, by virtue of its rationality, it must be
respected.

We have already spoken of man’s three inherent, natural inclinations: the preservation of
his being (common to all substances), the preservation of his species (common to all animals),
and the inclination to knowledge of the truth and social life (specific to man). Such inclinations
have moral relevance in so far as they are recognized and commanded by the reason.218[218]

However, as regards the common inclinations of animals, reason can begin with the
material and corporeal indications of anatomically defined organs. For example, the anatomy and
physiology of the human body tells us that nature has ordered sexual relations to take place
between a man and a woman (i.e., heterosexual, not homosexual or auto-erotic sexual activity).
The “natural right” indicated by these inclinations has a stability and universality dependent on
the biological structure of man. We can say that this structure manifests the material element of
the natural law, while the intervention of reason expresses its formal element.

On the other hand, those inclinations which are specific to man lack these somatic
indications and reveal man’s spiritual dimension (i.e., his intelligence and will) which tends to
knowledge of the truth and social life.

Clearly, within the “order of precepts” based on the “order of inclinations,” higher levels
presuppose inferior levels. The preservation of being, for instance, is the foundation of every
value and necessarily presupposed in every well-being. But this does not concern a simple
juxtaposition of levels. As we know (cf. 8. 3, Excursus 1), the human person is not “a body” in
which “a spirit” dwells. On the contrary, man is a substantial unity of material and spiritual

217[217] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I-II, q. 94, a. 2, c.

218[218] “All the inclinations of any parts whatsoever of human nature, e.g. of the concupiscible
and irascible parts, in so far as they are ruled by reason, belong to the natural law.” St. Thomas
Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I-II, q. 94, a. 2, ad 2m.
principles. The spiritual principle (i.e., the rational soul) gives unity to the composite and makes
it a “human being.”

As a rational, spiritual animal, man has certain inclinations specific to him. At the same
time, he assumes all the functions and perfections of vegetative and sensitive souls, as well as
inclinations of a generic nature. This does not constitute a mere overlapping of powers, but a true
and proper transfiguration of the inferior powers by those that are superior.219[219]

At this point, it should be clear to us what is meant by the statement, “According to the
order of natural inclinations is the order of the precepts of natural law.” There is a hierarchical
order among the inclinations and, thus, between the precepts of the natural law: “The hierarchy
consists in the fact that one function serves another in the measure in which the spirit regulates
them.”220[220]

We can understand, then, the meaning of the affirmation that appears so often in St.
Thomas: “The good of man is to be in accord with reason.”221[221] The term reason in this
statement has two senses:

a. a gnoseological sense by which we can affirm that man, reflecting on his own
inclinations, discovers what goods he should pursue and deduces in a “rational” way the
precepts of the natural law which tell him what means he should use to reach these ends;

b. an ontological sense, since reason is at the base of this activity as that which
specifically differentiates man from all the other animals.

“To live according to reason,” then, does not mean simply that the precepts of action
must be deduced in a formally correct way, but above all, that human beings live in a way that
conforms to the exigencies of their human existence and its perfection.

10. 3. 2. Universality and Immutability of the Natural Law

Is the natural law one and valid for every person in every age? Or does it change
according to epochs, individuals, and socio-cultural contexts?

219[219] Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, De Veritate, q. 15, a. 1, ad 2m.

220[220] Dario Composta, “Rapporti tra diritto naturale e biologia” in Atti del IX congresso
tomistico internazionale, vol. 1 (Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 1991), 258.

221[221] St. Thomas Aquinas, De Virtutibus in communi, a. 13; cf. Summa theologiae, I-II, q.
64, a. 1.
 The concept itself of natural law as a law inscribed in human nature would indicate that
wherever you find human beings the same and identical law applies to everyone.

However, history and cultural anthropology illustrate an extreme variety of uses and
costumes, enough to cast doubt on the conviction that the same moral law is valid for everyone.
We can be scandalized today by a practice that was commonly accepted a few centuries ago, for
example, slavery or the use of torture. On the other hand, the people of the Middle Ages would
be scandalized by the way our banks lend money at interest – a practice they considered
absolutely illicit. We could multiply examples.

Moreover, these objections stand on even more radical foundations. Certain currents of
thought, as old as nominalism and as recent as existentialism, deny the existence of a “nature”
common to all men and, consequently, any “moral law” that would depend on such a nature.

We must ask ourselves, then, if there is a nature common to all men and if it is mutable or
perennial (10. 3. 2. 1). Having settled this, we will then consider in what way the natural law can
be said to change (10. 3. 2. 2).

10. 3. 2. 1. The Unity and Mutability of Human Nature

It is the task of philosophical anthropology to show the unity of human nature.222[222]

For our purposes, I will merely point out that even a child watching animated cartoons not only
readily distinguishes Charlie Brown from Snoopy and Woodstock, but also recognizes that
Charlie Brown is a human being like Lucy and Linus, while Snoopy is a dog like Pluto and
Woodstock is a bird like Tweety. On the basis of their sensible form alone, each of these
characters is presented to us with immediate clarity as belonging to determined species different
from all other species. Each individual is perceived not only according to his own individuality,
but also according to his own species which, in turn, comprehends other individuals. We will call
this specific determination of individuals “nature.”

It is clear, therefore, that there is such a thing as human nature by virtue of which we call
“human” anyone who manifests specific, characteristic properties, relations, and operations that
we can each perceive in ourselves. Natural law is founded on this human nature.

But at this point another problem opens up: Is human nature immutable, or can it change?
The question arises because we can observe that man, unlike animals, is a being “capable of
history and of culture.” This is to say that man can consciously modify his own vital ambiance
and, consequently, himself. While horses are born, live, and die today as they did five thousand
years ago, men of the computer age think and act differently from those who lived in the age of
the printing press . . . not to mention the great divide that separates us from the men of the stone
age!

222[222] Cf. Rivetti Barbò, Philosophy of Man. 57-63.

 This fact has caused some thinkers to maintain that human nature itself is changeable,
that there does not exist anything fixed and stable, and that everything in man is open to change.
On the basis of this, they deduce that everything in the moral law is mutable and there is no such
thing as a permanent precept. At its very foundations, this is a manifestly absurd thesis for at
least two reasons:

1. We have said that man is “capable of history” because he has the “capacity to change.”
Now, this “capacity” itself is founded on certain immutable characteristics of human
nature which persist despite the changes man experiences. Without these elements, man
could not change at all! Briefly put, man’s power to change is itself founded on the
unchanging characteristics of human nature.

2. That we can even speak of “history” and “evolution” implies a permanent subject who
remains identical to himself throughout history. Certainly, man has changed since
Paleolithic times – but he is always man!

We can conclude, then, that natural law contains both permanent and mutable
elements, but what is subject to change touches only the accidental and not the
substantial aspects of the human being.

10. 3. 2. 2. Mutability of Some Precepts of the Natural Law

The natural law requires that we act “according to reason.” Thus, following its own
proper procedure, reason passes from the knowledge of common principles to their
consequences. We see here an important difference between the speculative and practical realms.

Speculative reason is occupied principally with necessary realities which cannot be

otherwise. For this reason, in the speculative field, the truth contained in the principles passes
without alteration to the conclusions. For instance:

1) The sum of the internal angles of a plane triangle are equal to 180º.

2) The angles A and B of this triangle equal 50º each.

3) Therefore, angle C of this triangle necessarily equals 80º.

There are no exceptions in this kind of reasoning.

Practical reason, however, concerns human action, which is not necessary, but
contingent. Certainly, here also reason begins with common necessary principles: the first
principle “it is necessary to do the good” and the precepts that follow immediately from the
natural inclinations. However, the closer we get to reality, the more the necessity of these
principles is thrown into crisis. Human actions, in fact, are “contingent, not only in regard to
their ground, which depends on an act of the free will, but also in regard to their value, to the
form they assume for moral judgement.”223[223]

Because human actions are concrete and develop in changing circumstances, exceptions
are possible. St. Thomas affirms:

That which is natural to one whose nature is unchangeable, must needs be such always
and everywhere. But man’s nature is changeable, wherefore that which is natural to man
may sometimes fail. Thus the restitution of a deposit to the depositor is in accordance
with natural equality, and if human nature were always right, this would always have to
be observed; but since it happens sometimes that man’s will is unrighteous there are cases
in which a deposit should not be restored, lest a man of unrighteous will make evil use of
the thing deposited: as when a madman or an enemy of the common weal demands the
return of his weapons.224[224]

What is at issue here is an inherent alteration of the content of the law. The “truth or
rightness” of the precept that commands restitution no longer holds in this situation because
human nature has changed by reason of a defect consequent to the depravation of the will.
Obviously, there are some limits to this mutability. Human nature has a stable, perennial nucleus
that is expressed by the first common principles. On the basis of this immutable nucleus,
exceptions can be recognized. We could say that, at bottom, you shouldn’t return a weapon to a
dangerous person because such an act would be irrational, that is, contrary to the natural law!

The common first principles of natural law, then, are immutable. They do not admit
exceptions and are recognized by everyone. However, the conclusions derived and deduced from
these common principles, even beyond the fact that they can vary on occasion, are not
acknowledged equally by everyone. For example, Julius Caesar noted that the ancient Germans
did not consider robbery – something manifestly contrary to the natural law – a criminal
act.225[225] In cases like this, the truth or rectitude of the precept is not at fault, but the
knowledge certain men have of it. The explanation for such deficiency is again ascribable to the
depravity of human nature since “in some the reason is perverted by passion, or evil habit, or an
evil disposition of nature . . .”226[226]

223[223] Joseph de Finance, “Droit naturel et historie chez saint Thomas,” in S. Tommaso e la filosofia del diritto
oggi (Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 1975), 111.

224[224] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II-II, q. 57, a. 2, ad 1m; cf., I-II, q. 94, a. 4 c.;
In Ethicorum, L. V, 1. 12.

225[225] C. Julius Caesar, De Bello Gallico, bk. VI, chap. 23.

226[226] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I-II, q. 94, a. 4, c; cf. In III Sententiarum, d.
37, q. 1, a. 1, ad 1m.
 St. Thomas tells us that nothing can erase the universal principles of the natural law from
the human heart. They are habitually present in the practical intellect (as we will see in 11. 2. 1.
1). But it can sometimes happen that the reason is impeded from applying these principles to
particular cases because of concupiscence or passion. In this sense, we can speak of the “erasure”
of the natural law due to fallacious reasoning or habitually corrupt behavior.

10. 3. 3. Relationship between Natural Law and Human Law

We have often repeated that human nature, by virtue of its rationality, inclines toward
social life. Hence, the exigency of organizing society around the common good derives from
human nature itself. Herein lies the natural foundation of man’s legislative activity.

In every society there must be someone, an individual or collegial body, who has the task
of guiding the community and, consequently, promulgating specific laws by which communal
life can realize its end, the common good.

With his habitual realism, St. Thomas considers this exigency also from what we might
call a pedagogical point of view. We have said that by nature man is inclined to the good. At the
same time, however, we are all affected by concupiscence and the passions. Hence, we must
practice discipline in order to bring the passions under the guidance of right reason. For those
who possess good natural endowments and the support of a good environment, paternal counsel
is discipline enough. On the other hand, those inclined to bad behavior require something that
will keep them away from evil by force or fear so that they do no harm to themselves and others:

Now this kind of training, which compels through fear of punishment, is the discipline of
laws. Therefore in order that man might have peace and virtue, it was necessary for laws
to be framed: for, as the Philosopher says “as man is the most noble of animals if he be
perfect in virtue, so is he the lowest of all, if he be severed from law and righteousness”;
because man can use his reason to devise means of satisfying his lusts and evil passions,
which other animals are unable to do.227[227]

Here again it is affirmed that the natural law requires living according to reason because
man’s perfection and happiness depend upon it. To abdicate this task means to reduce human and
social existence to a state worse than that of animals since animals are at least passively guided
by the ineluctable laws inscribed in their nature. Man is furnished with the light of reason for his
own guidance and that of those entrusted to him.228[228] The natural law, then, imposes the
making of laws.

Does this mean that every human law derives from natural law? In principle, they should.
Law, in fact, should manifest the just relations expressed in natural law, according to right

227[227] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I-II, q. 95, a. 1, c., citing Aristotle, Politics,
1.2.

228[228] Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I-II, q. 91, a. 2.

reason: “Consequently every human law has just so much of the nature of law, as it is derived
from the law of nature. But if in any point it deflects from the law of nature, it is no longer a law
but a perversion of law.”229[229]

This “derivation” is realized concretely in two very different ways:

a. In some cases, a necessary conclusion can be deduced from the principles of natural
law. For example, from the principle “do not kill,” it follows that whoever kills must be
punished by society.

b. In other cases, a relatively free estimation can be reached which is then subject to
change according to historical/social circumstances, for example, how a particular society
punishes murderers (prison time, kind of imprisonment, etc.).

Determinations of the second type have only the force of human law and vary among
different legal systems. Those of the first type, however, preserve something of the vigor of
natural law.

Human law is less extended than natural law and cannot prohibit all the things that
natural law prohibits. Nonetheless, as St. Augustine notes, “because it does not do all things, it
does not thereby follow that what it does do is to be condemned.”230[230]

Moreover, as we saw a few lines up, the natural law remains immutable in its first
principles and their immediate consequences. Human law, on the other hand, is changeable
because it suffers the imperfection of practical human reason. Also, to the degree it contains
particular precepts, it is bound to change in relation to circumstances.231[231]

10. 3. 4. Natural Law and Eternal Law

We have said many times that human reason does not “create” value, but “discovers” it in
reality. It grasps the order of the natural inclinations and the order of the precepts of the natural
law corresponding to them. Now, if man did not create this order, who did? There must be an
ordering reason that is the rule and measure of all things, a criteria of order independent of
everything (i.e., absolute) and on which everything depends. This reality is what everyone calls
“God.”

229[229] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I-II, q. 95, a. 2.

230[230] St. Augustine, On Free Choice of the Will (De Libero Arbitrio), I, 5, trans. Anna S.
Benjamin and L. H. Hackstaff (Indianapolis, IN: The Bobbs-Merrill Co., 1964), 13.

231[231] Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I-II, q. 97, a. 1, ad 1m.
 God’s rational plan, the project on the basis of which He orders and governs everything,
is called the eternal law. On the basis of this plan, God provides that each creature can reach the
end proper to it, that is, the good.

Now, this project is realized in everything. If, therefore, we find in things natural
inclinations on the basis of which they tend in an ordered way to their end, this happens in virtue
of the eternal law.

All creatures participate in the eternal law by their orientation to their respective ends.
The kind of participation changes, however, when we consider the rational creature in whom
there is a true similitude with divine providence. A rational creature is led by divine providence
in a special, “excellent” way. While irrational beings remain the passive objects of divine
providence, human beings can participate as active subjects. God provides for man by endowing
him with reason so that he can provide for himself and his neighbor.

The plan on the basis of which God exercises his Providence is eternal law. The plan on
the basis of which man must provide for himself and those entrusted to him is natural law.

“It is therefore evident that the natural law is nothing else than the rational creature’s
participation of the eternal law.”232[232]

10. 4. The Law’s Limits

Understood in this way, law does not rule over the moral life. It is, rather, an instrument
at the service of the person in view of the good life. From this perspective, we can also
understand the obligation that law entails.

It is clear that we are bound to obey the law in so far as it points the way toward the
common good. But when a law is unjust, we are morally obligated to disobey it. Also, it is
possible for a person to be excused from obedience to a just law. And sometimes the letter of the
law must be disobeyed for the sake of something better. Let’s examine these situations in order.

10. 4. 1. Unjust Law

Law enacted by human authority does not have so vast and profound a reach as moral
law. Nonetheless, it has the task of assuring the common good by recognizing the defense of
fundamental human rights, the promotion of peace, and the care of those conditions which permit
anyone who so wishes to live as he should (cf. 6. 2).

For this to happen, civil law must be in harmony with natural law, and hence, with eternal
law. When, however, human law opposes right reason, it is for that very reason unjust and,
consequently, deprived of juridical validity.

232[232] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I-II, q. 91, a. 2, c.

 Clearly, a law’s juridical validity (from the Latin: iuridica) derives from a right (ius,
iuris), while a law that is unjust (from the Latin: in = “not” and iustum = “just,” an adjective
derived from the substantive ius, iuris) is, by definition, a law that violates a right and, hence, has
no juridical validity.

Let’s think for a moment of those human laws which have erred in regard to the
fundamental and primordial right to life, a right belonging to every person, for example, those
laws concerning abortion and euthanasia, which have legalized the deliberate killing of innocent
human beings. These laws are in total and irrational contradiction with the inviolable right to life
of every person, thereby negating the notion of equality before the law.

Not only are we not obligated to obey laws of this kind, we are positively bound to
disobey them. Minimally, we can object in conscience to these laws and seek to limit the damage
deriving from them.

10. 4. 2. Exceptions to the Law

In special circumstances, and for a certain period of time, a person can be exempt from
obedience to a just law. To determine the validity of such a case, we need to keep two factors in
mind: first, the reason for requesting such exoneration from the law, and second, the type of law
it concerns.

In regards to the first factor, common sense recognizes the truth of the classical saying:
“No one is bound by the impossible” (ad impossibilia nemo tenetur). In the context of our
discussion, this means that a person can be exempted from the law if it is impossible for him to
keep it. This impossibility can be of two kinds: physical, or moral.

a) Physical impossibility occurs when an impediment takes from someone whatever

possibility he has of fulfilling the law, for example, when mechanical failure takes the
controls away from an airline pilot such that he cannot save the lives of his passengers, or
when a man is gravely ill and cannot fulfill his work obligations, etc.

 b) Moral impossibility occurs when observance of the law, though possible,

requires an excessively burdensome effort. For example, it is not absolutely
impossible to go to work with a fever of 38º centigrade, but it is difficult and
risky. Or, to take a different kind of case, it is not absolutely impossible to correct
all the errors in a typed manuscript, but in reality no one can do so perfectly.

Physical impossibility exempts from any kind of law. Modern psychology teaches us that
inhibitions and psychological conditioning, when they are really and gravely pathological, are to
be considered in this light.
 While Moral impossibility does not exempt us from the negative precepts of the natural
law, it can exempt us from a positive precept. To clarify this point we must examine the different
types of law with which we have to deal.

As regards the second factor, we cannot be morally exempt from obedience to laws that
express essential exigencies of the human being. If this could happen, it would mean that we can
be exempt from being human! These laws from which we can never be exempted are precepts of
the natural law expressed in a negative form, that is, as prohibitions (e.g., “do not lie,” “do not
steal,” etc.). Prohibitions, in fact, mark the extreme limit beyond which moral value is shattered.
On the other hand, precepts expressed in positive form (e.g., “always tell the truth,” “give alms,”
etc.) set no limits. They point behavior in a certain direction and allow for exceptions. In
classical terms, we would say that prohibitions oblige us always and in every situation (semper et
pro semper), while positive prohibitions always oblige us, but not in every situation (semper, sed
non pro semper). Compare the negative precept “do not lie” with the positive precept “always
tell the truth.” If I have a secret, and someone interrogates me about it, I certainly cannot lie, but
neither do I have to tell the truth. It is enough for me to remain silent! Whoever is silent does not
tell the truth – but he doesn’t lie either.

10. 4. 3. Epikéia (Equity)

Moral theories of a juridical kind are greatly embarrassed by these evident limits
connected to the essence of law itself. How can we establish a body of norms to determine in
what circumstances a concrete subject can be exonerated from the observance of a particular
norm?

Historically, in the modern epoch, this has lead to two sorts of approaches. On the one
hand, law is formulated with extreme meticulousness in an attempt to include every possible
eventuality within it (“hypertrophy” of the law). On the other hand, rather than departing from
law to find the “life-world,” numerous examples of “moral cases” are collected so that the world,
rather than law, serves as the point of departure. In this approach, a situation and a moral
dilemma are described, leading to the “resolution” of the problem in the light of law (casuistic).

But these efforts, though meritorious, fell apart on both fronts since law is by nature
destined to remain an indication of a general character, while the life-world in which concrete
human actions take place manifests a complexity of ever new, unrecorded facets.

In reality, all these approaches manifest the impotence of law when it is separated from
virtue. To rightly understand the moral obligation contained in the law and to grasp its appeal in
a given situation, a person must be habitually “well disposed” toward the good. Clearly, this is
the work of virtue. The classical tradition gave the name “equity” to the specific virtue that
permits the right interpretation and application of the law. In the technical language of moralists,
equity preserves the Greek term epikéia with which Aristotle introduced it.

The law, general by nature, needs to be corrected and completed according to the equity
of the one interpreting it.
 Equity – as we know (6. 3) – is an aspect of justice.233[233] Among other things, it
permits the interpretation of norms according to justice and common usefulness. This can lead to
an authorization to abandon the “letter” of the code in order to better fulfill its “spirit.”

A good example of this is Jesus’ attitude concerning the Sabbath laws. In the face of
detractors who reproved him for transgressing the commandment because he cured (work!) on
the day of rest, Jesus responded: “I ask you: is it licit on the Sabbath day to do good or to do evil,
to save life or to take it?”234[234] Clearly, the commandment was given to “do good”;
consequently, to cure someone (a good) on the Sabbath day does not violate the spirit of the
precept even if, in fact, it violates the letter: “The Sabbath was made for man and not man for the
Sabbath.”235[235]

But this doesn’t only mean that in specific cases a person is not obliged by a certain law.
It also means that in other cases a person can be obligated to do something even if the law’s
actual formulation does not impose it on him.

11. Conscience

Let’s review for a moment the route we have traversed so far. In chapter 1, we said that
ethics asks how we should act, or better, how we should be to fully realize our personality in a
way worthy of our humanity. To respond to this question, we examined our moral experience. As
we have seen, these experiences are characterized by – among other things – a judgement about
behavior expressing approval or disapproval of certain acts or types of conduct which are held to
be worthy or unworthy of man (chapter 2).

The successive stages of our journey were dedicated to the study of voluntary behavior
(chapter 3) and virtue as a habitus that perfects our personality, leading us to a good and happy
life (chapters 4-8).

We then entered into an inquiry on the foundation of morality, that is, on the criteria that
allow us to qualify a certain kind of behavior as good or bad (chapter 9). We then saw how law
makes this criteria the rule of our conduct (chapter 10).

At the same time, we noted that law, because of its universality, always remains at a
certain distance, so to speak, from concrete action. In classical terms, this is described as the
remote rule of human action. We must now inquire how the universal plane of law and the

233[233] Cf. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, II-II, q. 120, a. 2.

234[234] Mk 3:4.

235[235] Mk 2:27.
concrete plane of behavior necessarily interact. In other words, we must take a look at
conscience as the proximate rule of human action.

As we proceed, we should remember that law, conscience, and virtue are closely
intertwined, as St. Alphonsus Liguori (1696-1787) tells us:

Human acts are regulated by two principles: a proximate rule and a remote rule. The
remote rule, or the material rule, is divine law; the proximate rule, or formal rule, is the
conscience. In fact, the conscience, on the one hand, must conform itself in everything to
the divine law; on the other hand, it must make us aware of the goodness or evil of
human acts in as much as these are apprehended by conscience, as St. Thomas teaches . .
. : The human act is judged virtuous or vicious on the basis of the known good to which
the will tends, and not according to the material object of the act.236[236]

11. 1. Anthropological Value of the Moral Conscience

In our outline of the phenomenology of moral experience (2.1), we identified in ourselves

an activity of judgement which expresses approval (e.g., admiration, self-gratification) or
disapproval (e.g., scandal, remorse) of certain kinds of behavior. Now, the existence of an
activity in a person indicates that the same person has the capacity to fulfill such an activity. The
capacity to which I refer is commonly called “conscience.”

Nevertheless, we would greatly impoverish the reality we are describing if we reduced it

merely to the act of judgement. The conscience is much more. In the fullest sense, conscience is
the organ of moral experience, the “place” where we stand before ourselves, where we are aware
of our identity as unique and unrepeatable subjects. Conscience puts us in rapport with ourselves
(cf. 1. 1; 2. 2).

In this experience, we perceive that our existence is not simply a given (“I am this way”),
but also a task (“I must be, I must become . . .”). We discover that what we are indicates a path to
travel, a task to take up – the germ of a plan that must grow and bear fruit (cf. 9. 2). We discover
a project inscribed deep within us which we did not assign to ourselves, a project that puts us in
relation with other people living experiences analogous to ours. We feel responsible for others,
and this feeling gives rise to the experience of moral obligation (cf. 2. 2. 4; 10. 3. 4).

The conscience is the place where man feels simultaneously called to do good and avoid
evil; where he seeks the specific and operative content of this good and this evil; where
he is accompanied and conditioned in his inquiry by education and ideas assimilated

236[236] St. Alphonsus Liguori, Theologiae moralis, bk. I, tr. I, 1, citing St. Thomas Aquinas,
Quodlibet II, q. 12, a. 2 (or III, a. 27).
 since childhood; where he decides freely for one direction or another and experiences joy
in the performance of the good – or remorse for having done evil.237[237]

Our whole personality: our intelligence, our will as the capacity of self-determination, our
memory, our feelings, our emotions . . . our whole being is involved in this human reality known
as “conscience.” It reveals itself, then, as the authentic “center” of the person, that which biblical
language has denominated “the heart.”

It is the role of the conscience to response to the moral questions: How should we act?
How should we be? What is good and what is evil? At the same time, we cannot insist enough on
conscience’s essentially receptive character. It doesn’t “create” the good; it can only “discover
it,” become aware of it – and make it explicit.

In synthesis, we can say:

 The conscience is the awareness of our own identity and our own duty deriving from
our openness to the world, others, and God.

11. 2. The Judgement of Conscience

Conscience, therefore, is a marvelous and very complex anthropological reality. It cannot

be reduced only to the capacity of formulating moral judgements. Nevertheless, the formulation
of such judgements is one of its most important tasks, so much so that sometimes the term
“conscience” is taken to mean simply “moral judgement.”238[238]

We must now consider this last point, though we will do so correctly only if we
remember that it concerns a partial aspect of a partial question.239[239]

Let’s ask ourselves, then, how a judgement on the good or evil of a concrete action
actually comes into being. In this regard, some terminology will be helpful. In classical terms,
the faculty of formulating a moral judgement is called the “potential conscience,” while the

237[237] Massimo Cassani, “La coscienza morale nella riflessione teological contemporanea,” in
La coscienza morale e l’evangelizzazione oggi. Tra valori obiettivi e techniche di persuasione
(Bologna, Italy: Edizioni Studio Domenicano, 1992), 89.

238[238] “The conscience is defined thus: It is the judgement or the practical rule of the reason
by which we judge what must be done here and now because it is good, or avoided because it is
evil.” St. Alphonsus Liguori, Theologia moralis, bk. I, tr. I, 2.

239[239] In saying this, I mean to avoid furnishing arguments to anyone who thinks that “the
function of the conscience would be reduced . . . to the simple application of general moral
norms to singular cases in the life of the person,” as John Paul II remarks in his encyclical letter
Veritatis splendor, 06-08-1993, n. 55.
judgement that is formulated is called the “actual conscience.” We will examine these two terms
in order.

11. 2. 1. Potential Conscience

We can formulate judgements because we have specific criteria, that is, rules, norms,
parameters, concepts, or intuitions on the basis of which we make a judgement.

From where does this criteria come? A common response is that it comes from the
culture in which we are educated. But this answer is too simplistic. Certainly, culture and
education are very important in the formation of conscience since they carry and transmit moral
knowledge (11. 2. 1. 2). There is, however, a level even deeper than this, a fundamental level that
is classically called synderesis. Without synderesis, moral education (and moral experience as
such) would not be possible; thanks to synderesis, we can even critique the moral knowledge
transmitted to us.

11. 2. 1. 1. Synderesis

We judge something on the basis of certain premises. In themselves, premises can be

demonstrated on the basis of other premises, which can be demonstrated on the basis of still
other premises, and so forth. But this process cannot continue into infinity. At some point, there
must be some “first,” undemonstrable premises which are recognized by the intellect, not
through a rational, discursive process, but by immediate intuition.

These premises are called self-evident (cf. 1. 3. 4), that is, they are known in themselves
and not because of something else. They are propositions in which the predicate is implied in the
notion of the subject. For example, if I understand the notions “all” and “part,” I cannot help but
admit that “the whole is greater than the part.”

But the concepts “all” and “part” are certainly not the first objects of our knowledge.

In the theoretical order, which concerns speculative knowledge and the contemplation of
reality, the first object known is being and the first principle recognized is that of non-
contradiction, which is based on the notion of being and not-being: “It is impossible that the
same thing, under the same aspect and at the same time, be and not be.” This first principle and
other such self-evident principles are an habitual possession of the mind.

In the practical order, the order of the moral conscience, the first object is the good. But
implied in the notion of “the good” is the predicate “to do good.” The first principle of the
practical order, then, is:

 “Do good and avoid evil.”

In fact, the notion “good” means “what all things desire.” Hence, it is the good which must be
accomplished or obtained to fulfill our being.

By its very nature, this first principle of the practical order is “empty,” that is, it does not
tell us “what” the good is or “what” should be done. Nevertheless, it is a principle that everyone
indubitably and undeniably recognizes. To say that it is undeniable, however, does not mean that
it cannot be negated “in words,” but rather, that it is impossible to negate it conceptually without
contradicting oneself. Verbally, someone could say, “We must do what is evil,” but if you ask
this person to explain “why” we must do what is evil, he would be forced to say, “Because it is
good to do so”!

This first principle is followed by others with “more” content though less noted and more
often put into doubt, for example, “everyone’s rights must be respected,” or “we must not do to
others what we do not want done to ourselves,” etc.

Scholastic philosophers gave the name “synderesis” to the habitual possession of first
principles in the practical order. Synderesis is a habitus of the practical intellect. As such, its
function is not exclusively cognitive since its task is not only to “inform” about good and evil,
but also to “incite to good, and to murmur at evil.”240[240]

11. 2. 1. 2. Moral Knowledge

These first principles are joined to the moral knowledge that each individual gains by
experience, as well as that which peoples and communities elaborate and transmit in their
culture. At issue is the whole collection of values, virtues, norms, rules, laws, customs, and moral
codes that comprise what we call an ethos.

Clearly, having had different experiences and coming from different cultures, human
beings also have different kinds of moral awareness.

There are those who have broader moral knowledge and those who whose scope is more
narrow. Such vastness is first of all the fruit of study, reading, travel, and human contacts. Some
people have a profound moral knowledge, while others remain at a superficial level. It depends
above all on a person’s lived experience and the degree to which he has reflected and meditated
on that experience.

We must, however, underline the importance of instruction and the guidance of others in
learning values and moral norms. This is essential, above all in the formative years of life
(lasting somewhat longer today than in the past), and should tend toward the formation of people
capable of autonomously formulating their own judgements. At the same time, this autonomy
cannot be intended presumptuously, as if a person can proceed only from his own opinions,
excluding the possibility that others, wiser and better people than himself, can show him a better

240[240] St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, I, q. 79, a. 12, c.; cf. I-II, q. 94, a. 2, c. and De
malo, q. 3, a. 12, ad 13m.
way. To grow in moral knowledge, we must be humble and open to dialogue (cf. 1. 3). It is here
that culture and the ethos of a people play their role, serving the formation of conscience by an
extension and deepening of moral knowledge.

We must be very attentive in this area since errors insinuate themselves very easily. The
history of moral thought offers us plenty of examples. In some cultures of the past, the majority
of people believed human sacrifice or slavery were licit. Today, abortion and contraception are
believed to be licit . . . The error, as we have seen (10. 3. 2), derives first of all from the
characteristics of practical reasoning, which deals with concrete actions formulated in
changeable circumstances where exceptions can be confused for rules, etc. But it can also
depend, as often happens, on the pride and concupiscence of human beings who voluntarily blind
themselves to the exigencies of the good in order to follow their own disordered desires.

We should be cognizant, therefore, that moral knowledge does not involve only the
intellect, but the whole man, that is, his concrete behavior and personal realization. For this
reason (among others), discussions about morality are often carried out with such ardor and
passion that they can obscure lucidity of judgement.

11. 2. 2. Actual Conscience

The possession of synderesis and moral knowledge, though a necessary condition for the
act of conscience, is still not the act itself. The conscience is said to act only when it takes a
position concerning an action that has been or is about to be undertaken, judging this action as
good or bad. This judgement consists in the application of general principles habitually present
in the conscience to a concrete situation.

Evidently, several currents come together in the judgement of conscience: the principles
of synderesis, moral knowledge, the subject’s virtues, and his awareness of the situation. It is
understandable, therefore, that the judgement of conscience can err. There are two sources of
such error. The first arises from mistaken moral convictions:

Example 1 – In the past, many peoples approved human sacrifice.

The second comes from poor knowledge of the concrete situation:

Example 2 – A judge in a tribunal forms the conviction that the accused is a thief. He
condemns him, though in reality the man is innocent.

When an error of knowledge arises, the action that follows this judgement is in itself bad
while the person who performs the action is not necessarily bad. In Example 2, for instance, the
judge does everything to ascertain the truth but, in all honesty, becomes invincibly convinced of
the guilt of the accused. He is not a bad judge, then, if he condemns the man. His action is bad at
a material level, but not at a formal level. This is to say that he does wrong (condemning an
innocent man) without wanting to do wrong, but rather, wanting to do good (he believes he is
condemning a thief – an act of justice). Hence, he is not himself bad.
 Analogously, in Example 1, a man, one of a people who practiced human sacrifice,
educated from his childhood in a religion that requires sacrificial acts of this type, might find
himself killing his own children. In itself, this is clearly an evil action. But the subject of this evil
is convinced he is performing a deed of profound piety, in “good conscience”! He is materially a
murderer, though formally innocent.

Error can also arise from a subject’s lack of virtue. We have seen how a man of vice is
inclined not only to commit evil, but also to hold “in principle” that such action is just (cf. 4. 3;
5. 4). A man of this kind is formally bad and not just materially bad.

It must be said, finally, that the judgement of conscience is not the last stage of the
process of the moral act. In response to a conscience that tells me, “It is good to do thus,” I can
say: “I want to do it” or “I do not want to do it.” Moral evil, at the formal level, consists precisely
in going against the judgement of our conscience, that is, in voluntarily performing an action or
an omission knowing that it is bad.

In synthesis:

 Material morality consists in the just relation between an action and the objective moral
order (that is, an action that effectively realizes a good is materially good, while an action
that effectively damages a good is materially bad).

 Formal morality consists in the just relation between an action and the moral conscience
of the subject (that is, a formally good action conforms to the judgement of the
conscience of the acting subject; a formally bad action is that in which the subject acts
against the judgement of his own conscience).

11. 3. Types or Forms of Conscience

Having examined the structure of the conscience as a faculty and as act, let’s now
consider the different types of conscience that intertwine both potentially and actually.

11. 3. 1. Types of Potential Conscience

We know that in respect to moral judgements not everyone manifests the same
sensitivity. There is the superficial kind of person for whom anything goes, and the scrupulous
person who sees evil everywhere. There are those who condemn others in order to acquit
themselves, and those who think everyone else is better than they are . . .

In traditional terms, a delicate conscience indicates a high degree of sensitivity to moral

values. Someone of delicate conscience is keenly focused on moral values and pursues them with
determination. We could say that such a person possesses a “virtuous conscience.”

On the contrary, a lax conscience belongs to the superficial person who cares little about
knowing the good, and little or nothing about doing good and avoiding evil. It goes without
saying that the lax conscience has difficulty grasping what is truly good. As long as it remains
lax, it manifests a disturbing acquiescence with evil, so much so as to appear habitually bad, that
is, vicious.

We should mention also the strict conscience of someone who cannot get beyond the
letter of the law. Such a person does not concern himself with knowing if a certain behavior is
good or bad, or whether it produces the fruits of virtue or vice. Rather, the strict conscience
reduces everything to categories of “commanded/licit, prohibited/illicit.” The root of the strict
conscience lies in legalism, which can overflow with tutiorist maximalism (from the Latin tutior
= “more secure”). Such thinking extends the boundaries of evil beyond measure, leading to the
“illness of scruples of conscience.” It can also lead into minimalism which considers permissible
everything that is not prohibited and interprets the law not as a stimulus to do good, but simply
as a “code” to be known and quibbled over so that loopholes can be found wherever possible.

Finally, let us remember that curious blend between tutiorism and minimalism
represented by the pharisaical conscience, so called from the attitude of certain Pharisees
stigmatized in the Gospel. The “blind” Pharisee filters the gnat and swallows the camel (cf. Mt.
23: 23-32), that is, he shows great rigorism on things of little importance while he is lax on the
things that matter. This condition can depend on the perversity of the culture and the kind of
education someone has received, but also and above all on the hypocrisy of the person’s own
moral attitude which is not properly motivated in the pursuit of the true good.

11. 3. 2. Types of Actual Conscience

Regarding the act of conscience, we must first consider it chronologically in respect to

action (11. 3. 2. 1). We can then evaluate its moral rectitude (11. 3. 2. 2) and inquire into its
subjective certitude (11. 3. 2. 3) and objective truth (11. 3. 2. 4).

11. 3. 2. 1. In Respect to the Act: Antecedent, Concomitant, and Consequent Conscience

Before I act, my conscience judges the action I am about to perform and tells me whether
it is good or bad, presenting it to me as right, licit, or prohibited. This judgement is known as
antecedent conscience.

During an action, I can feel the confirmation or consolation of a conscience that approves
what I am doing as good, or I can feel the reprobation and resistance of a conscience that
disapproves of my actions because they are evil. The judgement that accompanies action is
called concomitant conscience.

After an action, I can experience the gratification or remorse of a conscience (cf. 2. 1. 3)

that judges what I have done saying, “You acted rightly” or “You acted wrongly.” This after-the-
fact judgement is called consequent conscience.

Clearly, the development of a virtuous conscience must lead the subject to maturity in
such a way that a moral judgement can be formulated before an action and not only after when
the “goose is cooked,” so to speak.
11. 3. 2. 2. In Respect to Moral Quality: Right or Negligent

The conscience has the task of directing action. Consequently, it must scrutinize
attentively both the moral law and the situation to arrive at a valid judgement. A conscience
seriously engaged in the effort to know and conform to the truth is called a right conscience.

On the contrary, a lazy and superficial conscience that makes little or no effort to know
the truth is called negligent.

The qualifiers right and negligent do not pertain only to the judgement of conscience, but
also (and above all) to the effort of forming one’s conscience in the truth. Clearly, only a right
conscience can legitimately guide action.

11. 3. 2. 3. In Respect to Subjective Certitude: Certain, Sufficient, Doubtful

The judgement of conscience is certain when the subject, having examined both the law
and the situation, has no valid reasons for doubting the conclusion which he has reached. For
example, someone proposes to me a plan for not paying taxes. I know that tax evasion, though
financially convenient, is a moral evil. Hence, my conscience declares a just and certain “no!”

But things are not always so clear. I could be uncertain about the application of a moral
norm in this case. For example, if a tax is unjust, am I morally obligated to pay it? Certainly not!
But can I “in conscience” consider this particular tax to be unjust? And what if I find myself
before opposing values? What if, in paying this tax, I am forced to lay off one of my employees.
Do I evade the tax, or put a family into difficult straits?

In order to be able to act, we must have at least sufficient reason that will render the
judgement, if not certain, than at least probable.

The state of the doubtful conscience, however, of itself does not even constitute a
judgement. Doubt is rather a “suspension of judgement.” Clearly, anyone who doubts – who
does not know if an action is good or evil – cannot act. As long as someone lacks sufficient
grounds for judgement, he must continue to seek the truth, reflect more carefully, gather more
information, seek the counsel of someone more competent, etc.

11. 3. 2. 4. In Respect to Objective Truth: True or Erroneous

The concept of “certitude” regards the relationship between judgement and the subject
himself. The concept truth, however, regards the relationship between the subject’s judgement
and the objective moral order.

A true conscience calls good that which is objectively good and evil that which is
objectively evil. On the contrary, an erroneous conscience holds that an objectively bad action is
good, or an objectively good action is bad (see examples 1 and 2 in 11. 2. 2).
 An error is invincible when the one who errs does not have or has not had a chance to
recognize the truth and is, thus, “forced” to make a mistake. This could be the result of
ignorance, bad education, or socio-cultural, psychological, or religious conditions, etc.

On the other hand, an error is vincible when the one who errs has or has had the chance to
recognize the truth but has not exhausted his efforts to do so. He would not have erred, but has
done so from laziness, superficiality, presumption, concupiscence or some other vice.

We should be aware that there are numerous possible interconnections among the various
kinds of actual conscience because they move on different planes.

Hence, a conscience can be both right and erroneous, provided it is certain or at least
probable and the error is invincible. Above all, we should remember that:

 A right or certain conscience must always be followed.

 An erroneous conscience can also be right (if the error is invincible).

 We must try to arrive at a judgement that is not only certain but also true.

 We should not act in cases of doubt.

11. 4. Law, Virtue, and Conscience

To conclude this chapter, and bring our discourse to an end, we will consider the
reciprocal relationship between the roles of law, virtue, and conscience. In so doing, we will be
better able to understand the meaning of moral experience.

How must we be to realize fully our human personality? We find this question in the
depths of our conscience, in that place where we discover ourselves to be engaged in a project
that we did not give ourselves, but which nevertheless we must realize: a project for which we
are responsible.

In a confused way, we are aware that a successful life – a happy life – depends on the realization
of this plan.

To say “a successful life” is the same as saying “a good life,” that is, a life expressed in a
succession of good acts proceeding from our intelligence and free will.

Our will – as we have said many times – cannot NOT will its end (a successful life or
happiness). We tend to this end by necessity. If we ever met an object that presented itself to us
in all clarity as “the Good” that would perfectly realize our happiness (that is, the Absolute
Good), we would not be free to refuse it. We would inevitably tend toward it. But such a meeting
will not take place in this world. Rather, the goods that we meet are always singular, concrete,
partial, and relative. They are the objects of our acts, and in front of them we are free and
undetermined.
 This means that from the singular goods we encounter we must choose and choose well,
that is, choose that good that is better more suitable to our life project. Such a choice, as we have
seen, is effected by the will, illumined by the reason, and can be conditioned by the passions.

This is why we have been concerned to illustrate not only how the voluntary act remains
free – that is to say, in our power – at every moment, but also how it can crumble into a
multiplicity of choices, influenced by a plurality of factors, that make our conduct something
extremely unstable, precarious, fragile, and otherwise oriented. The nature of the human act
causes us to focus attention on those factors that can stabilize our conduct and its orientation
without diminishing its freedom.

This is precisely the role of the virtues as stable attitudes (habitus) on the basis of which
the human faculties are oriented to the good act. It is the role of law to instruct and lead us to
virtue and, hence, the good. The immediate task of the law, as a work of reason, is to show man
his true end and instruct him in the relationship of means to ends, commanding that which is
suitable and prohibiting that which is contradictory.

Now, as we have seen, a law issuing from the conscience creates a moral obligation. But
conscience’s ability to grasp the law depends on its better or worse dispositions in front of moral
value (i.e., a conscience that is delicate, lax, strict, etc.) In the final analysis, it depends on virtue:
the more virtuous a person is, the better he will grasp the law.

We have said, however, that the aim of law is to lead us to virtue. Note the paradox: the
more virtuous we are, the less we need the law, though we are better disposed in conscience to
accept it. On the other hand, the less virtuous we are, the more we need the law and the worse we
are disposed to accept it! We have here two circles, one vicious and one virtuous. We can exit
from these circles only by affirming, as we have done already (4. 4), that man’s freedom remains
intact as long as he still possesses a glimmer of reason. Hence, even the person least disposed to
responding to the exigencies of the good has the power of grasping, albeit with difficulty, the
exigencies expressed by the law.

Epilogue

We have reached the end of our journey, Dear Reader. This book can now start collecting
dust on a shelf somewhere, though I hope that the ideas contained in it will continue to “work”
inside of you.

I have tried to show you that the ethical question is not an optional accessory, that it is
not a subject only for sophisticated minds who can think about it whenever and if ever they are
so inclined. The ethical question inevitably arises in the heart of every human being who wakes
up to life. Though it is certainly a question of duty (“what should I do?” and, above all, “why
should I do it?”), it is first of all a question about the meaning of life, about happiness –
something which always concerns our relationship with God and others.
 If we look for happiness in pleasure and the satisfaction of our needs, if the “meaning” of
our lives rests only in these things (and for many people, it does indeed!), then we will be subject
to frustration, failure, and a “heteronomy” that leaves our happiness dependent on too many
factors, none of which are in our own power (wealth, success, the good will of others, “good
luck,” etc.).

In these pages, I have sought to demonstrate that the meaning of life lies elsewhere.
Certainly, pleasure contributes to a successful life. We could say it is the cherry on the cake, an
excellent complement – but certainly not the substance of what we want. Living well demands
the satisfaction of primary needs, but this alone is not sufficient. A really successful life consists
in virtue, that is, in the love of the good and the ability to do it. The virtuous person is truly
happy because he really loves and does what he will (to borrow St. Augustine’s words). By his
own actions, he realizes the order of love. He can be happy even when fortune is against him and
pleasure is at a minimum – even in the renunciation of primary needs and in suffering torments.
A virtuous person, like Socrates, prefers to suffer injustice than commit it. Consequently, his
happiness cannot be damaged from without.

For this reason, I have insisted on saying that the virtuous person is really free. No one
can force a virtuous person to do evil, and as far as good action is concerned, he is a law unto
himself. A virtuous person does the good because he loves it, not because he is commanded to do
it.

It is clear, then, that the cultivation of the virtues is the road to happiness. If, Dear
Reader, at the end of this discourse, you and I feel more motivated to follow this path, and more
hopeful about reaching its end, then this book has achieved its goal.

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Heidegger, Martin. A Translation of Sein und Zeit [Being and Time], in the SUNY Series in
Contemporary Continental Philosophy. Translated by Joan Stambaugh. Albany, NY:
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Marcel, Gabriel. Homo viator: Introduction to a Metaphysic of Hope. Translated by Emma

Craufurd. London: Victor Gollancz, 1951. Reprinted by Smith Peter, 1990. Originally
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Church Teaching

[The Holy Father’s letters are available in several languages at the Vatican website:
[Link]/holy_father/john_paul_ii/encyclicals/[Link]. They have also been published
in The Encyclicals of John Paul II, ed. J. Michael and C. S. B. Miller. Huntington, IN: Our
Sunday Visitor, 2001.]

John Paul II, Encyclical Letter on Some Questions Concerning the Moral Teaching of the
Church, Veritatis splendor, 06-08-1993.
________. Encyclical Letter on the Value and Inviolability of Human Life, Evangelium vitae,
25-03-1995.

________. Encyclical Letter on the Rapport between Faith and Reason, Fides et ratio, 14-09-
1998.

________. Message for the Celebration of World Day of Peace, 1 January 2002.

Dictionaries

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Salvatore Privitera. Milan: Edizioni Paoline, 1990.

Dizionario enciclopedico del pensiero di san Tommaso d’Aquino. Battista Mondin. Bologna:
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Dictionary of Christian Ethics. Edited by Bernhard Stoeckle. New York, NY: Seabury Press,
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Treatises and Manuals

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Frankl, Victor. On the Theory and Therapy of Mental Disorders: An Introduction to Logotherapy
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Léonard, André. Le fondement de la morale: essai d’éthique philosophique générale. Paris:

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________. Philosophy of Man: An Outline. Rome: Hortus Conclusus, 2001. Italian: Lineamenti
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Rodríguez Luño, Angel. Spanish: Ética general. Pamplona: Ediciones Universidad de Navarra,
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Abbà, Giuseppe. Felicità, vita buona e virtù. Saggio di filosofia morale. 2nd ed. Rome: LAS,
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Other Works Cited

Ceaser, Caius Julius. Gallic War. Translated by H. J. Edwards. 18th edition (first published
1917). The Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988.

________. Civil Wars. Translated by A. G. Peskett. 11th edition (first published 1927). The Loeb
Classical Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988.

________. Alexandrian, African, and Spanish Wars, Translated by A. G. Way. 5th edition (first
published 1955). The Loeb Classical Library. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1988.

Dostoevsky, Fyodor M. All the novels. Many of these may be downloaded from Project
Gutenberg: [Link]/pg/.

Euripides. The Complete Tragedies. Edited by David Grene and Richmond Lattimore. 5 vols.
Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1983. Greek/English editions are available
from The Loeb Classical Library ([Link]./loeb/[Link]).

Frisch, Max. I’m Not Stiller. Translated by Michael Bullock. New York, NY: Penguin Books,
1983.

Leopardi, Giacomo. Tutte le opere. 2 vols. Edited by W. Binni and E. Ghidetti. Florence:
Sansoni, 1969. English: Operette Morali: Essays and Dialogues. Translated by
Giovanni Cecchetti. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1983. Leopardi’s
complete poems are presented in The Canti: With a Selection of His Prose. Translated
by J. G. Nichols. New York, NY: Routledge, 2003.

Molla Pietro – Guerriero, Elio, Giana la donna forte. La beata Gianna Beretta Molla nel ricordo
del marito. Cinisello Balsamo, Milan: San Paolo, 1995.
 Also: Blessed Gianna Beretta Molla: A Woman’s Life (1922-1962). By Giuliana
Pelucchi. Foreward by Antoinette Bosco. Boston, MA: Pauline Books and Media, 2002.

Ovid, Publius. Latin/English editions of Ovid’s works can be purchased through The Loeb
Classical Library ([Link]./loeb/[Link]). A contemporary English
translation of Metamorphoses by A. S. Kline is located at [Link].

Shakespeare, William. The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works. Edited by Stanley Wells
and Gary Taylor. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998.