Tag: Junot Diaz

Against the bandwagon mentality

I

The philosopher André Comte-Sponville, once said: “It is better to be too honest to be polite than to be too polite to be honest.” 

Although I agree with Comte-Sponville, I think that disagreements can be managed with kindness. For example, one should never be too polite to confront people who are discriminating, manipulating, lying or harming other people, but always try to do so in the friendliest manner. 

One way of meeting the world with kindness could be by following the Norwegian philosopher Arne Næss  (who was inspired by Spinoza and Gandhi and made an important contribution to ecological thinking). In his book, “Communication and Argument,” he suggests the following recommendations for objective public debate:

1. Avoid tendentious irrelevance, e.g. personal attacks or claims about opponents’ motivations.

2. Avoid tendentious quoting, e.g. quotes shouldn’t be edited to fit the argument.  

3. Avoid tendentious ambiguity, e.g. ambiguity can be exploited to support criticism.

4. Avoid tendentious use of straw men, e.g. views shouldn’t be assigned to the opponent that he or she doesn’t hold

5. Avoid tendentious statements of fact, e.g. information put forward should never be untrue or incomplete, and relevant information should not be withheld.

6. Avoid tendentious tone, e.g. irony, sarcasm, pejoratives, exaggeration, subtle (or open) threats

These suggestions, today, are rarely seen. Due to social media (specifically, its rapidness and the need to be present or visible constantly), we see a growing “cowboy mentality,” where people shoot first without thinking. Online shaming is an example of this “bandwagon mentality,” where the herd uncritically follows what appears or sounds to be right or good. 

II

A recent example of this “bandwagon mentality” is the Junot Diaz case. When the Dominican-American writer was accused five or six months ago of sexual misbehavior (i.e., forcible kissing and yelling), few questioned the credibility and gravity of the claims, whereas many uncritically jumped on the bandwagon and even upgraded the accusations to label Diaz a sexual predator. Now, after the Boston Review, M.I.T., and the Pulitzer Prize Board have conducted thorough investigations, Diaz is welcomed back. The accusations against him weren’t credible. 

What happened?

Facts, as the French philosopher Bruno Latour once said, are a product of a trustworthy inquiry. Thus, some facts are stronger than others. The reliability of facts depends on the strength and practice of the institution or network that produced these facts. In other words, facts and moral values hang together. It is morally wrong to claim something without evidence or to claim the opposite of what the evidence shows. Unfortunately, the moral debate surrounding false accusing is rare, almost as if accusations are accepted because of powerful men having silenced women for so many years. Yet, morality is not a contest to get even; it is a long, persistent practice of acting responsibly, demonstrating care and respect, and showing trust and equality in all situations. This is the only way to overcome oppression, whether related to gender, race, religion, or sexual preferences. 

The “bandwagon mentality” emphasizes that public philosophy is needed. One of the challenges of contemporary philosophers is to do work that inspires people to philosophize.

A simple way of addressing the “bandwagon mentality” is through imagination. Actually, being kind, polite, and civil requires imagination, such as imagining that we might be wrong or what we are being told might be wrong. In short, being humbler. For example, we could question what we take for granted, question why we take certain things for granted, question what kind of values our lives produce, question the identity that some people cling to, etc. (see e.g. All women are not angels)

For instance, we may ask why some people deliberately lied or exaggerated about Junot Diaz being a sexual predator and misogynist when he wasn’t. Is the problem epistemological, as when some people don’t know what they say when using certain concepts? Is it a semantic problem, as when some people misunderstand certain utterances, even utterances that most other people find meaningful? Is it a moral problem, as when some people claim and postulate what they can’t prove? Is it a mental problem, as when some people see and hear things that other people can’t?

Then again, it might just be an example of admiration turning into envy, frustration, and hate. After all, artists are known for self-pity and narcissism.

So, what to do? Civility, kindness, and politeness are never acts of blindness; rather, they are acts of compassion, in the sense that none of us can live without others. The others help us stay alert.

Simple advice: Before communicating, debating, or politicizing with others (especially if we accuse them of bad things), we need time to reflect, analyze, and think. We are thereby able to find solutions to those problems that few people dare consider today because, unfortunately, it is easier or more convenient to just follow the herd.

A world of “alternative facts”?

In her essay, “Truth and Politics,” the philosopher Hannah Arendt wrote: “Freedom of opinion is a farce unless factual information is guaranteed and the facts themselves are not in dispute” (all quotes from Arendt are taken from Richard J. Bernstein’s brilliant book, Why Read Hannah Arendt Now).

Let me elaborate on that by referring to the #MeToo movement; the movement is, probably, one of the most interesting—and hopefully—sustainable movements of change in recent years. What concerns me here, however, is not who has the power to tell their story—although this is important as well—but how power shapes what any true story could possibly be. In other words, it’s obvious that most reasonable people welcome that women have both the courage and power to tell their stories, and yet, we should be careful not to let the label—#MeToo—paralyze the need for critical thinking regarding what is being said.

One way of blurring the distinction between fact-based truth (factual truth) and falsehood, as Arendt mentioned, is to claim that any factual truth is just another opinion. When dealing with abuse or violence is it enough to have an opinion about whether or not someone is being abusive? Without any sense of what is a so-called factual truth or facts, we too easily move into a fictional world of “alternative facts.”

Seen in this light, the accusation toward the writer Junot Diaz—to mention one recent example—might seem to neglect this distinction between falsehood and truth. Instead, the accusers tend to represent something Arendt would call propaganda. The issue here is not whether Diaz is a good guy or a bad guy, but how the accusers framed him as an abuser “under” the power of #MeToo, regardless of the factual truth of the matter. In doing so, the accusers have not only undermined the movement, but also showed—as Arendt also predicted—that they knew that many people don’t really care if they lie. Instead, many people will admire them (bandwagon mentality) for their tactical skills in accusing a well-known writer to gain publicity for themselves, or perhaps even to sell some books. As Bernstein writes: “Factual truth-telling is frequently powerless against image-making…”

Arendt also wrote: “The result of a consistent and total substitution of lies for factual truth is not that the lies will now be accepted as truth, and the truth defamed as lies, but that the sense by which we take our bearings in the real world—and the category of truth vs. falsehood is among the mental means to this end—is being destroyed.”  The possibilities for lying become limitless and, far too often, are met with little resistance. Referring to the Junot Diaz case and #MeToo, one obvious reason for this little resistance against falsehood can be that no sane person wants to appear as if they are against equality and respect, which the #MeToo movement represents. Yet, quite paradoxically, the power of this movement comes from telling the truth; the truth that is powerful enough without being fictionalized.

Arendt noted: “What convinces the masses are not facts, not even invented facts, but only the consistency of the system of which they are presumably a part.” Assuming that #MeToo is such a system, then, like all systems, it is maintained by the culture that the users install. Here, I prefer people who play fair, that care about the truth, that are capable of putting personal agendas aside to cultivate trust, respect, and equality which, actually, is what #MeToo is all about. Following the Junot Diaz case, the accusers appear deliberately to be committing what looks like a character assassin. Why? Some suggest envy, greed, hate, and even racism as motives… I’ve no idea. All I know is that the opposite of factual truth is deliberate lying. (On a similar note, see #MeToo exists in an ethical twilight zone).

Also I know that literature can help us experience the difference between falsehood and truth, it has the potential to confront us with our moral limitations. It can stimulate our empathy and make us recognize our need for compassion. In many important ways, writers and other artists hold a mirror to society that allows it to see its ugliness and its beauty. I think, we need to keep the madness alive—through art. We need this for the sanity of humanity.

In other words, writers must dare not to follow the herd. This requires writers who doesn’t simply moralize but who risk asking the ugly, offensive questions (see e.g. All women are not angels). The artist creates, imagines, and enlarges—and sometimes that is not pretty.

What is far worse than immoral art is when people—citizens in democratic societies—don’t know the difference between falsehood or truth, or when some people don’t really care. The theme that runs through Arendt’s thinking, according to Bernstein, is “the need to take responsibility for our political lives.” Lying and responsibility, of course, doesn’t go hand in hand. It never has. Instead, Arendt showed that organized lying and fictional image-making are techniques perfected by totalitarian regimes, she showed that the banality of evil comes from our inability to think, that is to say, our inability to question, doubt, wonder, analyze, and constantly debate and clarify the relationship between power, truth, and lying. “Thinking is an activity that must be performed over and over again in order to keep it alive,” Bernstein writes in another book called Violence.

The Junot Diaz case shows that we still, all of us, have a long way to go before the world is a safer place full of trust, respect, compassion, and equality for all.

#MeToo exists in an ethical twilight zone

What do we think about when we think of the #MeToo movement? #MeToo is many things—it’s complex and conflicting; it addresses our collective memory (or lack thereof) and history; it touches upon social and economic class, religion, race, and, of course, most of all on gender. And it touches upon the glue of our society: trust.

A few weeks ago, I heard that the Boston Review had decided to keep the writer Junot Díaz on as a fiction editor. Yesterday, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) cleared Díaz of allegations of sexual misconduct and verbal abuse.

In many ways, the whole “Junot Diaz case” can be placed within the post-truth era of fake news, which again is one of ethics. For example, the journalist Ralph Keyes claims in The Post-Truth Era: Dishonesty and Deception in Contemporary Life, “Deception has become commonplace at all levels of contemporary life.” He goes on to consider that we may have reached a stage in our social evolution that is “beyond honesty.”

The era of post-truth is also an era of moralism. Everything is too easily reduced to good and bad, as if no grey areas exist. This is also part of the rigid identity politics that characterize US politics today, which far too often produce a mindless label—as if only a black person can speak against racism, a homosexual against homophobia, a woman against male abusers. Such assumptions show a lack of imagination. They also avoid staring at all the grey areas. For example, the grey areas are probably the weakest points in the otherwise powerful and very welcome #MeToo movement, in which the Junot Díaz case can be placed since it deals with a man of power accused of behaving badly.

Morality typically deals with whether something is right or wrong. However, being moral is not always the same as being right. For example, a story isn’t true because its moral is, and vice versa. Furthermore, morality is not something unchangeable; rather, it’s a social artefact. Our moral norms change as a result of new knowledge. This knowledge, of course, should be convincing, valid, reliable, and trustworthy. Unfortunately, lack of trust seems to be the protagonist in this particular case.

“Post-truthfulness exists in an ethical twilight zone,” Keyes writes. “It allows us to dissemble without considering ourselves dishonest. When our behavior conflicts with our values, what we’re most likely to do is reconceive our values.” Keyes’ point is interesting. One of Díaz’s main accusers was the writer Carmen Maria Machado, who referred to a Q & A session she had with Díaz, where she claims he was “abusive”, “bullying” and “misogynist.” However, when confronted with a recording of this particular discussion, Machado was forced to admit she had been exaggerating, saying, “I’m not a victim of Junot Díaz. I’m a female writer who had a weird interaction with him.”

Weird, of course, is not necessarily misogynist.

Why did she lie? Did she deliberately stretch her wording to fit the #MeToo vocabulary? So far, Machado has not apologized—perhaps because she is afraid of people’s hate and judgment, or afraid of losing face, or afraid of being accused of lack of empathy. Or, maybe, she doesn’t care, maybe she distrust the institutions who cleared him… no one knows. However, what’s “interesting” is that Machado’s accusations violate trust, which we all need to coexist, regardless of age, gender, religion or sexual orientation, etc.

In an essay entitled “Truth and Politics“, the philosopher Hannah Arendt wrote, “Freedom of opinion is a farce unless factual information is guaranteed and that facts themselves are not in dispute.” Truth, therefore, is not the same as having an opinion. For example, Machado might have the opinion that the she was verbally abused, but in reality she is fictionalizing the truth, or creating “alternative facts” as we call it today.

***

The Danish philosopher K.E. Løgstrup said that trust is elementary or fundamental to human existence. Would I leave my three children at a public school every morning if I didn’t trust the teachers? Would I cross the street with them if I didn’t trust people to stop their cars at a red light?

Trust binds us together. It affects marriages, friendships, parents, and society, including politicians and scientists who inform us about the ecological disasters that humans are creating. Løgstrup emphasizes that human interdependence only works if we trust one another. Trust allows me to surrender myself into the hands of another, to make myself vulnerable, because I expect a respectful, compassionate, and trustful feedback.

Therefore, when Carmen Maria Machado lied about Díaz, it was not just a little white lie. Her words impacted everyone. Not only because she accused a well-known writer but because we trusted her. Some may have been skeptical of the validity of the accusations—thinking of sensationalism, etc., but, at the same time, #MeToo taught us the importance of believing the girls and women who had come forward so courageously. For too long, the victim has suffered unnecessarily because being a victim has been associated with shame. Shame is the reason why many women (and men) and children don’t tell about abuse.

When I discovered that Machado lied and didn’t correct her words until she was confronted a month later with an audio recording of the interview, she became less believable. When she was confronted with a recording, she appears annoyed and defensive but, surprisingly, she also appears to be angry for being exposed. “Stop lecturing!” she said. “That’s what’s so fucking weird. The level of condescension.”

And this is perhaps the saddest part. It may cause people to doubt the sincerity of #MeToo. Machado’s behavior perfectly fits with our cultural acceptance of lying. As Keyes notes in The Post-Truth Era regarding the rise in the use of euphemisms for deception: “We no longer tell lies. Instead we ‘misspeak.’ We ‘exaggerate.’ We ‘exercise poor judgment.’ ‘Mistakes were made,’ we say.” It’s as if we—many, at least—have become careless of what is true or not true.

If we want to change society into something better—a society based on equality, respect, and compassion—then we must trust one another. Trust is also the foundation of critical thinking because we assume that people say what they mean for the sake of the truth, not their own agenda (read: self-serving).

We become wiser by admitting our mistakes, that is to say be accountable for our actions and words, but also by acknowledging all the grey areas when it comes to human interaction, not just between men and women but between all kinds of identities—gender, race, age, culture, beliefs, etc. Let’s not forgot that all identities are prisons. They might make us see something more clearly from our own point of view but are often blind to a lot of other aspects. Let’s not forget that men and women should be able to discuss things without fearing being labeled misogynistic. Let’s not forget that nothing is ever completely black or white. Sometimes women lie, use their power; sometimes men are falsely accused.

The great writer Terry Tempest Williams once said that she wanted to bear witness to both the beauty and pain of our world in her writing. By “bearing witness,” she said, “the story told can provide a healing ground.” With regard to the case of Machado and Díaz, healing arises if their conflict is not used to draw a deeper ravine between genders but, instead, to acknowledge that all parties have suffered, and that trust is only gained through apology and change of actions that will make the grey areas less grey.

All women are not angels

Recently, Zoë Bossiere raised some questions regarding male writers. For example—while referring to a character in Junot Diaz’s two collections of short stories, Drown and This Is How You Lose Her—she asks: Could a sexist character like Yunior have been written if not for the abuse the women in these men’s lives suffered?

“Maybe not,” she answers.

Maybe not. But just as easily, maybe.

We tend to forget that imagination is a fundamental aspect of literature and art. I find it hard to believe that all the Scandinavian women writing crime literature are murderers. I doubt that Gillian Flynn, author of “Gone Girl,” has killed her old boyfriend, or wants to. Stephen King is probably not wildly evil, or even all that mean. And Han Kang, who wrote “The Vegetarian,” might not be a vegetarian, or like to be painted naked by her sister’s husband, or even have a sister.

Bossiere goes on and ask, “Some might argue that these works [by men]contribute to the greater canon of literature, but in the era of #MeToo, how much is ‘good’ art actually worth?”

I personally feel that it is not worth s–t if someone deliberately suffers in the process. By suffering I do not mean that, say, children might suffer due to parental distraction or absentmindedness. I mean suffering in a violent and abusive way.

Yet, I agree with the Norwegian novelist Karl Ove Knausgård who has defended writers who “run up against the limit of what cannot, shall not, should not or must not be written”, arguing that every time an author “refuses to shy away”, the arbitrary nature of such limits is revealed.

It may be difficult for many to distinguish the writer from his or her work, but it is important to do so. When we too quickly equate a person’s work of fiction with the person him or herself, it shows more a lack of imagination than moral reasoning.

Readers of course have every right to become political consumers and stop reading books by writers whose actions may be reprehensible. But I know that not everyone is Mother Teresa or the Dalai Lama, and I can accept writers with flaws. I can read Jean Genet or Ulrike Meinhof (the brain behind the Baader-Meinhof Gang that operated in Germany in the 1970s), and not feel the urge to steal or kill. Sometimes the best literature can confuse us, nauseate us, show us our moral flaws as well as our ignorance.

Still, men should not be excused on the basis of their literary genius for what they do in real life. Never. The same goes for women. It is not chauvinistic in the slightest to state that all women are not angels, just as all men are not sexual predators. Writing this, however, feels like putting a rope around my neck, because gender issues, especially in the #MeToo era, have become so contentious. Today discussion of the topic is governed by a cowboy mentality, in which everyone shoots first and asks questions later.

For example, in today’s gender debate, some men and women treat one another as men and women—not as human beings. It’s as if gender gets in the way of an unbiased interpretation of what is happening. I think it’s important to acknowledge that all kinds of judgement—about right and wrong, true or false—require time, reflection, and analysis. Today, perhaps due to social media—especially Twitter—it’s easy to contribute blindly. There is a strong herd mentality on social media.

Do we take time to dwell, to reflect, to add perspective, to provide nuance? Or do we just blame? And when we blame, are we doing so out of instinct, out of some latent hatred? And do people—writers included—consider what kind of words they are using to blame other human beings? For example, the term misogynist has become so popular and broadly used that it soon will lose its meaning.

The philosopher Kate Manne defines misogyny as not about hatred toward women but about controlling and pushing women who challenge male dominance. The crucial aspect is how men and women challenge one another—that is, whether the dialogue conveys respect, trust, and equality. In the literary and academic world, people will often defend their ideas or positions. Sometimes people do this with respect and care, other times with hostility. Sometimes it’s women being hostile; sometimes it’s men. Sometimes hostility is due to vanity, arrogance, insecurity, or plain stupidity, and sometimes it’s due to men (or women) being afraid of losing their powerful positions to women—or other men.

A recent example is a recording of a Q and A session with writers Junot Diaz and Carmen Maria Machado, during which Machado describes Diaz as a misogynist and a bully. To me, this interpretation seems wrong, but according to Manne, it’s the potential victim who defines whether Diaz is securing his power or not. And then, of course, we can interpret Machado’s actions and words, words she probably—being a writer—chose deliberately. Nietzsche said thinking is interpretation. It’s an ongoing process, and I would be very careful about labeling Diaz misogynist only on this recording or Machado a liar. Which leaves us where? Perhaps we are witnessing a power game fueled by both historical and current frustration, irritation, and hate—a situation where fiction and nonfiction merge, a situation where we no longer read novels based on their literary qualities but morally on whether the character is a good human being.

In an essay published in The New Yorker, Toni Morrison writes: “The choices made by white men, who are prepared to abandon their humanity out of fear of black men and women, suggest the true horror of lost status.” In other words, perhaps many of the problems debated today are not only about gender but much more about power.

We tend to forget that all human beings are worth the same when we focus too much on gender, skin color, or socioeconomic status. I know there is good reason for doing so (cf. Morrison’s essay on white men); still, the challenge is to encounter the present moment with an open and neutral mind full of compassion.

In short, in this quest for living equally and respectfully together, I think it is crucial that we all keep our heads cool and our hearts warm.

Don’t mind

Evolutionsbiologen Marc D. Hausers bog Moral Minds forsøger at vise, hvordan naturen skabte menneskets fornemmelse for, hvad der er rigtigt og forkert. Han prøver – ganske vedholdende – at tænke psykologi, moral, kognition og biologi sammen, hvilket er blevet umådeligt populært de seneste år. Ikke desto mindre virker bogen lidt for søgt.

Hausers ærinde er, at naturalisere filosofferne David Hume og Immanuel Kants tanker. Det vil sige, bringe – især – Kant i samspil med evolutionsbiologien. Sagt anderledes: mennesket har udviklet sig til at følge de imperative love, som Kant redegjorde for.

Rent filosofisk er sådan en læsning selvfølgelig problematisk, idet filosofi ikke er en supplement til biologisk liv (eller andre videnskaber). Når filosofi beskæftiger sig med livet, et liv, er det de forskellige måder, hvorpå et liv kan leves, tænkes, føles, som vækker noget bemærkelsesværdigt, ikke hvorvidt de føler et ideal. Det er det levende, som sådan der er i fokus. Og det levende, kan ikke reduceres til den menneskelige organisme. Det interessante er af samme grund ikke, hvordan visse tanker passer ind i en større plan, men hvad de muliggør, hvilke former for liv de åbner.

En anden måde at se Hausers bog på er, ved at sammenligne den med Noam Chomskys ide om en universel grammatik. For interesserede, så har Deleuze og Guattari påpeget nogle problemer hos Chomsky i Tusind plateauer, fx at der findes ikke et homogent system (som Chomsky hævder), der ikke allerede er påvirket af en vedvarende, regulerende og iboende proces af variationer. Chomsky vil eliminere alt det skæve. Det vil svare til at kalde Junot Diazs bøger for grammatisk forkerte. Det ville svare til at hævde, at flere tusinde mennesker i USA (og sikkert mange andre steder), ikke taler rigtigt, fordi de ”taler” Spanglish … Ja, det svarer til at afskære alle de menneskelige handlinger, som vi finder onde og modbydelige, som afvigelser i systemet, der intet fortæller os om mennesket. Det ”naturlige” bliver nemt et abstrakt ideal. Det minder lidt om brugen af begrebet autentisk, der ofte tolkes som noget naturligt og oprindeligt, hvorved det naturlige også nemt får en moralsk værdi. Tænk bare på, hvordan nogle formår at brande deres egen godhed, fordi de helt naturligt ikke ser fjernsyn, helt naturligt ikke spiser kød, helt naturligt ikke spiser hovedpinepiller. Who gives a fuck?

På samme vis mener Hauser, at der er en universel moral for mennesket. Selvom jeg ikke bifalder ideen, er den interessant. Påstanden er, at mennesket – alle mennesker uanset kulturforskelle – deler en moralsk intuition, der mere eller mindre ubevidst formår at afgøre, hvad der er rigtigt og forkert. ”He was endowed with a sense of right and wrong merely relative to this. This sense is as much a part of his nature, as the sense of hearing, seeing, feeling; it is the true foundation of morality,” som der står. Sætningen kunne gælde for både Jønke og Hilda Heick, alt efter hvem der fører pennen. Så til en vis grad, nikker jeg. Og dog. Der er også talrige eksempler på det modsatte, fx lydighed.

Min anke er, sagt meget simpelt, at moral og biologi vikles sammen på en måde, hvorved det gode menneske retfærdiggør sin egen godhed, som noget naturligt. Det er en form for selvrefleksion, som forsømmer at filosofiske begreber ofte gør vold på en. De slår en omkuld, hvorved det hele ikke bare passer ind, men kræver en anden form for involvering i det, som sker. Af samme grund taler Deleuze (og andre) om en immanent etik, hvor det mere handler om at acceptere det, som sker, som var det noget man selv havde valgt. Her er det ambitionen at lade sig påvirke, selvom man ikke kan kontrollere alt det, som påvirker en? Hvorfor, fordi det levende som sådan er interessant.

Måske det hele kan siges anderledes: det er ikke kun Hitler og Pol Pot, som er afvigelser; det samme er Nelson Mandela, Martin Luther King og Gandhi. Hauser anvender selv dette, som et eksempel uden rigtigt at folde det. Hvem er så mest naturlig? Er naturlig det samme, som god? Og hvad er god? De tre nævnte ”positive” ledere, er alle eksempler på social ulydighed, hvorved det gode også bliver berørt af magtrelationer og individuel heroisme.

Dér, hvor etik og moral bliver interessant er, hvor vi ikke ved, hvad der er rigtigt og forkert. Dér, hvor der er tale om et dilemma. Og her er kriteriet måske ikke, at følge en master-plan, men spørge: hvad er også muligt, hvad kan jeg også gøre? Der er noget opfindsomt forbundet med at generere alternativer. Her kan ekstraordinære mennesker inspirere os, ikke kun qua deres medfølelse eller idealisme, men snarere pga. deres kreative tilgang til de muligheder de havde. Det er ikke Gandhis uafhængighed som inspirerer, men hans ikkevoldsstrategi; det er ikke Martin Luther Kings rettigheder som inspirerer, men det at hans ”drømme,” kunne aktualisere sådanne rettigheder; det er ikke Mandelas opløsning af apartheid som inspirerer, men hans pacifistiske rummelighed. Gandhi, Mandela og King viser, at den menneskelige evolution ikke er noget lineært og velordnet, men noget opfindsomt, kreativt og muterende.

Enhver begivenhed er en mangfoldig i den forstand, at dens aktualisering afhænger af en beslutning – og nogle gange kan den ene beslutning være ligeså god eller dårlig, som den anden. Konklusionen er derfor, at etik stadigvæk er en sats, men vel og mærke på et stadie, hvor det ikke drejer sig om at stjæle, mishandle eller slå ihjel. Ingen behøver læse Kant eller Hume her (eller gå i kirke).

Så mit problem med Hauser er nok, at evolution bliver en form for moralsk dannelse, der stopper dér, hvor det bliver etisk svært. Af samme grund beskæftiger filosofi (i hvert fald nogle filosoffer) sig med det potentiale i tænkningen, som ikke kan reduceres til mennesket. Filosofien har blik for det, som endnu ikke kan tænkes, hvorved filosofien adresserer et problem, som der p.t. ikke er nogen løsning på. Her bliver filosofien skabende og opfindsom, idet den forsøger at skabe plads til det, som der lige nu ikke er plads til. Friheden til at skabe mere virkelighed. Af samme grund mente Nietzsche også, at adskillelsen af filosofi og litteratur kun er forbeholdt bibliotekarer.

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