You say “unique” as though it’s a good thing

Today: my third (and, I think, final) thought on the “humans are unique among the animals” thread. [First installment here. Second installment here.]

In the first installment, I quoted Guy Consolmagno as saying that humans are unique in having “this curiosity to understand.” That made me think about what other aspects of our thoughts, personalities, and behaviours are unique, at least as we perceive it. Are we the only species that would be thinking about this, for example? Are we unique in thinking philosophically?

There are certainly many who think we’re the only animals with a sense of morality. One view is that morality comes from God, and that God gave it to us alone — some consequence of an apple and a snake, and whatnot, and then a fall from grace, and Cain being the first murderer, and such.

Do other animals have morality? If it’s unique to us, what, exactly, does that mean?

We appear to be the only animals who commit arbitrary acts of murder and violence against each other. A bear doesn’t wait behind a tree to attack the next bear that comes by. A zebra doesn’t find a family of zebras at night, and trample them in their sleep. Mobs of sharks don’t gather and attack other sharks whose skin is a different shade. And two male snakes who share a nest needn’t fear from other snakes who think they’re an abomination.

We use our “uniqueness” to exert control over other animals, including each other, and it seems we’re the only animals that do that — that tell others of our kind what they may and may not do, that imprison or kill others of our kind who don’t behave “properly”. In the animal kingdom, if you don’t follow a pack leader’s rules, you’ll be driven from the pack... but you’ll be free to go off and make a life on your own, in your own way.

We’re the only ones who will track you down and make you comply or pay the price. We’re the only ones who impose the behavioural norms of some on others — who fight wars to do so. And each of us has a different tolerance for different behaviours; each of us draws his lines in different places. That makes it particularly challenging when groups with different sensibilities mix.

If we’re the only animals who mistreat each other based on different appearance, different social behaviour, different thoughts and beliefs... that makes us unique, but it doesn’t make us better.

Dominion, part 2

Last week, I noted a comment about an aspect of uniqueness of humans among animals, and I said that it brought up a number of thoughts. Here’s another.

I said this on Thursday:

We want to believe that we’re unique. Dr Consolmagno’s religious learning has taught him that God created us specially, created us in his image. That he gave us dominion over the animals, and so on.

Whether you believe that it’s God’s plan or not — I don’t, as you’ll know if you’ve been reading these pages for a while — it’s clear that we do have some sort of “dominion” over animals. We have the ability, with our intelligence and use of tools, mostly to be in control. We hunt and farm and keep pets, all with efficiency that surpasses what other animals can do in general. We even bring other animals in to help us, as with dogs for hunting and herding. We are the prey of no large animal.^[1]

So what are our moral and ethical responsibilities? We can use animals for pretty much any purpose we like. Should we? Should we use them as workers? Should we keep them as pets. Should we hunt and farm them? Should we use their products (eggs, milk, honey, wool... leather)? Should we eat them?

That’s where I have very mixed feelings. On the one hand, I think we should treat them compassionately and respectfully, and not mistreat them. If we have them work with us, we should treat them well and reward them for their work. If we farm them, we should do it responsibly, keeping them in good living conditions that are comfortable for their species.

On the other hand, I think that our bodies are made to eat animals. We come with the means to do it, and we need the proteins they provide. That many of us have a choice in that matter is a testament to where our intelligence and tool use has brought us... and there are people in many parts of the world who do not have a choice: it’s absolutely necessary for some people to eat animals, and use their skins and other products, in order to survive.

Of course, for those of us tho do have the choice, the question of what choice to make remains open.

And I admit to some inconsistency, some hypocrisy, in that regard. I’m willing to eat animals, but I couldn’t kill them myself (I neither hunt nor fish). And factory farming bothers me a great deal. I was driving through Delaware once, and I followed, for a while, a truck carrying live chickens. They were in tiny cages, stacked up on the truck, and their feathers were being blown all over the place by the wind whipping through, because the truck was going 50 miles per hour and the cages were not well covered. That made me feel very bad about how the chickens I eat (or whose eggs I eat; I’m not sure which these were) are treated.

I choose to wear leather, but not, say, ermine or sable. Is there really a difference? Maybe: we eat cows, and we also use the skins, so the leather can be thought of as a by-product of food production. We use ermine and sable purely for their skins. That makes the difference for me. More inconsistency?

On the difficult subject of testing things on animals, I’m in favour of doing that testing before we use the products on humans. That does mean that I put people ahead of animals; yes, I admit that. Of course, I think we need to make sure the testing is done ethically. Humanely. But I’d rather have a furry animal be blinded because a cosmetic or drug turns out to be hazardous... than have it happen to a human. I do, perhaps arrogantly, put us at the top of a hierarchy.

But none of this is cut and dried, none of it is straightforward to justify, and I think about it a lot. I know that I could live perfectly well by eating and wearing only plants and artificial fibers. I recognize that not doing so is a choice that I make.

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^[1] Interestingly, that leaves it to the very smallest to prey on us: viruses and bacteria, tiny parasites, and such. Over those, we clearly do not have dominion.

Do electric sheep dream of androids?

On the radio program Speaking of Faith this week, host Krista Tippett talked with two Jesuits who are also astronomers. One, Guy Consolmagno, says this, as he notes the excitement with which people all over the world received his astronomy lessons and telescope demonstrations:

And it suddenly dawned on me, well, of course. It’s only human beings that have this curiosity to understand: What’s that up in the sky? How do we fit into that? Who are we? Where do we come from? And this is a hunger that’s as deep and important as a hunger for food because if you starve a person in that sense, you’re depriving them of their humanity.

That’s brought up a number of thoughts for me, which will probably result in a few entries in these pages. This is the first.

Do we really know that humans are the only animals with such curiosity? We assume it, of course, but do we know? When the cat sits in the window and looks out on the world, how do we know that he isn’t contemplating existence? Might the amazingly engaging guide dog I saw the other day have been feeling that he’s making something of his life by helping others, and thus fulfilling some sort of destiny? Who’s to say that a cow grazing in a field isn’t deep in thought as she munches?

We assume that they aren’t sophisticated enough for that, that their brains aren’t sufficiently developed. And we can stick electrodes on them and do brain scans, and see what areas of their brains respond to what visual stimuli, just as we do with humans. But those tests can’t tell us what they’re thinking.

We want to believe that we’re unique. Dr Consolmagno’s religious learning has taught him that God created us specially, created us in his image. That he gave us dominion over the animals, and so on. And it’s clear that we have unique abilities with respect to engineering, communication, and the like.

But how do we know that our abilities to wonder curiously and to think philosophically are unique. Maybe when a dog or a horse or a bird looks up at the night sky, there’s also wonder in its mind about what’s up there, and how we on Earth fit into it. That they can’t communicate it to us doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

As you travel life’s highway, don’t forget to stop and eat the roses.

— “Cow Philosophy”, cartoon by Gary Larsen

In memory of Bertrand Russell

Forty years ago today, mathematician, philosopher, peace and human rights activist Bertrand Russell died at the age of 97. Russell has appeared in these pages before, in a discussion of Russell’s paradox.

Today, in Russell’s memory, we’ll give him this page to speak for himself. Specifically, he’ll talk about his view of religious belief, in this clip on YouTube, embedded below. I’ll help him out by posting a transcript below the video.

Q: Why are you not a Christian?

Russell: Because I see no evidence whatever for any of the Christian dogmas. I’ve examined all the stock arguments in favour of the existence of God, and none of them seem to me to be logically valid.

Q: Do you think there’s a practical reason for having a religious belief, for many people?

Russell: Well, there can’t be a practical reason for believing what isn’t true. That’s quite... at least, I rule it out as impossible. Either the thing is true, or it isn’t. If it is true, you should believe it, and if it isn’t, you shouldn’t. And if you can’t find out whether it’s true or whether it isn’t, you should suspend judgment. But you can’t... it seems to me a fundamental dishonesty and a fundamental treachery to intellectual integrity to hold a belief because you think it’s useful, and not because you think it’s true.

Q: I was thinking of those people who find that some kind of religious code helps them to live their lives. It gives them a very strict set of rules, the rights and the wrongs.

Russell: Yes, but those rules are generally quite mistaken. A great many of them do more harm than good. And they would probably be able to find a rational morality that they could live by if they dropped this irrational traditional taboo morality that comes down from savage ages.

Q: But are we, perhaps the ordinary person perhaps isn’t strong enough to find this own personal ethic. They have to have something imposed upon them from outside.

Russell: Oh, I don’t think that’s true, and what is imposed on you from outside is of no value whatever. It doesn’t count.

Q: Well, you were brought up, of course, as a Christian. When did you first decide that you did not want to remain a believer in the Christian ethic?

Russell: I never decided that I didn’t want to remain a believer. I decided... between the ages of 15 and 18, I spent almost all my spare time thinking about Christian dogmas, and trying to find out whether there was any reason to believe them. And by the time I was 18, I’d discarded the last of them.

Q: Do you think that that gave you an extra strength in your life?

Russell: Oh, I don’t... no, I should’t have said so, neither extra strength nor the opposite. I mean, I was just engaged in the pursuit of knowledge.

Q: As you approach the end of life, do you have any fear of some kind of afterlife, or do you feel that that is just...

Russell: Oh, no, I think that’s nonsense.

Q: There is no afterlife?

Russell: None whatever.

Q: Do you have any fear of something that is common amongst atheists and agnostics, who have been atheists or agnostics all their lives, who are converted just before they die, to a form of religion?

Russell: Well, you know, it doesn’t happen nearly as often as religious people think it does. Because religious people, most of them, think that it’s a virtuous act to tell lies about the death beds of agnostics and such. As a matter of fact, it doesn’t happen very often.

Giving thanks

Tomorrow I’ll be being thankful, as will most Americans, over plates full of far too much food, glasses too full of wine, and desserts too plentiful to contemplate.

I’ll be thankful for all the things in my life that continue to be good, year after year. I have plenty of good friends. I have a good place to live. I’m safe and sound and healthy, despite my now having to deal daily with pills for blood pressure and cholesterol — stuff happens when you pass 50, and I used to think that was just a joke. I’m able to enjoy the things that I enjoy, and that’s very much worth being thankful for.

I’ll be thankful, even, for the things that have changed this year. The economy is awful, and I lost my job, as did many others around me. But I’ve found new work that makes me happy, and I’m thankful for that.

And people sometimes ask me to whom or what I’m thankful. As an atheist, I’m not thankful to God, to a god, to gods. I don’t thank any deity or other entity for what I have (or, as many would put it, for what has been given to me). What does it mean, then, for an atheist to “be thankful,” when there’s not someone to be thankful to?

This atheist, at least, treats this kind of thankfulness as a combination of introspection and contemplation of the state of the world. I understand, as I think about all these things, that there are many who don’t have them. There are people who are alone, people who are ill, people who are hungry, jobless, homeless, oppressed. I look at what I have that makes me happy, and I think about how I can help others be happy as well.

There’s plenty to think about, there, and plenty to contemplate doing about it. It does no good to “pray” for others less fortunate, because there’s no one to hear those prayers nor to answer them. But if my contemplation moves me to contribute in some way to helping them, that will be the real blessing. And there don’t need to be any gods around for that one.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. I hope you all have much to be thankful for.

Woody, on meaninglessness

I’ve always loved Woody Allen’s movies. Not all of them equally, of course, but most of them are at least amusing, and some are true masterpieces. Annie Hall, of course, the one that won the Academy Award for Best Picture (1977), is at the top of the list. My other favourites are Hannah and Her Sisters, Manhattan, and Play It Again, Sam.

Mr Allen has a new movie out, called Whatever Works, and Terry Gross recently interviewed him on her radio show, Fresh Air.

His movies, almost all of them, display a depressed angst, a kind of existential difficulty that’s hard for some to take. As he points out, his movies aren’t autobiographical... and yet they certainly reflect the man’s own philosophy and internal troubles.

Here’s a transcript from 6:38 into the audio:

Terry Gross: So, may I ask, what are some of the real problems that making movies distracts you from?

Woody Allen: Well, they distract me from the same problems that you face, or that anyone faces. You know, the uncertainty of life, and inevitability of aging, and death, and death of loved ones, and mass killings and starvations, and holocausts and... not just the man-made carnage, but the existential position that you’re in, you know, being in a world where you have no idea what’s going on, why you’re here, or what possible meaning your life can have, and the conclusion that you come to after a while that there is really no meaning to it, it’s just a random, meaningless event. These are pretty depressing thoughts, and if you spend much time thinking about them, not only can’t you resolve them, but you sit frozen in your seat, you can’t even get up to have your lunch.

Wow.

Indeed, should one so internalize the struggle to find meaning, and collect all the troubles of the word under one’s hat, one might indeed find oneself unable to function. For most of us, though, it doesn’t come to that.

Because Mr Allen really does have it there, in what he says: there is really no meaning to our individual lives. The are, indeed, just random, meaningless events, from a cosmic point of view. From a universal vantage point, our meaning, our purpose, is to be part of the life-cycle of the Earth. There’s no more nor less to it.

And then, one day a very unusual thing happened in the village: a little baby boy was born. A boy named Oblio. Now, don’t get the wrong idea: the being born part wasn’t unusual. Little kids were being born all the time in that village. What was unusual was that Oblio, unlike any of the other babies born that day, or any other day, had no point! He had no point at all.

Of course, that doesn’t mean our lives need to be meaningless, purposeless, pointless.

Woody Allen responds to his existential angst by “distracting” himself with filmmaking. All the things he has to deal with in that endeavour, he says, leave no time to think about the disturbing stuff. But, really, can anyone but him say that filmmaking is, for Mr Allen, a distraction? Surely, it’s his purpose. He entertains us with his films, and he has a fulfilling life from that. Filmmaking is Woody Allen’s meaning.

It’s not, though, a meaning imposed from on high. It’s one he has developed himself. In looking for a meaning, he’s found one, or created one for himself. In lamenting the meaninglessness of life, and its randomness, he’s made his less random and more meaningful.

How is it we are here, on this path we walk?
In this world of pointless fear, filled with empty talk

— Michael Pinder

And so it is with us all. We all fulfill our natural purpose, the cycle-of-life part. But we each make our own “higher purpose” in what we do while we’re in that cycle.

The three famous people who died last week, Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson, made it their purpose, as does Mr Allen, to entertain. Some decide their purpose is to help people, and they become teachers, firefighters, and physicians. Some lead, some provide services, some make things that others use; those are their meanings. For me, it’s my work with computers and the Internet. Our natural “purpose” provides us with the intelligence to develop our own, individual meanings of life.

And that’s the point.