Roger Scruton is currently Research Professor for the Institute for the Psychological Sciences where he teaches philosophy at their graduate school in both Washington and Oxford. He is a writer, philosopher, and public commentator and has specialized in aesthetics with particular attention to music and architecture. In his book Beauty, Scruton explores various notions of beauty and comes to the conclusion that beauty is not determined by subjective feelings, but universal values that are rooted in rational thought. In the following excerpt Scruton  discusses beauty in the form of art.

A century ago Marcel Duchamp signed a urinal with the name ‘R. Mutt’, entitled it ‘La Fontaine’, and exhibited it as a work of art. One immediate result of Duchamp’s joke was to precipitate an intellectual industry devoted to answering the question ‘What is art?’ The literature of this industry is as tedious as the never-ending imitations of Duchamp’s gesture. Nevertheless, it has left a residue of scepticism. If anything can count as art, what is the point or the merit in achieving that label? All that is left is the curious but unfounded fact that some people look at some things, others look at others. As for the suggestion that there is an enterprise of criticism, which searches for objective values and lasting monuments to the human spirit, this is dismissed out of hand, as depending on a conception of the art-work that was washed down the drain of Duchamp’s ‘fountain’.

The argument is eagerly embraced, because it seems to emancipate people from the burden of culture, telling them that all those venerable masterpieces can be ignored with impunity, that TV soaps are ‘as good as’ Shakespeare and Radiohead the equal of Brahms, since nothing is better than anything and all claims to aesthetic value are void. The argument therefore chimes with the fashionable forms of cultural relativism, and defines the point from which university courses in aesthetics tend to begin – and as often as not the point at which they end.

There is useful comparison to be made here with jokes. It is as hard to circumscribe the class of jokes as it is the class of artworks. Anything is a joke if somebody says so. A joke is an artefact made to be laughed at. It may fail to perform its function, in which case it is a joke that ‘falls flat’. Or it may perform its function, but offensively, in which case it is a joke ‘in bad taste’. But none of this implies that the category of jokes is arbitrary, or that there is no such thing as a distinction between good jokes and bad. Nor does it in any way suggest that there is no place for the criticism of jokes, or for the kind of moral education that has an appropriate sense of humour as its goal. Indeed, the first thing you might learn, in considering jokes, is that Marcel Duchamp’s urinal was one – quite a good one first time round, corny by the time of Andy Warhol’s Brillo boxes and downright stupid today.

Last week Jennifer Burns, author of Goddess of the Market: Ayn Rand and the American Right, appeared on The Daily Show.  Below you can watch her interview with Jon Stewart.  Then scroll down and read the top three questions everyone has been asking her since her appearance.

1. Is Jon Stewart as short as they say? I met Jon a few minutes before the show started in the “Green Room,” which is where guests wait before going on air. Basically, so many people told me he was so short that I was expecting a midget to walk in the door. Compared to that preconception, Stewart is not that short! I certainly think I’m taller than him, but his stature didn’t really make an impression. What struck me instead was how quick and smart he is, with an immediate rapid fire patter and stream of jokes. I was also surprised at how he looked different in real life than on TV. There are subtle distortions to the face on camera and in person he was leaner with more defined features. He has mesmerizing blue eyes which I focused on during the interview so I could keep up with what he was saying!

2. What does Jon Stewart say to you after the interview is over and the cameras are still rolling? I wish I could remember! I have no recollection of our last exchange, it was probably some basic thank you’s or pleasantry, and I think he probably helped me step off the stage. By the time I exited the set, I had completely forgotten what we talked about – it must have been a psychological reaction to the high pressure of the situation. Our conversation came back to me in great detail when I watched the show later that evening.

3. Are you mad he plumped the books of two Daily Show staffers at the end of the show? Not at all! It was a huge honor to be chosen for the show and has exposed my book to a wide and enthusiastic audience who might not have heard of it otherwise. There’s nothing like TV for legitimating intellectual production! Seriously, I appreciate that Jon Stewart is both a consummate entertainer and a really smart guy who values books and ideas, and I think his ability to blend humor and serious discussion is a great gift to contemporary America.

Frederick Grinnell is Professor of Cell Biology and founder of the Program in Ethics in Science and Medicine at the University of Texas Southwestern Medical Center, Dallas. His newest book, Everyday Practice of Science: Where Intuition and Passion Meet Objectivity and Logic offers an insider’s view of real-life scientific practice. Grinnell demystifies the textbook model of a linear “scientific method,” suggesting instead a contextual understanding of science. Scientists do not work in objective isolation, he argues, but are motivated by interest and passions.  In the article below he looks at a recent article in Nature about defining death.  Read previous posts by Grinnell here and visit his website here.

An editorial in Nature (1 October, 2009) entitled “Delimiting death” supports the proposal to reconsider the legal definition of death. “Ideally,” writes the Nature editor, “the law should be changed to describe more accurately and honestly the way that death is determined in clinical practice.” The current definition uses the criteria: (1) irreversible cessation of circulatory and respiratory functions, or (2) irreversible cessation of all functions of the entire brain, including the brain stem. However, assessing ‘irreversible’, ‘all functions’ and ‘entire brain’ becomes to some degree a matter of physician judgment. In cases involving organ procurement for transplantation, the physician is under pressure to obtain donor organs that are as fresh as possible. The situation becomes conflicted. “Physicians know that when they declare that someone on life support is dead, they are usually obeying the spirit, but not the letter, of this law. And many are feeling increasingly uncomfortable about it.”

The Nature piece might be dismissed as adding nothing new to the discussion except for the provocative, two part, conceptual definition of death that the editor proposes: (1) “the person is no longer there” and (2) “can never be made to return.” The first part of this definition helps makes clear the symmetry between the most contentious issues of modern bioethics – endings and beginnings of life. The person is no longer there; we can harvest the body for organs. The person is not yet there; we can harvest the body (embryo) for stem cells.

Franz Rosenzweig’s metaphorical description of death — “His I would be only an It if it were to die.” –no longer is just a metaphor. The meaning of human death emerges according to the organization of human life. For a newly formed embryo, death means loss of viability of a single cell. After several cell divisions, loss of viability of a single cell no longer equals death. Rather, death becomes equivalent to development arrest. After 3-4 months of gestation, once the cardiovascular system develops, it becomes reasonable to speak of cardiovascular death. After 6-7 months, once the central nervous system develops, it becomes reasonable to speak of brain death. After development of modern life support systems, once machines can replace heart and brain functions, it becomes reasonable to speak of the person and the body as separated entities. Modern medical technology has succeeded in separating the I from the “living” It. Modern social thinking remains conflicted about accepting this separation.

Using Nature’s conceptual definition of death as a point of departure is unlikely to produce a more easily implemented legal definition of death for two reasons. First, nobody knows the answer to the question “Where is the person?” Indeed, trying to answer this question has become the central focus of cognitive neuroscience research with no consensus in sight except that – which would return us to the current definition of death — the person will be gone after cessation of brain function. Those who support using human embryos for research up to 14 days of embryo life select 14 days not because they know when the person has arrived but rather because they agree that before day 14 the person could not yet have arrived. Second, both from technical and practical points of view, the statement “can never be made to return” will add the word ‘never’ to the ambiguous list of other terms, i.e., irreversible, all functions and entire brain, about which the Nature editor complains. Therefore, given the inherent ambiguity, trying to decide the moment of an organ donor’s death with certainty will continue to have the potential to create a conflicted (or so it might feel) situation of choosing to sacrifice one life to save another. Clinical judgment still will be required as always is the case in the practice of clinical medicine.

If changing the legal definition of death cannot solve the practical problem, is there an alternative? One approach might be to change the informed consent process so as to involve organ donors more explicitly in the choosing process. Some donors will want to gift their organs only after certainty of death. Their wishes oblige physicians to act cautiously in declaring death, even if it means potentially reducing the value of the organs. However, other donors might view themselves as more involved participants whose advanced directives encourage their physicians to act to maintain the value of their organs, even if doing so means instructing the physician to obey the spirit and not necessarily the letter of the law. Instead of deriving a new definition of life’s end as proposed by the Nature editorial, we should aim for better public understanding of how modern medical technology has made defining life’s end so difficult.

Stephen T. Asma is Professor of Philosophy at Columbia College Chicago, where he holds the title of Distinguished Scholar.  His newest book, On Monsters: An Unnatural History of Our Worst Fears, is a wide-ranging cultural and conceptual history of monsters-how they have evolved over time, what functions they serve, and what shapes they are likely to take in the future.  It is with this monstrous perspective (sorry I know it is an awful pun) that Asma looks at Where the Wild Things Are in honor of its release this weekend.

With hindsight it seems fitting that Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are (1963) first appeared in cultural space somewhere between Elvis Presley and the Beatles. Where the Wild Things Are is a rock’n’roll story, about being misunderstood, rebelling against authority, letting your hair down, and generally indulging in the Dionysian rumpus. It’s not surprising, then, that the new film version (Warner Brothers) is brought to us by skateboarding music-video director Spike Jonze and literary mega-hipster Dave Eggers.

As the movie’s trailer reminds us, “Inside all of us is a wild thing.” And in our therapeutic era, we generally accept that it is good and healthy to visit our wild things –to let them off their chains, let them howl at the moon. You can also taste some of this Romanticism in the recent relish of the Woodstock anniversary, with its celebration of noble primitivism. But the hippy view of “the wild” is quite sunny, whereas Sendak (who lost family during the Holocaust) wanted to acknowledge some of the darker aspects of uncivilized life (even, or especially, through the eyes of a child). Despite these darker notes, however, Where the Wild Things Are still affirms the idea that danger, at least in small doses, is good for you. And this latest fascination with beasties, together with the approach of Halloween, reminds us that we have a love/hate relationship with monsters generally. We are simultaneously attracted and repulsed by them.

Sendak’s monsters are just repulsive enough to be alien, foreign, and mysterious, but they’re also vaguely cute and familiar enough for us to identify with them and recognize our emotional selves in them. Sendak claimed in later interviews that the monsters were based loosely on his boyhood perceptions of his frightening aunts and uncles. Like a distant relation, our uncanny monsters are alien aspects of our own identity –they are parts of who we are, unfamiliar aspects of our psyches. This common way to read monsters –as primitive, uncivilized versions of ourselves –is obvious in Stevenson’s Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde or the forthcoming Universal Pictures remake The Wolfman, starring Anthony Hopkins and Benicio del Toro. Monster stories have a cathartic function, in the sense that they give our tamed, repressed impulses a brief holiday of Bacchanalian revelry. And after these virtual trips to our own hearts of darkness, we can better return to our everyday social world of compromise, accommodation, and compliance. On this account, the monster story is the favorite genre of our reptilian brains (the real home where the wild things are).

However, every era has its own uses and abuses of monsters. The lesson of Shelley’s Frankenstein, for example, is often taken as a liberal lesson in tolerance: we as a society must not create outcasts, or persecute those who are different. Or consider that the medieval mind was obsessed with giants and mythical creatures as God’s punishments for the sin of pride. And the medieval period also began the Church’s long fascination with demon possession. For the Greeks and Romans, monsters were prodigies –warnings of impending disaster.

Besides the cuddly monsters of Where the Wild Things Are, our present day fascination seems dominated by zombies, vampires, and serial killers. Why are we so entranced by these specific creatures –why do we love to hate them?

Not only are there more zombies around these days, but they seem to be getting faster and more aggressive. Gone are the slow lumbering goons of the George Romero-era zombies, and in their stead we have lightning fast undead predators. Zombies, just like vampires, serial killers and most other monsters are terrifying because you cannot really reason with them. Unlike your other enemies, you cannot appeal to monsters to recognize that you’re a good hearted person, or you’ve got kids, or you really understand their pain, or you only want to understand them in the name of science. They’ll pummel you and eat you anyway. There’s not much common ground, in terms of rationality or emotional solidarity. One suspects there is a link between a decade of American fear of terrorists, and a rise in zombie monsters that do not respond to negotiation.

But zombies also have unique qualities that trigger the dynamic of love/hate, attraction/repulsion. Everybody wants to live forever. That’s a given. If you can’t remember wanting to live forever, then you’re probably a successful and functional adult. But the inner narcissist –the one that thinks he’s God and wants to live forever –is still in you somewhere, buried deep. The zombie, like the vampire, is a kind of immortal: chop his leg off, he’s still coming; blow a hole in his chest, he’s still coming. His life span is indefinite and he’s indestructible. So the little narcissist inside us really likes the immortal aspect of the zombie and the vampire. We unconsciously crave that kind of staying power and durability, but our narcissistic desire to cheat death is impossible to sustain in the face of mature experience. Reality regularly reminds us, as we are growing up, that we will not cheat death. No one actually cheats death. To carry on in the fantasy world of the narcissistic inner-child is impossible given the brute facts of our animal mortality. So the universal urge to live forever must be repressed, as we grow up. This repression means that the desire must be transformed from positive to negative –from something we like, to something disgusting (just like in potty training).

We love to hate zombies because they simultaneously manifest our craving for immortality, and our more mature realization that the flesh always decays. As “living dead,” all zombies elicit those conflicting impulses in our psyche. The more disgusting they are, the more we are reminded of our inevitable decomposition, but the more they keep getting up and chasing, the more we are delighted by the promise of immortality. The psyche seems to carry out an unconscious vacillation: the zombies live on forever, those lucky sods, but wait…they’re disgusting and repellent and…and…run!

Vampires are a much more glamorized and sexualized version of the attraction/repulsion dynamic. From Polidori’s original Vampyre, to Stoker’s Dracula, to today’s teen vampires of Twilight, the blood drinkers are, generally speaking, totally hot. The play of sexual taboos in vampire stories is well appreciated. But in addition to the always titillating presence of neck-kissing and the exchange of bodily fluids, we have to recognize that vampires are romantic monsters. They are incarnations of the irresistible but damaging femme fatal for boys, and the “bad boy” or cad for girls. A vampire is frequently an archetype of the charismatic, handsome, man, who seduces women by his very indifference toward them. Women find him alluring and seek chase, only to discover too late that they are broken upon his heartless unmovable nature. The vampire holds out the promise of love, but alas lacks even humanity.

Vampires and zombies share another well-spring of horror: you could easily become one. You or your loved one is just a little bite away from contracting the disease. In the age of AIDS, swine flu, SARS, and myriad pandemic anxieties, it’s easy to see why monsters who transmit their monstrosity through bites (both sexual and gustatory) are especially frightening. In the medieval mind, monsters and demons were metaphysically different from you and I, and in the unlikely event that you were transformed into one you could be sure it was the result of serious sin. Nowadays, however, casual, accidental contact can make you “one of them.”

One suspects that losing one’s humanity, or becoming one of them, is also at play in our dread fascination with serial killers –real and imagined monsters. We have extensive media coverage, and corresponding public appetite, for real serial killers like Jeffrey Dahmer, Charles Manson, John Wayne Gacy, Ed Gein, as well as the popular fictional characters Norman Bates, Sweeney Todd, Hannibal Lecter, Freddy Krueger, Leatherface, Michael Myers, and so on. Why are so many of us repelled, disgusted, and morally outraged, but also willing to lay out cash to see psychotic murderers hang people on meat hooks, sever limbs, and of course eat their innocent victims?

Before the 1950s, very few people would have suggested that a serial killer was anything like you, or I, or churchgoing folks. And yet, now it is commonplace for people to think of psychopaths as just slight (albeit horrifying) deviations on the otherwise normal brain or psyche. A murdering psychopath is not a demon-possessed creature or an offspring of Cain, but a guy who failed to develop normal levels of human compassion. Most of us believe that the exact causes of monstrous serial killing will be found eventually in brain science or developmental psychology or some combination, but we don’t think that Gacy, Dahmer, Hannibal Lecter, or Leatherface, are metaphysically different from us. We have secularized the evil of such psychopaths only recently, and maybe this is one reason why we love to hate them.

Just as Sendak’s monsters give us a kind of Rousseauian view of going “back to the wild” (wherein the authentic self is discovered, uncorrupted by society), so too Leatherface and similar monsters of “torture porn” give us a kind of Freudian view of going native. We’re attracted to serial killers because they lack conscience, hurt their enemies with impunity, and feel very little. They do the stuff we might do, if we had not been socialized properly. We’re attracted to their animalistic primitive powers. But we’re simultaneously repulsed by them because they lack the precise qualities that make us human.

If Rousseau and the hippies are right, then our inner primitive monsters will be more like Sendak’s beasties; weird, a little dangerous, but ultimately helpful. If, however, Freud is right about the kinds of monsters inside us, then we shouldn’t go too often or too long to where the wild things are.

Like rock’n’roll, the wild primitivism of monsters is tempered by bourgeois (and simply human) needs for security, safety and stability. Howlin’ Wolf is sanitized into Elvis, the “long haired” Beatles have to wear suits, the mud-soaked Woodstock kids are ready to go home after the weekend, and Sendak’s little “Max” misses his mom and leaves his monsters to return to “his very own room where he found his supper waiting for him, and it was still hot.”

Zvi Ben-Dor Benite is an Associate Professor in the Department of History and the Department of Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies at New York University.  His new book, The Ten Lost Tribes: A World History, looks at the legendary story of the ten lost tribes of Israel and offers a unique prism through which to view the many facets of encounters between cultures, the processes of colonization, and the growth of geographical knowledge.  In the excerpt from the introduction below, we learn why God scattered the tribes.

In the beginning, there was one unified kingdom under the great kings, David and Solomon, in the land of Israel, home of the twelve tribes, who had descended from the third patriarch, Jacob. Things were good under Solomon and the kingdom enjoyed prosperity and many years of peace. However, as Solomon aged, he began to sin. He married foreign women and worshipped their gods. He even built altars for these gods in Jerusalem, next to the temple he himself had built for the Lord God. As a result, God becomes angry with him and sends his messenger Ahijah the Shilonite to a “mighty man of valor” from the tribe of Ephraim, Jeroboam, son of Nebat. He is to lead the Ephraimites out of the kingdom and tear it into two.

As the biblical account has it, on his way out of Jerusalem, Jeroboam encounters Ahijah, who in a dramatic gesture tears his own new garment into twelve pieces. He then turns to Jeroboam: “take thee ten pieces: for thus saith the Lord, the God of Israel, Behold, I will rend the kingdom out of the hand of Solomon, and will give ten tribes to thee.” Ahijah explains that one tribe, Judah, will remain in the hands of the Davidic house, “for my servant David’s sake and for Jerusalem’s sake, the city that I have chosen out of all the tribes of Israel.” The prophet soon repeats this message, again speaking of God’s plan to divide up the united Davidic kingdom: “But I will take the kingdom out of his son’s hand and will give unto thee even ten tribes”.

This prophecy is the first mention in the biblical narrative of the “ten tribes” – indeed, it coins the term, which appears nowhere else in the Hebrew Bible of the New Testament. Here, it appears twice within a few verses. God chooses a man specifically from the tribe of Ephraim for the job of leading the ten tribes. Ephraim and Manasseh, sons of Jacob’s most beloved lost son, Joseph, receive a deathbed blessing from the patriarch. Like Judah, they belong in the category of “blessed tribes.” But while both of them are blessed, in a significant dramatic gesture, Jacob crosses his arms and places his right (indicating greater blessing) hand on the head of his youngest grandson – Ephraim.

Ahijah’s prophecy quickly becomes reality. Solomon’s son and successor, Rehoboam, is far less smart than his father and grandfather. He rules tyrannically and foolishly and abuses the dominion over the rest of the tribes given to the tribe of Judah. Schisms and unrest spread among the people of the kingdom. Armed with God’s promise, Jeroboam rebels and leads his tribe of Ephraim to secede from the united Davidic kingdom, creating a separate dominion in the northern part of the Holy Land. Nine other tribes follow him, and the Ephraimite monarchy becomes the kingdom of Israel, home of the ten tribes. The great united kingdom of Israel no longer exists. Instead, there are the smaller Israel and Judah. The new Israelite kingdom controls an expanse of land from a point only a few kilometers north of Jerusalem to the mountains of Lebanon. In the south, the house of David remains with only two tribes, Judah and its smaller neighbor, Benjamin, and wth the temple in Jerusalem, which is still the cultural and religious center of all twelve tribes.

But the story does not end there. Fearing that the people of the new secessionist kingdom might revert to Judah’s dominion when they go to worship in Jerusalem, Jeroboam decides to build a new center for worship within the boundaries of his won domain. The Bible tells us that he “took two calves of gold” and said to the people: “It is too much for you to go up to Jerusalem: behold they gods, O Israel, which brought thee up out of the land of Egypt”. Jeroboams’s political and cultural shrewdness proves to be grave error with everlasting consequences. Worshipping the two calves is the “original sin” of the ten tribes, and it never leaves them…

In a typical burst of wrath, God vows to destroy not only the clan of Jeroboam, but his entire kingdom. The same Ahijah the Shilonite delivers another horrifying prophecy: “For the Lord shall smite Israel as a reed is shaken in the water and he shall root up Israel out of this good land which he gave to their fathers and shall scatter them beyond the river because they have made their graves provoking the Lord to anger”. This banishment form the divine domain, perhaps a historical recasting and transposition of the story of the expulsion from Eden, is crucial in the later formulations of the tribes’ location. It would later be come to be understood as expulsion from the inhabited civilized world.

In the wake of Ahijah’s prophecy, the Israelite kingdom is plunged into 200 years of political turbulence that culminate in its destruction. The house of Jeroboam falls first, and the kingdom sees many dynasties rise and fall. None of the kings removes the golden calves that had made God so angry. On the contrary, they begin worshipping even more foreign gods. The country continues to suffer from chronic political instability. Israel’s end finally comes when the Assyrian Empire, the “Rod of God,” as the prophet Isaiah so loved to call it, conquers Israel and deports its people. The biblical narrative laconically reports, “In the ninth year of Hoshea, the king of Assyria took Samaria and carried Israel away into Assyria and places them in Halah and in Habor by the river of Gozan and in the cities of the Medes”.

The authors of 2 Kings hasten to remind the reader why it all happened: because Israel had sinned against God and deserted him. “Therefore the Lord was very angry with Israel and remove them out of his sight; there was none left but the tribe of Judah only”….

Robert Veatch is Professor of Medical Ethics at the Kennedy Institute of Ethics, Georgetown University. He received the career distinguished achievement award from Georgetown University in 2005 and has received honorary doctorates from Creighton and Union College. His new book, Patient, Heal Thyself: How the “New Medicine” Puts the Patient in Charge, he sheds light on a fundamental change sweeping through the American health care system, a change that puts the patient in charge of treatment to an unprecedented extent. In the original article below, Veatch looks at how the empowerment effected Michael Jackson’s medical decisions and the responsibility of his doctor.

Dr. Conrad Murray is the doctor who apparently administered a fatal dose of the anesthetic, propofol, to Michael Jackson in a desperate attempt to respond to his cries for help in getting some sleep. He has received rough treatment from the media. Jackson’s death has been ruled a homicide and the media are reporting that he will be charged with manslaughter. I think that judgment is too quick and want to come to the doctor’s defense.

The case is, of course, being tried in the press before we have all the details, but the likely scenario is emerging. Making some plausible assumptions, I think a case can be made for the doctor’s decisions. Let me assume, for purposes of discussion, that the doctor did not intend to kill Michael (He was reportedly being paid $150,000 a month to be Michael’s full time physician. Even if he had completely abandoned his duty to serve the patient, he would be a fool to intend the death.) Let me assume that the lethal effects were foreseeable, but not inevitable side effects of a very potent drug. Let me also assume that Michael had been informed by Dr. Murray how dangerous the drug was and how unusual it was to use it for this purpose. Possibly, he had even told Michael that the drug’s labeling did not include the use of propofol outside of a hospital and that almost all physicians would refuse to use it this way.

With these assumptions, a prosecutor will have a difficult time accusing the doctor of a crime. It is not even clear to me that “homicide” is the right term for the death. First, it is important to realize that “off-label” uses of drugs by doctors is not illegal. It is done all the time when a physician becomes convinced that it in the patient’s interest. Second, it is critical to understand that medical choices about what is in a patient’s interest are directly dependent on the patient’s goals and values. They cannot simply be read out of a textbook as if medical science can prove what is in a particular patient’s interest. (Think about whether aggressive chemotherapy is in a terminal cancer patient’s interest or whether an abortion is in the interest of a pregnant woman.) The patient’s interest is necessarily a subjective matter about which only the patient can have direct knowledge.

It seems clear that Michael was in the advanced stages of insomnia and was in excruciating agony from persistent lack of sleep. That is an awful situation about which patients often have to make desperate choices. None of us can know what was in Michael’s head that caused the insomnia or led him to plea for pharmacological intervention. We do know that other drugs had been used even that fateful night (benzodiazepines that are often used to reduce anxiety and induce sleep). These other drugs had failed to solve the problem and made the use of the propofol even more dangerous, something Dr. Murray surely knew and presumably had told Michael.

Now the question for Dr. Murray and for Michael Jackson is, given his desperate situation, is the only drug that will give him some sleep worth the very great risk of side effects, even death? Surely, for most of us the answer would be negative, but that doesn’t mean it was Michael’s answer. Given that he had apparently received the drug many previous times without side effects, I don’t see how we can claim that Michael would be wrong to decide that the risk would be worth it in his case. Deciding whether the drug is “worth it” is a value judgment, not a scientific fact that the doctor can look up in a book. Even if almost everyone else would have decided not to try the desperate off-label use, I don’t know how we can say Michael’s gamble was wrong for him.

But, you might say, even if Michael’s judgment was understandable, surely Dr. Murray was wrong to go along with his patient’s demand. Surely, other physicians would not have agreed. A physician is supposed to be a responsible professional who has the right not to go along with a patient’s very unusual and risky demand. Most physicians would have refused to provide the propofol (at least outside of a hospital) and that is understandable, but this does not prove that Michael’s value judgment about the risk was wrong or that Dr. Murray was wrong to comply. Some medical issues are appropriately judged by what is called a “standard of care.” The correctness of the physician’s behavior is judged by what his colleagues similarly situated would have done. This, however, is not a decision that should be judged by that standard. If it is possible that Michael had made a rationally defensible decision that the risk was worth it for him, then a physician is within his rights to decide to cooperate in a legal behavior if he so chooses. He surely would have had the right not to provide the dangerous drug for off-label use, but he also has the right to decide it is a tolerable risk. If he does so after the patient is adequately informed, I don’t see how we can fault him assuming that the lethal effect was not intended.

This turns out to be crucial for the rest of us if we are to get high-quality, rational medical care. We have for many years recognized that most powerful, valuable drugs have anticipated side effects. If we choose to take the risk and the side effect occurs, we don’t say that the choice was a mistake. If the side effect is death, we don’t say it was a homicide. Provided the intended beneficial effects are good enough, we say that the side effect is tolerable even if it is foreseen. That, in fact, is precisely the justification for doctors’ use of narcotics to control severe pain in cancer patients even though they know that the side effect can be respiratory depression and even death. Most ethical systems have long acknowledged that such “unintended, but foreseen” deaths are tolerable. Normally, such a death is not deemed a “homicide.” Just may be, if we put ourselves in Michael’s shoes and plug in the value judgments he made, we can understand why Dr. Murray, apparently with great reluctance, was willing to go along. I can’t fault him if that was what he did.

Virginia Held is Distinguished Professor of Philosophy at the City University of New York Graduate School.  She is a past president of the the American Philosophical Association (Eastern Division).  Her most recent book, How Terrorism is Wrong: Morality and Political Violence, offers a moral assessment of various forms of political violence, with terrorism as its focus.  She asks tough questions such as: “Why is terrorism wrong?” and “On what grounds should we judge when the use of violence is morally acceptable?”  In the excerpt below Held attempts to define terrorism as an act separate from war and crime.

Understanding how to define terrorism is notoriously difficult…Governments characteristically define terrorism as something only their opponents can commit and as something only those who seek to change polices or to attach a given political system or status quo can engage in.  The definition used by the U.S. State Department, for instance, has included the claim that it is carried out by “subnational groups or clandestine agents.”…This is obviously unsatisfactory.  …as Israeli and U.S. political scientists Neve Gordon and George López, respectively, say, “Israel’s practice of state-sanctioned torture also qualifies as…political terrorism.  It is well known that torture is not only used to extract information or to control the victim; it is also used to control the population as a whole.”…

There can also be state-sponsored terrorism when the government of one state funds and supports terrorism carried out by members of groups or states not under its control.  The United States routinely lists a number of countries (e.g., Iran and Syria) that, it claims, support terrorist groups elsewhere…

Terrorism is certainly violence… One can doubt that Al Qaeda has a political objective in the sense in which many people understand politics, but since it aims at the religious domination of the political, its violence is indeed political…Its aim to expel U.S. and European forces from the Middle East is clearly political.  War is also political violence on a larger scale, though if the most alarming plans of current terrorist groups were successful, they would often amount to war as currently understood…

Two important definitional questions have to do with whether the targeting of civilians must be part of the definition of terrorism and whether such targeting turns other political violence into terrorism.  Many of those who write about terrorism incorporate the targeting of civilians into their definitions…

There are serious problems with a definition of terrorism that sees “the deliberate killing of innocent people,” as Walzer puts it, to be its central characteristic or what distinguishes it from other kinds of political violence and war and makes it automatically morally unjustifiable in the same way that murder is.  First, consider some of the descriptive implications.  If targeting civilians must be part of terrorism, then blowing up the Marine barracks in Lebanon in 1983 and killing hundreds of marines, and blasting a hole in the U.S. destroyer Cole and killing seventeen sailors in Yemen in October 2000 would not be instances of terrorism, and yet they are routinely offered as examples of terrorism…

Even more awkward for the proposed definition that includes the killing of civilians as its defining characteristic is that we would have to make a very sharp distinction between the September 11 attack on the World Trade Center, which was certainly terrorism, and the attack that same day and with entirely similar means on the Pentagon, which on this definition would not be counted as terrorism (although some civilians work at the Pentagon, it is a primarily military target.  This seems very peculiar.

If one tries with this definition to include (rather than exclude) these cases as instances of terrorism and if one thinks that, instead of those who are technically “civilians,” one simply means those who are not now shooting at one-like the Marines, when they were asleep, or the colonels at their desks in the Pentagon-and suggests that only those presently engaged in combat are legitimate targets, one will make it illegitimate for the opponents of terrorism to target terrorists when they are not actually engaged in bombings and the like.  Moreover, distinguishing when members of the armed forces are actual present threats that may be targeting (as distinct from only potential threats because they are not resting) has not been part of the distinctions worked out so far, which assert that noncombatants should not be targeted…

An even more serious problem with a proposal to tie the definition of terrorism to the targeting of civilians but to include the attack on the Pentagon among instances of terrorism (because members of the armed forces working at the Pentagon are not currently engaged in combat) is that it puts the burden of being a “legitimate tarter” on the lowest levels of the military hierarchy-the ordinary soldiers, sailors, pilots, and support personnel-and exempts those who give them their orders, send them into combat, and make them instruments of violence.

Furthermore, if attacking civilians is the defining characteristic of terrorism, a great many actions that are typically not called terrorism would have to be considered terrorist actions: the bombings of Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Dresden, London, and all of those other places where civilians live and become targets, as well as where the aim to spread fear and demoralization among wider groups was surely present.  Perhaps we should just get used to calling all these “acts or terrorism.”  But perhaps we should find a definition of terrorism that does not ask us to.

What many discussions of terrorism try, of course, to do is to come up with a definition such that what they do is terrorism and and unjustified, whereas what we and our friends do is not terrorism but justified self-defense.  Building the targeting of civilians into the definitions is often used to accomplish this since “intentionally killing innocent people” seems by definition wrong and unjustified…

…In sum, then, I decline to make the targeting of civilians a defining feature of terrorism, even though terrorism very frequently targets noncombatants.  Terrorism is political violence that usually spreads fear beyond those attacked, as others recognize themselves as potential targets.  This is also true of much warfare…Terrorism’s political objectives distinguish it from ordinary crime.  Perhaps more than anything else, terrorism resembles small-scale war.  It can consists of single events, such as the Oklahma City bombings, though it is usually part of a larger campaign, whereas war is always composed of a series of violent events.  Importantly, there are many kinds of terrorism, just as there are many kinds of war.

We at OUP UK were delighted recently when we heard that Science and Religion: A Very Short Introduction by Thomas Dixon had won The Dingle Prize. It is awarded biennially by the British Society for the History of Science for the best book in the history of science, technology and medicine accessible to a non-expert readership, with the judges declaring that Thomas Dixon’s book “is clearly and concisely written, well argued, and accessible to the non-expert; it should appeal to a wide readership not only beyond the history of science community but also outside academia”.

Below is an extract taken from the book, regarding Darwin and evolution. Thomas Dixon has previously written two posts for OUPblog, which can be found here and here.

In his early 20s, Darwin was looking forward to a career in the Church of England. He had embarked on medical training in Edinburgh a few years earlier but had found the lectures boring and the demonstrations of surgery disgusting. Now his father sent him off to Christ’s College, Cambridge, where young Charles signed up to the Thirty-Nine Articles of the Church of England and set about studying mathematics and theology with a view to entering holy orders after graduation. But Darwin found that theology appealed about as much as surgery. His real passion at this time was for beetle-hunting rather than Bible-reading, and he had an early triumph when one of the specimens he had identified appeared in print in an instalment of Illustrations of British Entomology. In 1831 this enthusiastic young amateur naturalist was invited to join the HMS Beagle as a companion to the ship’s captain, Robert Fitzroy, and to undertake collections and observations on matters of natural-historical interest. Perhaps he was not, after all, destined to become the Reverend Charles Darwin.

The voyage of the Beagle lasted from 1831 to 1836. The primary purpose of the expedition was to complete the British Admiralty’s survey of the coast of South America, but its five-year itinerary also took in Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa. Darwin’s observations of rock formations, plants, animals, and indigenous peoples were incidental to the purpose of the expedition but absolutely central to his own intellectual development. On board the Beagle, Darwin’s religious views started to evolve too. He had no doubt that the natural world was the work of God. In his notebook he recorded his impressions of the South American jungle: ‘Twiners entwining twiners – tresses like hair – beautiful lepidoptera – Silence – hosannah.’ To Darwin, these jungles were ‘temples filled with the varied productions of the God of Nature’, in which no-one could stand without ‘feeling that there is more in man than the mere breath of his body’. He even admired the civilizing effects of the work of Christian missionaries too, observing that ‘so excellent is the Christian faith, that the outward conduct of the believers is said most decidedly to have been improved by its doctrines’.

Back in England, however, after the voyage, Darwin would start to have doubts. His grandfather, father, and elder brother had all rejected Christianity, adopting either Deism or outright freethinking unbelief. He seemed to be heading in a similar direction. His reasons were many. His travels had revealed to him at first hand the great variety of religious beliefs and practices around the world. All these different religions claimed to have a special revelation from God, but they could not all be right. Then there was his moral revulsion at the Christian doctrine that while the faithful would be saved, unbelievers and heathens, along with unrepentant sinners, would be consigned to an eternity of damnation. Darwin thought this was a ‘damnable doctrine’ and could not see how anyone could wish it to be true. This objection hit him with particular force after the death of his unbelieving father in 1848.

There were two ways in which Darwin’s re-reading of the book of nature also gave him reasons to re-think his religion. He and others before him had seen in the adaptation of plants and animals to their environments evidence of the power and wisdom of God. But Darwin now thought he saw something else. Hard though it was for him to believe it himself – the human eye could still give him a shudder of incredulity – he came to think that all these adaptations came about by natural processes. Variation and natural selection could counterfeit intelligent design. Secondly, along with the silent beauty of the jungle he had also observed all sorts of cruelty and violence in nature, which he could not believe a benevolent and omnipotent God could have willed. Why, for example, would God have created the ichneumon wasp? The ichneumon lays its eggs inside a caterpillar, with the effect that when the larvae hatch they eat their host alive. Why would God create cuckoos which eject their foster siblings from the nest? Why make ants that enslave other species of ant? Why give queen bees the instinct of murderous hatred towards their daughters? ‘What a book a Devil’s chaplain might write’, Darwin exclaimed, ‘on the clumsy, wasteful, blundering low & horridly cruel works of nature!’

Darwin never became an atheist. At the time he wrote On the Origin of Species he was still a theist, although not a Christian. By the end of his life he preferred to adopt the label ‘agnostic’, which had been coined by his friend Thomas Huxley in 1869. Darwin, for the most part, kept his religious doubts to himself. He had many reasons to do so, not least his desire for a quiet life and social respectability. The most important reason, though, was his wife Emma. In the early years of their marriage, Emma, a pious evangelical Christian, wrote a letter to Charles of her fears about his loss of faith in Christianity and the consequences for his salvation. She could not bear the thought that his doubts would mean they were not reunited after death in heaven. The death of their beloved young daughter Annie in 1851 brought home again the need for the consolation of an afterlife. The difference between Charles and Emma on this question was a painful one. Among Darwin’s papers after his death, Emma found the letter she had written to him on the subject 40 years earlier. On it her husband had added a short note of his own: ‘When I am dead, know that many times, I have kissed and cryed over this.’

When Professor Henry Chadwick passed away last year, a finished manuscript was discovered which he had put to one side in the early 1980s. It was a biography of the giant of Christian thought, Augustine of Hippo. Augustine’s life and works have shaped the development of the Christian Church, sparking controversy and influencing the ideas of theologians through subsequent centuries. In Augustine of Hippo: A Life, which OUP are publishing in the UK next month, Chadwick charts Augustine’s intellectual journey from schoolboy and student to Bishop and champion of Western Christendom. Below is a short excerpt from the first chapter.

Augustine was born on 13 November 354.

He was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He was the child of small-town parents in Thagaste in the province of Numidia, now the large village of Souk-Ahras in Algeria not far from the Tunisian border. Thagaste lies in hilly country about 60 miles inland, south of Hippo on the coast. Hardly more than a few ruins of the bath-house now survive to remind the visitor of its Roman past (unlike Hippo of which much more has been found by the French archaeologists). Augustine’s father Patrick sat on the town council and had the status of a curialis, in the late empire a hard-pressed class expected by the government to keep their local community going on their personal resources. Patrick owned but a few acres. His wife Monnica bore not only Augustine but also another son and two daughters. Their relative ages are never mentioned. Monnica came of a Christian family, but Patrick remained a pagan almost until the end of his life. Monnica was regular in giving alms for the poor, devoted to the honour of the martyrs of the African churches, and daily attendant at prayers in the local church morning and evening. Her constant devotions did not make her careless, and she avoided gossip. She was often influenced by her dream-life through which she felt that God guided her.

Both Augustine’s parents are likely to have been of Berber stock, but Romanized and Latin-speaking. Numidian peasants of the fourth century spoke not Latin but Punic, inherited from the Phoenician settlers who came from Tyre and Sidon a millennium before to set up their trading station and maritime power at Carthage. In Hannibal they had once offered a frightening threat to Rome’s ambitions to conquer the Mediterranean. As Romans settled in their North African provinces, many took Berber- or Punic-speaking wives. In the second century ad Apuleius, of Madauros near Thagaste, author of the Golden Ass, had a Punic-speaking wife. In Augustine’s time the Punic-speakers retained a consciousness of their old Phoenician forefathers, and could manifest a lack of enthusiasm for the Roman administration of their country now established for over five centuries. Latin culture was a veneer; those who had it tended to despise those who had not. Augustine acquired a conversational knowledge of the patois, and never speaks of Punic language or culture with the least touch of scorn as the pagan Maximus of Madauros did. But his parents and nurses spoke to him in Latin, and education at the Thagaste school was principally in Latin language and literature, a subject which ancient men called ‘grammar’, taught by the grammaticus.

Augustine’s schoolmaster, first at Thagaste, then until his sixteenth year at nearby Madauros, appears more notable for his skill with the cane than for offering a positive education. To the end of his days Augustine can hardly refer to the life of a schoolboy without recalling the misery of cruel floggings. He would not say it did him no good, for it was a training for the far greater troubles of adult life. But ‘we learn better when freely trying to satisfy our curiosity than under fear or force’. Once he had been handed Virgil’s Aeneid, his young mind was kindled to excitement by the exquisite poetry. His school also made him learn Greek, a language spoken by a substantial minority of the North African population with links to Sicily and South Italy where Greek was widespread. A mere hundred miles of sea separate Sicily from the North African coast. Augustine found Greek hard; the difficulty soured even the reading of Homer whose poetic power he admired. In later life he was generally inclined to protest too much his ignorance of Greek. After his schooldays he did not read classical Greek texts. But he could read the language with a dictionary. In 415 in the City of God he makes his own translation into Latin of a piece of Plotinus, and when writing On the Trinity he consulted works by acknowledged masters of the Greek East. Nevertheless a very Latin pride in the cultural world of Virgil, Cicero, Seneca, Terence, and his fellow-countryman Apuleius helped him to treat Greek theologians and philosophers as constructive helps rather than as authorities to be slavishly imitated. Aristotle first came before him in his early twenties when he was studying at Carthage. Except for Cicero’s translation of the Timaeus, he seems to have read no Plato before he reached Milan in 384 aged 30. The standard education of the time was primarily in the art of persuasive oratory, including some logic. Looking back he realized he had come to think a fault in speech much graver than a failure in morality. Most of the philosophy he knew he taught himself by his reading. For the contemporary professional teachers of philosophy in the Latin West, he speaks in a letter of 386 in terms of utter contempt.

From his boyhood his health gave cause for anxiety. Aged about 7 he fell seriously ill with chest pains; when his death was expected he asked Monnica to arrange for his baptism. (As an infant he had been made a catechumen with the sign of the cross and salt on his tongue.) Recovery led to deferment. Throughout his life his health was precarious, and a series of bouts of sickness made him appear prematurely old in middle age. Although after he had become a bishop his burdens were far heavier, he nevertheless seems to have enjoyed better health under greater strain. The optimum degree of tension is not nil.

Patrick nursed ambitions for his clever son. Towards Patrick Augustine shows small sign of sympathy. The devout Monnica hoped to persuade Patrick to become a Christian; perhaps once faith had come, her often erring husband would be more faithful to her. In pagan households of the time the master of the house took it for granted that he had a right to sleep with his serving girls, and preachers did not find it easy to convince Christian congregations that this right should not be exercised. Patrick was hot-tempered, but Monnica kept out of his way when he was cross, and so ‘escaped the battering other wives receive’. Yet when serene, he was kind. Monnica herself felt it a harmonious relationship. They both realized that if finance could be found, an education at the metropolis at Carthage (by modern Tunis) could open the door to success in the great world. But when Augustine was 16, Patrick died, after being baptized during his last sickness. For Augustine a wild demoralized year followed while means were sought to enable him to continue his studies, a project in which he was eventually assisted by a wealthy landowner of Thagaste, Romanianus. (His name appears on an inscription dug up at Thagaste.) In the Confessions Augustine vividly describes how he stole pears from a nearby orchard not out of any wish for the fruit, which was of inferior quality, but because there is a pleasure in doing something forbidden. As he looked back on the incident, he felt himself to be repeating the experience of Adam in Genesis. The pears were accidental to the substance of his enjoyment which was simply the doing wrong; that made the story significant, not a mere adolescent prank of the most boring triviality. He went to Carthage with his mother’s timely exhortation that he avoid fornication, above all adultery with another man’s wife.

Are nuns cloistered and inaccessible ‘brides of Christ’, or socially engaged women, active in the outside world impossible for their secular sisters? Silvia Evangelisti examined this question in her book Nuns: A History of Convent Life 1450-1700. In the excerpt from the book below, she points out that is misleading to think that all women entered the convent in order to fulfil their spiritual aspirations, or to avoid marriage. Indeed, many women took the vows also as a result of family pressures and patrimonial strategies.

One tradition dating back to medieval times was for kings and queens, as well as lay wealthy aristocrats, to establish and support churches and religious institutions in the hope of obtaining divine protection and ultimately salvation. Queen Christina of Sweden, a fervent supporter of the Franciscans, founded a convent of Poor Clares in Copenaghen in 1497, which hosted mainly burgher classes and some poorer women. A few years later, she opened another Franciscan house in Odense. Similarly, Queen D. Leonor of Portugal founded in 1509 the Clarissan convent of Madre de Deus de Xabregas, located just outside Lisbon on the river Tajo. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the Habsburgs threw themselves into the development of convents. In Madrid they built at least three female religious houses in just fifty-seven years: Princess Juana of Portugal founded Las Descalzas Reales in 1554; Alonso Orozco, the preacher of King Philip II, built La Visitación in 1589; Philip III and Margaret of Austria started La Encarnación in 1611. They followed the same policy in their transatlantic possessions. In Cuzco, Peru, they set up three religious houses between 1558 and 1673, vital institutions for implanting European society in the colonies.

These ‘gated’ communities served multiple purposes, and were particularly attractive and convenient locations for hosting the daughters of the elites. Aristocratic and emerging mercantile families established their power and social status on the basis of financial wealth and property. Nunneries offered them a safe, honourable, and economically attractive alternative to marriage, a means to soften the onerous impact of supporting female offspring. The convent dowry, or ‘spiritual dowry’—the sum of money required to place a woman in monastic retreat—was usually lower than a marriage dowry, allowing families to compensate for the dispersal of family patrimonies inevitably caused by the high costs of marriage. Furthermore, convents provided the kind of basic education that parents sought for their daughters, and—like colleges and schools— represented an invaluable opportunity for networking, helping families to reinforce ties within their social rank, and opening up paths for social mobility.

This mechanism generated a growth in female professions, and induced patterns of gentrification. According to a trend that has been observed in many European countries, a high number of patrician women dwelled in monastic houses. In Madrid, for instance, in 1674, there was a queue of up to 160 women waiting to enter one of the city’s convents. Favouritism was not infrequent as the girls from noble houses were likely to be preferred to their less prosperous or less noble peers. A member of the German guard, who petitioned to the Council of Castile the Camara de Castilla—in order to obtain a place for his daughter, received a negative reply. He was told that future vacancies would be reserved to women of a higher status. In some areas, such as Italy, this trend seems particularly clear when marriage dowries reached their peak.

Unsurprisingly, forced monastic professions were not infrequent, as families did not hesitate to sacrifice their daughters for economic convenience. The result of this was that many nuns lived in religious houses against their will:

two thousand or more noble women . . . in this city live locked up in monasteries as if they were a public store . . . they are confined within those walls not for spirit of devotion but because of their families, making their freedom, so dear even to those lacking the use of reason, a gift not only to God, but also to their city, the world, and their closest relatives.

According to the Venetian nun who wrote these lines, the extraordinarily incisive Arcangela Tarabotti (1604–52), it was politics rather than devotion that brought women to the cloister. Tarabotti bravely denounced the role assigned to women in family politics, who were treated by their ruthless fathers as goods to be bought and sold:

They do not give as brides for Christ the most beautiful and virtuous, but instead the ugly and deformed, and if there are daughters who are lame, hunchbacked, or have any other crippling torment, as if the defect of nature was a defect of theirs, they are condemned to spend the rest of their lives in prison.

Tarabotti was referring here to her own situation: she was disabled and the oldest of five daughters, and therefore unappealing to the marriage market. She was the only one of the five that her father destined to the cloister. Tarabotti was one of the many voices against forced monasticism. When we listen to early modern scholars, playwrights, or authors of travel literature, we learn of the troubles of miserable women who had been sent to the cloister without vocation by cruel parents who therefore deprived them of their freedom, and condemned them to eternal unhappiness, with great offence to God. Uncommon though it was for these women to escape and be released from their vows, it was not completely impossible and some of them were married off: ‘Don Francisco de Luzón’, reads a Spanish document, ‘married one sister of señor Conde de la Puebla del Maestre, who had been a professed nun in Saint Clare for fourteen years, and had managed to escape from her convent.’

If forced monasticism became a favourite subject for many authors, and for nuns’ and monks’ claims before ecclesiastical courts, the best portrait of an unwilling nun can be found in the pages of Diderot’s novel The Nun. Probably inspired by a real court case involving a forced nun, it told the tragic story of Suzanne Simonin, a nun without vocation who experienced first her parents’ violence, then the unsolicited sexual attentions and harassment of the mother abbess. ‘No, Sir,’ she replied to the question whether she, already a novice living in the cloister, wished to profess the sacred vows. This was only the beginning of her unhappy existence.

A careful observer of his own times, Diderot was determined to attack the constraints of religion. His work vividly recreated the unbearable pressures, as well as the complicity between the family and the monastic institution, that could determine the entrance of women into religious life. Diderot’s heroine experienced injustice and violence, both psychological and physical. Unable to make her voice heard—if not through the author’s pen—her tragedy lay in the vows she took against her will, as much as in her awareness of her hopeless situation. Diderot’s scenario recalled the case of Arcangela Tarabotti. But Tarabotti, unlike Suzanne, was not a character in a novel. She was made of flesh and blood, just like the many other women who remained cloistered for life, without having much of a true inclination to be so.