Tuesday, 18 June 2013

A licence to print money? The high cost of academic publishing and access to knowledge in Australia

Introduction

Although scholarly communication and academic debate had previously been taking place in personal communication between scholars such as Isaac Newton and Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, the first academic journals didn’t appear until the seventeenth century. The first journal Le Journal des Sçavans was published in France in 1665, followed by Philosophical Transactions, which was published later that year by the Royal Society in London. As of today, it is estimated that there are more than 50 million scholarly articles in existence (Jinha, 2010). The academic journal is important in the system of knowledge because it ‘defines the social processes through which knowledge is made, and gives tangible form to knowledge’ (Cope and Kalantzis, 2009: 15). Furthermore, as an important disseminator of knowledge, the academic journal ‘lies at the heart of [the] system of scholarly communication and has stood the test of time’ (Cope and Phillips, 2009: 1).

Throughout three and a half centuries or so, the growth of the academic journal has led to the library fulfilling an important role as ‘a formal archive of the scholarly record’ (Davies, 2009: 224). In the digital age, now more than ever, libraries are ‘playing an even more important role in ensuring access to, and the preservation of, a comprehensive collection of scholarly output’ (Davies, 2009: 214). This is because once created, articles are rarely destroyed and can always be reactivated or retrieved through electronic databases and ‘through citation, each article occupies a position in the architecture that researchers can continue to build upon’ (Jinha, 2010: 258).

Since the 1960s, as commercial publishers have realised the potential profitability of journals, they have sought to selectively acquire the best journals that were previously being published by not-for-profit (or ‘society’) scholarly publishers (McGuigan and Russell, 2008). According to Edwards and Shulenberger (2003: 14), ‘the commercial publishers, which recognized the relative inelasticity of both supply and demand, acquired top-quality journals, and then dramatically raised prices, expecting that they would lose relatively little of the market.’ An expectation which has unfortunately held true ever since.

This acquisition strategy, combined with subsequent merger and consolidation activity, has resulted in ‘a highly concentrated industry’ in which firms that control large portfolios of journals ‘have an incentive to charge higher prices’ (McGuigan and Russell, 2008; McCabe, 2002: 261). In a study for the American Research Libraries (ARL), McCabe (1998) noted that ‘prices are indeed positively related to firm portfolio size [i.e., number of journal published by a firm], and that mergers [of firms] result in significant price increases.’ All of this has resulted in what is widely described as a ‘serials crisis’ whereby libraries have simply been unable to afford the continuous price rises, which has had deleterious effects on library acquisition budgets (Cope and Kalantzis, 2009: 24). In some cases, libraries ‘have been forced to reallocate dollars from monographs to journals, to postpone the purchase of new journal titles, and in some cases, cancel titles’ (Kyrillidou in McCabe, 2002: 259).

According to Shipp (2006: 37), scholarly publishing is ‘an industry unlike any other’. It is an industry characterised by a large number of producers (academics and researchers) who supply a relatively small market which consists of academic and research libraries. He notes, ‘there is little direct competition between the individual products of each supplier and in many respects it has been an undiscriminating marketplace’ (Shipp (2006: 37). The academic community produces the goods, provides editorial and peer review services, and gives away its scholarly content to commercial publishers (Steele, 2012). The publishers then impose restrictive copyright regulations and sell the content back to university libraries at great profit – from the work the universities originally created (James, 2011: 189; Steele, 2012). In the digital age where access and distributions costs are low, the logic of this transaction is no longer tenable (Steele, 2012).

Aims and Objectives

The aim of this essay is to explore international and local debates surrounding the high price of access to knowledge in Australia with reference to the wider international environment. In particular, it will seek to understand how and why academic journal publishing comes at such a high price to the consumer. This will be achieved by looking at the structure of the academic journal publishing sector, the economics of journal publishing, and arguments against the current ‘free labour’ business model. Ultimately, the research will seek to answer the question posed – is academic publishing a licence to print money? Although important issues, this research will not be interested in arguments surrounding open access models, or the fate of scholarly monograph publishing and its implications and challenges for libraries and university presses.

The state of play

The academic journal industry includes both for-profit and not-for-profit publishers (McCabe, Nevo and Rubinfield, 2006: 5). Traditionally, academic journals have been a highly profitable sector of the publishing industry. In 2011, Elsevier, the largest publisher of academic journals made a massive profit of 37%. Springer’s Science+Business Media made 34%, John Wiley & Sons (including Blackwell Publishing) made 42%, and the academic division of Informa plc made 32% (SV POW, 2012). Over time, consolidation through merger and acquisition has led to the industry being dominated by a small number of publishers, which has meant that ‘more and more content [is] in the hands of fewer and fewer firms, thus increasing their market share’ (Moghaddam, 2009: 149). This has particularly been the case in the most lucrative sector of science, technical and medicine (STM) publishing (McCabe 2002: 262). According to Shipp (2006: 38). ‘where there is a high correlation between research and its commercial application’, publishing tends ‘to be dominated by a relatively small number of companies which each publish a large number of refereed titles and often also control the main indexing and abstracting services.’

In a 2006 report on scholarly journal publishing, the Research Information Network (RIN) estimated that approximately 20,000-25,000 peer-reviewed scholarly journals were being published globally, and at that time, had been growing at an annual rate of 3-4% over the past 100 years (RIN, 2006: 5). In its annual report for 2012, Elsevier reported that it published more than 330,000 articles in more than 2,000 journals. According to Springer’s website, it published over 2,200 journals; and in its 2011 annual report, John Wiley & Sons reported that it published 1,600 journals.

In the Library Journal’s ‘Periodicals Price Survey 2013’, it noted that these publishers dominated more than half of their titles (Bosch and Henderson, 2013). In a report on scientific publishing in 2002, Morgan Stanley suggested that academic journals had been ‘the fastest growing media sub-sector over the past fifteen years’ (Morgan Stanley, 2002). This fits with the UK Office of Fair Trading’s report in 2002 that ‘the overall profitability of commercial STM publishing is high, not only by comparison to “non-profit” journals…but also by comparison to other commercial journal publishing.’

Whilst the data is more than a decade old, Houghton (2001: 169), suggests that ‘scholarly content creation in Australia involves up to 200,000 contributors whose activities are supported by annual expenditures in excess of $10 billion, much of which is funded by the government. He estimates that around 25,000 journal papers are written each year. As will be seen, due to bundling practices by commercial publishers and nondisclosure agreements with libraries, it is not possible to estimate how much Australian libraries spend on journal subscriptions; however, Houghton (2001: 170) estimates that in 1998, Australian university libraries spent $94 million on their subscriptions.

Shipp (2006: 38) notes that, ‘[b]etween 1986 and 1998, the median cost of journals purchased by Australian university libraries rose by 226%’, whilst the Consumer Price Index (CPI) rose 57% for the same period – that is almost an incredible four times inflation! The situation is similar in the United States, where according to Edwards and Shulenburger (2003: 11), for the fifteen years between 1986 and 2001, scholarly journal prices increased by 8.5% per year, whilst the CPI rose by 3.5% per year, ‘which means that journal prices jumped by 215% over the entire period, while the CPI rose by just 64%.’

Knowledge as a public good

It is generally argued that scholarship, and therefore the content of scholarly journals, is a public good (Edwards and Shulenburger, 2003: 12; Odlyzko 1997; Panitch and Michalak, 2005). According to Edwards and Shulenburger (2003: 12-13), a ‘public good is one for which one consumer’s use of the good is not competitive with, or exclusive of, another consumer’s use of the good.’ In this way, a public good ‘is a commodity whose use is non-rivalrous and non-excludable (Dasgupta, 2007: 52). Amongst economists it has long been recognised that ‘public goods cannot be organized efficiently through the private market’ (Edwards and Shulenburger, 2003: 13). The only way to overcome this inefficiency is through collective action in one of two forms: public provision, or publicy-subsidised private provision (Dasgupta, 2007: 52).

So, if scholarly communication is a public good, there should be scepticism over whether an unregulated market is the most efficient means to distribute its product. As has already been discussed, the entry of the big commercial publishers into the system has not only consolidated the industry and raised prices, but

This transformation has largely destroyed the old, university-based system for the provision of a public good (knowledge) and replaced it with an inappropriate (and inefficient, in the technical sense) private market, which lacks any provision for handling knowledge as a public good (Edwards and Shulenburger, 2003: 13).

Free labour?

In recent times, the excessive profits earned by commercial publishers have become the fuel for outrage among scholars who are no longer prepared to support the profits that the large academic publishing houses are extracting from publicly-financed knowledge; that is, public goods. The argument is that commercial publishers should not be making profits off the ‘free labour’ of academics. In Australia, and elsewhere around the world, academics and scientists at government-funded universities and institutions carry out research and write journal articles about their findings. The paper is then peer-reviewed by other state-funded academics and scientists, and then edited and laid out by institutional or university staff. The article is then most likely submitted to one of the large commercial publishers who publishes the paper, and then charges the same taxpayer funded institutions exorbitant fees for subscriptions to academic journals in which the publisher’s contribution to the value-adding process is small in comparison (Hartwich, 2009).

Essentially, the whole process – the research, reviewing and editing – is publicly funded and publishers are selling taxpayer-funded research back to academics and researchers via journal subscriptions. It is an unsustainable model in which taxpayers fund the research, and then have to pay again to read it. According to Gusterson (2012), the inconsistencies in this model originally made sense:

Academic journals, especially in the social sciences, were published by struggling, nonprofit university presses that could ill afford to pay for content, refereeing, or editing. It was expected that, in the vast consortium that [the] university system constitutes, our own university would pay our salary, and we would donate our writing and critical-reading skills to the system in return.

In a plea to the academic community, Gusterson (2012) suggests that the ‘archaic notions of unpaid craft labor’ should be abandoned, and insists on ‘professional compensation for scholarly expertise.’ He also contends that publishers should pay ‘a modest fee to acquire our intellectual content if they publish our articles’ and that the professional associations ‘could recommend standard fees for refereeing articles and for compensating authors of articles.’

Welcome to the Academic Spring

These ill feelings towards the commercial publishers are now spreading across the globe. In 2012, Tim Gower, a respected Cambridge mathematician commented on his blog that he would ‘refuse to have anything to do with Elsevier journals’. This then gave birth to the Cost of Knowledge (2013) website, in which scholars are so fed up, that at the time of writing, almost 14,000 academics have declared a boycott against Elsevier – refusing to publish, referee and perform editorial work. In frustration with what they perceive as a broken system, academic have been putting words into action and resigning their positions from the editorial boards of Elsevier’s journals. Just recently, Greg Martin, a number theorist at the University of British Columbia, declared his resignation and added his name to the petition. In the words of one commentator: welcome to the ‘Academic Spring’ (Jha, 2012).

A licence to print money?

As can be seen by the above mentioned profits, academic journal publishing is a lucrative business for publishers, and because of ‘free labour’, some would argue it is a licence to print money. In the United States, an annual subscription to Tetrahedron, a chemistry journal, costs libraries US$20,269, and a year’s access to the Journal of Mathematical Sciences, costs US$20,100 (Open Sesame, 2012). Unfortunately, there is little data on the cost of access to academic journals in Australia (Hollier, 2012). The problem with such exorbitant pricing is that library acquisition budgets – particularly in relation to humanities publications – are put under extreme pressure as libraries are forced to purchase subscriptions in the areas of science, technology and medicine (Hollier, 2012).

Budget pressures

In a memorandum in 2012, the world’s richest academic institution, Harvard University, said that it could no longer afford the high cost of academic journal subscriptions. The university told its members, ‘Many large journal publishers have made the scholarly communication environment fiscally unsustainable and academically restrictive. This situation is exacerbated by efforts of certain publishers…to acquire, bundle, and increase the pricing on journals.’ It noted further that:

Harvard’s annual cost for journals from these [publishers] now approaches $3.75M. In 2010, the comparable amount accounted for more than 20% of all periodical subscription costs and just under 10% of all collection costs for everything the Library acquires. Some journals cost as much as $40,000 per year, others in the tens of thousands. Prices for online content from two providers have increased by about 145% over the past six years (Harvard, 2012).

In an interview for the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC, 2012), Robert Darnton, director of Harvard University Library, stated that, ‘at the time of the great financial crisis of 2008 here at Harvard, the library funding was cut back 10%, and in that same year most journal prices went up by 10%.’ In the same interview, he suggests that many academic and university departments are ‘complicit in the current system of journal publishing because they expect library services but they don’t necessarily know the full costs.’

False consciousness

In this way, there is an extraordinary irrationality built into the heart of the academic journal publishing system. As already mentioned, academics provide the ‘free labour’ from which the publishers extract their large profits, and then sell the product of the academics’ labour back to them through libraries at extravagant prices. Darnton (ABC, 2012) refers to this in Marxist terms as a collective ‘false consciousness’ among researchers and professors, ‘because they don’t ask where is the money coming from for this article that I must read, and who is the publisher, and how did it reach me?’

More so, these comments suggest a form of commodity fetishism, which according to Marx, is ‘a definite social relation between men…the fantastic form of a relation between things’ (Marx n.d:n.pag). This fetishism ‘attaches itself to the products of labour, so soon as they are produced as commodities’, and has its origin ‘in the peculiar social character of the labour that produces them’ (Marx n.d:n.pag). In this way, the conditions under which journal articles are produced and sold back to the academic community are reified.

Lack of price signals

The system is also irrational because it does not allow for price signals to feed back to the consumer (Houghton 2001: 173). According to Edlin and Rubinfield (2005: 442), there is an inherent inability in the system ‘to effectively monitor faculty use.’ Because of this disconnect between the consumers of the product (researchers and academics) and the purchasers (librarians) sensitivity to price is lowered, which results in a market characterised by low price elasticity; or, in other words, consumer behaviour is not sufficiently affected by price signals. Publishers, then, are able to continue to raise prices without having to worry about losing revenue from cancelled subscriptions. When librarians go to cancel a title due to cost concerns they rarely find support from their academic colleagues, thereby making academics complicit in the current system (Pinfield, 2013: 86).

Monopoly on prestige

Consolidation among publishers, combined with the relative price inelasticity of the market, has allowed commercial publishers considerable power to keep raising their prices (Phillips, 2009: 91). Once established in its field, an academic journal becomes a ‘must have’ title for other academics through the reputation that it has accrued. In this way, the articles published in the journal cannot be obtained from any other source, and so the journal ‘operates as its own mini-monopoly in the market.’ 

This means that when prices are increased there will still be a demand for the title because it is not able to be substituted, which adds another factor to the low price elasticity of demand in the market (Pinfield, 2013: 86). The importance of prestige is also important in the promotion and tenure system, with tenure committees only recognising contributions from specified lists of (mostly) top-tier journals (Moghaddam, 2009:150). According to Odlyzko (1997), as the writers of journal articles, scholars

determine what journals their work will appear in, and thus how much it will cost society to publish their work. However, scholars have no incentive to care about these costs. What matters the most to them is the prestige of the journals they publish in.

As has already been discussed above, academics are finding this system untenable. The commercial publishers will only be able to retain their prestige and subscription base so long as they have the support of the academic community.

Electronic panacea?

These days, the majority of academic journals are disseminated online. In 2008, the ratio of print to electronic subscriptions at QUT was 5:95, down from the 30:70 split of 2001 (Cleary, 2009: 373). According to Strieb and Blixrud (2013), in 2012, with the exception of a single publisher, ‘no [ARL] libraries reported that they retained corresponding subscriptions for their complete journal bundles.’ Although there are certain cost advantages to the library in terms of storage, maintenance, photocopying and reshelving, there are additional costs such as the cost of equipment, software, communications and training staff to provide expertise in accessing electronic journals online (Tenopir and King, 1999: 256).
Whilst the digital revolution has brought about the ‘digitization of text, image and sound and the sudden emergence of the internet as a universal conduit for digital content’, it has not brought about cheaper prices for online journals (Cope and Kalantzis, 2009: 18; Tenopir and King, 1999: 256). Given the lower production and distributions costs afforded by technology, it might have been expected that the move to digital forms of subscription would have allowed for publishers to offer lower prices. Unfortunately, this has not been the case.

A case study of ecology journals by Bergstrom and Bergstrom (2006: 488) showed no reduction in prices for online-only journals. According to Cope and Kalantzis (2009: 24), publishers are still basing their fees on the economies of traditional print publishing. Not only are the profits of the commercial publishers excessively high, but so too are their cost structures, which adds further argument that the market is characterised by monopolistic inefficiencies and demonstrates a complacency which comes from controlling the ‘must have’ prestige titles demanded by academics.

In an examination of the economics of journal production, Odlyzko (1997) estimated that the average cost of producing a journal article is US$4,000. This is calculated on the total costs of preparing the first copy of an article and is referred to in the literature as a ‘first-copy cost’ (Moghaddam 2009: 150). According to King (2007: 90), considering the total cost, 70-80% of the production cost is first-copy cost. When most of the primary work is being done with ‘free labour’, this cost is inexcusably high (Cope and Kalantzis, 2009: 24).

What is the ‘Big Deal’?

Another reason prices are hard to monitor is because of what is known in the industry as the ‘Big Deal’, or ‘bundling’ (Moghaddam, 2009: 149). According to Cleary (2009: 364), a ‘Big Deal’ is defined as ‘an aggregation, package, or bundle of online journals, often the entire collection of a commercial publisher, licensed to libraries for a fixed period of years, via a contract negotiated as a standard price’ (Cleary, 2009: 364). The problem with these deals is that ‘in signing on to the package of journals, the libraries [lose] the freedom to drop individual journal subscriptions for a period of time (generally three years)’, it also obligates them to an inflationary fixed price structure for the package, which is often 7% for the life of the contract (Edwards and Shulenburger, 2003: 14).

In its survey, ‘The State of Large-Publisher Bundles in 2012’, the ARL noted that the ‘the ability to share information about contract terms, as well as pricing information…is dependent on the knowledge of what is in the agreements’ (Strieb and Blixrud, 2013). The difficulty, however, is that the commercial publishers force a nondisclosure clause on libraries, such that there can be no sharing of information between stakeholders. This has been the reason for the establishment of consortium groups which are able to more favourably negotiate the terms of the ‘Big Deal’ for thier members.

Whilst there are advantages in these ‘Big Deals’, for example, increased access to information, purchasing cost-effectiveness, budget predictability, and streamlined workflows, these arrangements are ‘a choice forced on libraries by those with sufficient market power over them’ (Edwards and Shulenburger, 2003: 14). Furthermore, once a library has signed the contract the publisher practically has carte blanche power to continually raise prices above the rate of inflation and exert further market pressure. Even if libraries were able to raise budgets to keep in step with the commercial publishers, due to the inelastic nature of demand in the market, prices would simply be increased to absorb the additional funds available in library budgets – all that would occur is a continual vicious circle of ‘virulent price inflation’ (Edwards and Shulenburger, 2003: 15).

The libraries are trapped because generally it is not possible to substitute one journal for another. Given that faculty members tend to demand the top-tier titles, the only way a library has of responding to increased prices is to reduce spending across the lower-tier titles and purchase fewer monographs (Edwards and Shulenburger, 2003: 15). Unfortunately, what is lost in the transaction is the potential for access to new ideas that are not being disseminated through top-tier journals. In this way, library holdings ‘are less reflective of innovation and more focused on established research in mainstream areas’ (Edwards and Shulenburger, 2003: 15).

Increasingly, the ‘Big Deals’ are negotiated on behalf of libraries by consortia (Phillips, 2009: 91). According to the website of the Council of Australian University Libraries (CAUL) consortium, which represents university and research libraries in Australia, a key objective is ‘maximising the information resources available to researchers, and the facilitation of their access.’ Similarly, the Great Western Library Alliance (GWLA) is a consortium of thirty-three research libraries located in the central and western United States, designed to deliver ‘cost-effective and high-quality information services and resources to its member institutions and their clientele’, and it states that one of the benefits of membership is ‘cost savings related to cooperative negotiation of discounts and licensing terms and conditions.’

According to Strieb and Blixrud (2013), ‘research libraries have been spending millions of dollars per year licensing collections of journals published by just a handful of publishers’, and that ‘there is no question that these [bundles] are the most expensive purchases research libraries are making with their materials dollars.’ Edlin and Rubinfield (2005: 441), argue that, ‘[b]undling can be seen as a device that erects a strategic barrier to entry.’ In other words, ‘Big Deal’ contracts leave libraries with little left over to purchase journals from new entrants.

In 2001, it was predicted that ‘Big Deals’ would result in price increases to already highly priced commercial journals and that ‘an annual price increase of 7% [would] double the cost’ of these deals over a decade’ (Frazier, 2001). According to Cleary (2009: 368), this forecast is ‘only slightly above the 6% average increase’ experienced by the Queensland University of Technology (QUT) on its four major deals during the five-year period to 2009. At the time, she noted that the university’s

Big Deals are incrementing at a rate higher than the increases for the library’s resource budget, which has grown by 35% between 2001 and 2008. The budget increase falls well short of the 42% required to keep up with average Big Deal expenditure and erodes the Library’s ability to acquire new resources and formats (Cleary, 2009: 368).

Given the continuous price rises for journals and the competing demands upon library resource budgets, ‘libraries have afforded Big Deals in a trend that cannot be sustained’ (Cleary, 2009: 378). Libraries will need to conduct research into the costs and benefits of unbundling their ‘Big Deals’ from the commercial publishers, and through better use of usage statistics, decide which resources they really need and how much they can afford to pay for them.

Conclusion

In conclusion, this essay has provided a discussion surrounding arguments over the high cost of knowledge in Australia with reference to the wider international context. In particular, it sought to understand how and why academic journal publishing comes at such a high price to the consumer. This was achieved by looking at the economics, structure and market dynamics of journal publishing. It is clear from the above that due to low price elasticity of demand, the big commercial publishers have been able to maintain and extort the market to substantial financial gain. However, this system can only survive so long as it has the support of those who provide the ‘free labour’, which at present seems tenuous and a possible threat to the traditional model of commercial publishing. Whilst this paper has not been focused on arguments over open access business models, if managed correctly, these models could offer some relief to library budgets as access to scholarly knowledge becomes more easily affordable, and in some cases, free. There is also further opportunity for more detailed research into the Australian situation, as most of the data available is dated. Ultimately, whilst their hegemonic business practices are allowed to continue, commercial publishers will continue to reap significant rewards from the system, and until there is significant change, they will continue to operate with a licence to print money.


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Steele, C. (2012), ‘Scholarly Licence to Print Money’, The Australian, 25 January, http://www.theaustralian.com.au/higher-education/opinion/scholarly-licence-to-print-money/story-e6frgcko-1226252771554, accessed 25 March 2013.

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Thursday, 23 August 2012

Elinor and the Kantian subject: collecting evidence against virtue ethics


Today has been a day of epiphany and breakthrough! You will have to forgive my hyperbolic style, but it has truly been that exciting; I could actually feel my adrenaline rising in unison with the firing of neurons connecting the pathways as I finally broke down the door of the citadel of those who insist on taking Aristotelian approaches in analysing morality in Jane Austen.

A big call yes, but one which I can defend. The thrust of argument came to me through G.F. Munzel's Kant's Conception of Moral Character: The "Critical" link of Morality, Anthropology, and Reflective Judgement (1999). I've only read the introduction but already I'm armed to the gunwales and now have the link that I intuitively knew was there, but had to turn to deep research to uncover. That is, the link between aesthetics and duty, and feeling and pleasure, in Kant's Critique of Judgment, and how I can apply this to a Kantian analysis of Elinor in Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility.

In my last post I said that I believed that I had found an entry into a Kantian analysis of duty, as opposed to virtue in Austen's novel. Having said that, I don't think there is a need to be so dismissive of virtue, but rather to link it up to duty and its concomitant respect for the moral law. To achieve this, what I need to do is critique the Aristotelian concept of virtue and reinstate virtue within Kant and his conception of moral character. In this regard, character can be seen to be 'a matter of resolute and steadfastly held principles, of an unwavering commitment to virtue. It entails self-control as an essential attribute of conduct of thought, not control of the inclinations as in an Aristotelian account. It requires spiritedness, again not derived from the inclinations, but as achieved through the aesthetic capacity for taking pleasure in purposive form' (9). It is this notion of self-control which will allow me to closely read Elinor's character in relation to moral action, and hence, to duty.

According to Munzel, character can be 'seen as the systematic link between the moral, aesthetic, and anthropological elements of Kant's works (4). It is also through character that I can interrogate the reason vs sensibility debate that is staged in the title: Sense and Sensibility. Taking cues from Kant's Critique of Pure Reason, Munzel notes that the 'notion of character [can be] divided into intelligible (conduct of thought) and empirical (conduct of sensibility) character (8). In the second critique, in Critique of Practical Reason, Kant defines character as 'a consistent practical cast of mind in accordance with unchangeable maxims’ and the primary issue for the establishment and exercise of moral character is 'the way in which one can make objectively practical reason subjectively practical' (KpV 5:151). In other words, moral character taken as the organising principle from which a causal determination of moral action through respect to the moral law can be deduced (this still requires some work).

In linking up the terms of reference noted above it will be necessary to analyse the role of reflective judgement and its relationship to aesthetic feeling as a determining ground for moral action in the Critique of Judgement. In the third critique, Kant notes that 'nature must consequently be also capable of being regarded in such a way that in the conformity to law of its form it at least harmonises with the possibility of the ends to be effectuated in it according to the laws of freedom' (KU 5:176). In this regard, character is 'an activity that concretely actualises moral law in the world, imparting its form to sensibility and effecting literally a counterimage of the objective law under the conditions of the latter' (9).

According to Munzel, the 'aesthetic capacities of feeling are seen literally as a partner in reason’s efforts to bring about the requisite enlargement of sensibility for the sake of producing within it the counterimage of the moral law' (13). Sensibility, in other words, is enlarged through the feeling of pleasure (ie. aesthetic feeling) to bring about volition to act in accordance with the moral law. This 'relational unity achieved through reflective principles for guiding thought or judgement, and hence life, fulfils Kant’s general definition of the work of art; that is, this unity may be understood to fulfil human vocation or final purpose precisely by being the work of art, the work of beauty, specific to humanity’ (16). In this way, cultivating character can be seen as equivalent in making one's life a work of art.

To be continued...

- still to provide textual evidence from S&S that supports above claims.
- narrative consciousness; link to Elinor's moral reflection; form
- Elinor's self-control
- ethical vocabulary

Monday, 6 August 2012

Austen and Kant ... Can I?


The following is an extract of an email I sent my lecturer regarding formulating a question for my 5000 word essay for my English honours unit, "Literary Pleasure".

Last year I had the great fortune of taking an elective closely reading Kant's 2nd critique, and wrote my final paper on "Freedom as the condition of the moral law in the Critique of Practical Reason". It's on the back of this work, that I approach Austen.

In surveying the available scholarship on Austen, there is a dearth of criticism deploying Kant. I found this quite remarkable and was almost put off thinking that there was something incongruous, misdirected, of perhaps precocious, but I believe I may have found an entry into a Kantian analysis of duty, as opposed to virtue, in the novel. In Jane Austen's Philosophy of the Virtues, Emsley dismisses Kantian deontological ethics in favour of the fairly literary standard Aristotelian virtue ethics position. She chooses the latter over the former, "as Austen's fiction stresses the moral education of character as preparation for ethical action" (4). This argument, Emsley says, is made on the basis that "Jane Austen writes from a firm foundation of Christian faith - thus for her virtuous characters there is a point to moral education".

In further defence of her approach, Emsley argues that "Austen's characters, however, experience morality as a positive, if difficult, choice, not as a sacrifice, for when even when they do choose to defer or renounce gratification…it is in the service of a greater good, a Christian good that sustains them, rather than in the service of irrevocable secular loss" (21). In the "Critique of Practical Reason", Kant notes that "[a]ctions…that are done with great sacrifice and for the sake of duty alone may indeed be praised by calling them noble and sublime deeds, but only insofar as there are traces suggesting they were done wholly from respect for duty and not from ebullitions of feeling" (5:85).

He also says that in appraising actions as to their morality you have to "attend with the utmost exactness to the subjective principle of all maxims, so that all morality of actions is placed in their necessity from duty and from respect for the [moral] law, not from love and liking for what the actions are to produce (5:81). In other words, as rational and moral beings, humans have an obligation to duty and adherence to the moral law, and this obligation is from duty alone and not love or other pathologically affected conditions.

So, does Elinor act out of love (virtue) or duty? It is quite obvious that she suffers, and I would argue against Emsley, that she suffers in the service of duty. For example, in regard to the secret between Elinor and Lucy, she suffers immensely in upholding her duty to keep the secret. Such silence ‘militates against her own happiness’, which forces her continually to bring to bear upon her unhappiness "the self command she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward's engagement" (160, 196). When she finally gets to share this knowledge with Marianne, who exclaims "Four months!…how have you been supported?", Elinor replies, "By feeling that I was doing my duty - My promise to Lucy, obliged me to be secret" (197).

In upholding the secret, Elinor is acting according to the moral law, such that her maxim for keeping the secret, could be willed so that it be applied universally to all rational beings. In other words, it fits Kant's categorical imperative, 'so act that the maxim of your will could always hold at the same time as a principle in a giving of universal law" (5:30). The secret is the moral law; if Elinor were to break the secret, she would be breaking the law. And if secrets can be broken, then what is the point of obligation to duty?

The question to ask is what is it that causes Elinor to act according to duty. The answer comes from Elinor herself, and Marianne also alludes to it, which is feeling, or in Kantian terms, "moral feeling". According to Kant, 'what is essential to any moral worth of action is that the moral law determine the will immediately’ (5:71). In this regard, there is a specifically 'moral feeling', which is the invariable incentive for dutiful action. This moral feeling 'arises as the result of pure practical reason overcoming, or at least opposing, our sensuous feelings and desires (Ward, 157). In other words, it is a 'feeling of constraint, in that it thwarts, wholly or partially, our self-love" (Ward, 158).

Marianne is cognisant of such a feeling when she says, "if there had been any impropriety in what I did, I should have been sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting wrong, and with such conviction I could have had no pleasure" (52). The irony, however, is that whilst Marianne is aware of some sort of moral feeling, she is blind to it. Kant would also say that compliance with the moral law brings about a 'satisfaction in consciousness of one's conformity with it and bitter remorse if one can reproach oneself with having transgressed it. Thus one cannot feel such satisfaction or mental unease prior to cognition of obligation and cannot make it the basis of the latter' (5:38).

So then, how to turn the above into a 5000 word essay which takes in two texts and the critical content of the course. The point of entry may be through Kant's 3rd critique. In the introduction by Walker, he outlines Kant's three faculties of the mind: the faculty of cognition in general, the faculty of feeling (of pleasure or its opposite), and the faculty of desire (or will). He says that in the 3rd critique, Kant 'wonders, as he had not in the first critique, whether this intermediate faculty of 'feeling' might not perform some kind of mediating role between the other two faculties and now asks whether there might not be a special a priori principle that governs this faculty in its own right and is common to all human beings as creatures that are rational and sensitive in character". It is this last point "as creatures that are rational and sensitive in character" which aligns with Austen's Sense and Sensibility. Interestingly, it is feeling, or ‘moral feeling’, in the 2nd critique, which mediate betweens the sensible and supersensible. I’ve only read “Analytic of the Beautiful”, so not sure how to turn the 3rd critique to our purpose here.

I also have a reply to Emsley’s point about “moral education of character as preparation for ethical action”, but will leave it for now, as I think I have made my point, and this explication has turned into an essay of its own accord.

Whilst I may appear to have a handle on Kant, my mind still spins when I read him and still consider myself a long way off from any rigorous understanding. It is said that reading Hegel is the intellectual equivalent of chewing gravel; I would have to say that reading Kant is the equivalent to staring into the abyss. The sublime IS reading Kant. He is awesome and terrible, but well worth the battle.


Sunday, 2 October 2011

Essay: The critical reception of Ursula K. Le Guin's "Left Hand of Darkness"


Whilst the literary history of science fiction (SF) has been marked primarily as a male domain, ‘women have been writing science fiction for as long as science fiction has been around’ (Larbalestier 2006:xviii). Indeed most commentators agree that Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus (1818), was the first genuine example of SF. Thus, it could be said that the genre of SF was inaugurated ‘with a woman’s critique of scientific or technological development within a patriarchal society’ (Mellor 1982:244). With the women’s liberation movement of the 1960s and 1970s, feminist SF emerged, which embraced ‘the political “sexual revolution”, uncovered the genre’s ingrained sexism, and challenged male supremacy through time and space’ (Jones 2009:485). In this essay I will be discussing the critical reception of Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness (1969), one of the most read texts in the feminist SF canon, if not SF as a whole. In particular, I will be focusing on examples of the early criticism that arose, with particular attention on the supposed failures of Le Guin’s imagining of an androgynous society, and her widely criticised use of the male pronoun. 

The relationship between science fiction and feminism becomes apparent when you consider how both fields engage with discourses that repeatedly challenge ‘the stability of boundaries between categories and concepts’ (Seed 2005:n.p.). One of these concepts is gender. Feminist thinking which is inherently utopian, in seeking to eliminate discrimination on the basis of gender, ‘posits a gender-free alternative world that does not now exist but which is possible within historical time and space’ (Mellor 1982:243). In this way, feminist writers have turned to SF as a genre, which ‘provides the opportunity to test various hypotheses concerning societal organisation and ethical codes’ (Mellor 1982:244). As noted by Annas (1978:144; my emphasis) 
Implicit in science fiction literature is a non-ethnocentric and dialectical vision of society: non-ethnocentric in that a fundamental premise of the genre is that things-as-they-are should be questioned rather than merely accepted and described; dialectical in that alternate paradigms are played off against any given reality. Science fiction…is structurally suited to a role as revolutionary literature. 
According to Le Guin (1979:162), The Left Hand of Darkness, ‘is the record of my consciousness, the process of my thinking’. It is a ‘thought-experiment’ in the same way that Schrödingers’ cat was in quantum physics. She notes that ‘one of the essential functions of [SF]…is this kind of question-asking: reversals of an habitual way of thinking, metaphors for what our language has no words for as yet, experiments in imagination’ (Le Guin 1979:163). The radical and revolutionary thought-experiment Le Guin was interested in posing was a society in which gender is eliminated ‘to find out what was left. Whatever was left would be, presumably, simply human. It would define the area that is shared by men and women alike’ (Le Guin 1979:163). However, she notes that, ‘as an experiment, it was messy.’ Regardless of how messy it was, The Left Hand of Darkness has been immensely important ‘for people writing from a feminine perspective or looking for ways to question discourses of gender and sexuality’ (Pearson 2010:139).

The winner of both the Hugo and Nebula awards, The Left Hand of Darkness not only established Le Guin as a major science fiction writer, but it also drew significant critical attention to her work, and indeed ‘[m]ore academic work has been written about Le Guin than about any other SF writer, including H.G. Wells and Mary Shelley’ (Pearson 2010:136). In November 1977, the academic journal Science Fiction Studies, dedicated its entire issue to “The Science Fiction of Ursula K. Le Guin”. As a self-declared feminist, Le Guin has ‘influenced and inspired several generations of SF readers, writers, and critics…and is credited with being influential in showing that SF has literary merit’ (Pearson 2010:137). This has mostly been due to the attention that has been paid to her by critics outside SF. For example, in Robert Scholes’s essay, “The Good Witch of the West”, he asserted that Le Guin was ‘the best writer of speculative fabulation working in the country [at the time], and she deserve[d] a place among our major contemporary writers of fiction’ (cited in Bittner 1979:37).

In The Left Hand of Darkness, Le Guin imagines the possibility of biological androgyny; that is, a single reproductive sex fused with male and female characteristics’ (Mellor 1982:251). Set on the imaginary planet of Gethen, also called Winter, Gethenians are biologically neuter. In the chapter, “The Question of Sex”, the female narrator, in providing an ethnographer’s field report, theorises and describes Gethenian sexual physiology. Thinking the alien race ‘an experiment’, we are told that ‘the sexual cycle averages 26 to 28 days’, for which ‘21 or 22 days the individual is somer, sexually inactive, latent.’ On about the 18th day, the individual enters a period called kemmer. In this 6-day period of fertility,
the sexual impulse is tremendously strong…controlling the entire personality, subjecting all other drives to its imperative. When the individual finds a partner in kemmer, hormonal secretion is further stimulated…until in one partner either male or female hormonal dominance is established. The genitals engorge or shrink accordingly, foreplay intensifies, and the partner, triggered by the change, takes on the other sexual role…Normal individuals have no predisposition to either sexual role in kemmer; they do not know whether they will be male or female (96-97).
In regards to childbirth, ‘the mother of several children may be the father of several more’ (97). It is in this way that Le Guin is able to write one of the greatest sentences in the history of literature: ‘The king was pregnant’ (106).
The narrator of the chapter then looks at the social consequences of this biological androgyny. Given that any Gethenian is liable to be
tied down to childbearing…no one is quite so thoroughly “tied down” here as women, elsewhere, are likely to be – psychologically or physically. Burden and privilege are shared out pretty equally…Therefore, nobody here is quite so free as a free male anywhere else (100).
On Gethen, ‘there is no unconsenting sex, no rape.’ There is ‘no division of humanity into strong and weak halves, protective/protected, dominant/submissive, owner/chattel, active/passive’. In fact, there is ‘no tendency to dualism’ (101). Perhaps the most remarkable conclusion of this is ‘the elimination of war’. The narrator quotes an ancient source: “did they consider war to be a purely masculine displacement-activity, a vast Rape, and therefore in their experiment eliminate the masculinity that rapes and the femininity that is raped?” (102).

Critical reception of The Left Hand of Darkness has ‘displayed a tension of opposites appropriate to the novel’ (Spivack 1984:57). According to White (1999:47), when the novel first appeared, it did not garner completely favourable reviews.’ For example, Alexei Panshin, reviewing the book for Fantasy and Science Fiction, deemed it a ‘flat failure’, and was the first critic to object to Le Guin’s use of masculine pronouns when referring to the androgynes (cited in White 1999:47). The feminist scholar and science fiction writer, Joanna Russ, in her article, “The Image of Women in Science Fiction”, laments that whilst Le Guin was able to imagine how a people’s culture and institutions would be very different from ours, she fails in leaving out the family – ‘childrearing is left completely in the dark, although the human author herself is married and the mother of three children.’ Russ (1972:89-90) also criticises the use of the male protagonist, Genly Ai, a human anthropologist on Winter, and the fact that the Gethenian main character, Estraven, is represented primarily as masculine – ‘at least, “he” is masculine in gender, if not in sex.’ With regards to the use of the male pronoun, she concedes that due to ‘a deficiency in the English language…these people must be called “he” throughout’ (Russ 1972:90).

The controversy continued in 1971, when Australian science fiction magazine SF Commentary, published an article by Stanislaw Lem. In “Lost Opportunities”, Lem criticises the novel, noting that ‘[i]t carries an important message, but it does not develop the message.’ He notes, [a]lthough her anthropological understanding is very good, her psychological insight, on the other hand, is only sufficient and sometimes even insufficient’ (1971:22). Lem feels that the novel is ‘psychologically unsound because the Gethenians’ constant gender change should wreak havoc on relationships and personal identity’ (White 1999:47). He takes further umbrage at Le Guin’s failure to represent the Gethenians as anything other than wholly masculine – ‘because Karhider garments, manners of speech, mores and behaviour, are masculine. In the social realm, the male element has remained victorious over the female’ (Lem 1971:24).

In a later issue, Le Guin (1972:91; original emphasis) vigorously defends Lem’s challenges. She invites Lem, or anyone else, to ‘point out one passage or speech in which Estraven does or says something that only a man could or would say.’ Instead, she blames cultural conditioning, such that ‘we tend to insist that Estraven and the other Gethenians are men, because most of us are unwilling or unable to imagine women as scheming prime ministers, haulers of sledges across icy wastes, etc.’ As for Gethenian clothing, she notes that she modelled the garments on typical Eskimo attire (Le Guin 1972:92). In reply to the common argument over the use of the male pronoun, Le Guin (1972:91) acknowledges how the ‘use of the masculine pronoun influences the reader’s imagination’, but defends her use on the basis of the limitations of her medium, and not wanting to ‘deform English’. She even gives an example of the difficulty of deploying a neuter pronoun by re-writing a passage using se/sem/sen. It should be pointed out that the Australian SF author Greg Egan successfully used a neuter pronoun in the impressive post-human novel Diaspora (1988), where he used ve/vim/vis.

One of the most interesting aspects about Le Guin as a writer is that she is also a critic, and open to changing her mind. She says, ‘it is rather in the feminist mode to let one’s changes of mind, and the processes of change, stand as evidence – and perhaps to remind people that minds that don’t change are like clams that don’t open’ (Le Guin 1989:7). In response to her many critics who all brought her to task on her decision to use male pronouns, her unwillingness to allow Genly and Estraven to have sex, and the masculinity of her imagined world, she wrote two essays. In the first essay, “Is Gender Necessary?”, Le Guin (1979:163) identifies herself as a feminist, and explains the process by which she eliminated the Gethenians of gender to ‘find out what was left.’ The essay is mostly a defence of her decisions, including the use of the male pronoun, but she does admit that she might have been more clever in creating the Gethenians.

In the second essay, “Is Gender Necessary? Redux”, Le Guin (1989:15) notes that in the first essay, ‘I was feeling defensive, and resentful that critics of the book insisted upon talking only about its “gender problems”. She also changes her mind on the use of pronouns, noting the exclusionary effect of ‘the so-called generic pronoun he/him/his’, which ‘exclude[d] women from discourse’ (1989:15). Le Guin ultimately capitulates, accepting that ‘this is a real flaw in the book.’ She also gives in to the critics who noted that sexuality for Gethenians is necessarily heterosexual – ‘I quite unnecessarily locked the Gethenians into heterosexuality. It is a naively pragmatic view of sex that insists that sexual partners must be of the opposite sex!’ (Le Guin 1989:14). With regards to the male point of view, she notes that the book ‘allowed men a safe trip into androgyny and back, from a conventionally male viewpoint. But many women wanted it to go further, to dare more, to explore androgyny from a woman’s point of view as well as a man’s’ (Le Guin 1989:16).

In conclusion, this essay has provided a discussion on the critical reception of one of the most important and widely criticised texts in feminist SF, and SF in general. Examples were provided from critics who noted the limitations, gaps and problems in Le Guin’s imagining of a biologically androgynous society. Whilst many other examples could have been provided, the discussion has been limited to criticism situated around the early reception of the work. Understanding how The Left Hand of Darkness has been received critically also sheds light on how SF as a genre is received both within the genre, and outside it. Finally, as a canonical text, further enquiry into the history of the critical reception of the novel may also bring into question the processes of canonisation, and where SF stands in the literary firmament. 

References
Annas, P.J. (1978) “New Worlds, New Words: Androgyny in Feminist Science Fiction”, Science Fiction Studies, 5 (2): 143-156.

Bittner, J.W. (1979) “A Survey of Le Guin Criticism” in J. De Bolt (ed.) Ursula K. Le Guin: Voyages to Inner Lands and to Outer Space. New York and London: Kennikat Press: 31-49.

Egan, G. (1988) Diaspora. London: Millenium.

Jones, G. (2009) “Feminist SF” in The Routledge Guide to Science Fiction. e-book, accessed 21 September 2011, .

Larbelestier, J. (ed) (2006) Daughters of the Earth: feminist science fiction in the twentieth century. Middletown: Wesleyan University Press.

Le Guin, U.K. (1969) The Left Hand of Darkness. New York: Ace Books.

Le Guin, U.K. (1972) “Re: Lost Opportunities”, SF Commentary, 26: 90-93.

Le Guin, U.K. (1979) “Is Gender Necessary?” in The Language of the Night: Essays on Fantasy and Science Fiction. New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons: 161-169.

Le Guin, U.K. (1989) “Is Gender Necessary? Redux” in Dancing at the Edge of the World: Thoughts on Words, Women, Places. New York: Grove Press: 7-16.

Lem, S. (1971) “Lost Opportunities”, SF Commentary, 24: 17-24.

Mellor, A.K. (1982) “On feminist utopias”, Women’s Studies, 9 (3): 241-262.

Pearson, W.G. (2010) “Ursula K[Roeber] Le Guin (1929-)” in M. Bould, A.M. Butler, A. Roberts and
S. Vint (eds.) Fifty Key Figures in Science Fiction. London and New York: Routledge: 136-141.

Russ, J. (1972) “The Images of Women in Science Fiction” in S.K. Cornillon (ed.) Images of Women in Fiction: Feminist Perspectives. Bowling Green: Bowling Green University Popular Press:79-94.

Seed, D. (ed.) (2005) “Introduction: Approaching Science Fiction” in A Companion to Science Fiction. e-book, accessed 21 September 2011, http://www.blackwellreference.com.ezproxy.lib.monash.edu.au/subscriber/book?id=g9781405112185_9781405112185.

Spivack, C. (1984) Ursula K. Le Guin. Boston: Twayne Publishers.

Various contributors (1977) “The Science Fiction of Ursula K. Le Guin”, Science Fiction Studies, 2 (3).

White, D.R. (1999) Dancing with Dragons: Ursula K. Le Guin and the Critics. Colombia: Camden House.

Saturday, 28 May 2011

Essay: A critique of the morality of violent video games


What are the arguments that violent video games are immoral? Which arguments provide the strongest reasons for regulation? In recent times there has been a moral panic over violence in video games. Some media commentators have sought to link video game violence to the horrendous spate of school shootings which have become a sad reality in the USA and Europe. Whilst we should be concerned over the avid consumption of media which portrays violence and other immoral content, the arguments posed by such commentators tend to be overly emotive and simply based on rhetoric, rather than hard evidence of causation or real harm. This essay will discuss the questions first posed. This will be achieved by looking at the problem through the lens of three ethical approaches – consequentialist, deontological and virtue ethics. Ultimately, it will be shown that violent video games are immoral, not because of their effects, consequences, or failure of duty, but because of the impact they have on the virtue of the player.

The most vociferous argument from the moral panickers is that video games are immoral because exposure to so much simulated violence and death desensitises the player to violence and death; therefore, such exposure will make it easier to perpetrate real violence. It is within this context that violent video games are blamed by the media, or invoked in discussions about high school massacres (McCormick 2001, p. 277). To support this argument, empirical research which supposedly links violent video games and real world aggressive behaviour is raised in support of this position (Schulzke 2010, p. 127). The argument then follows that the distribution of these violent video games should be restricted through legislation (Sicart 2009, p. 3).

This is the most prevalent type of objection to violent video games, and comes from consequentialist moral reasoning. Such an approach is concerned with the way an ethical subject acts to produce the best consequences for all concerned. However, in taking the interests of others into account, a consequentialist must balance which consequences are considered and how much weight is applied to each. A utilitarian approach is often taken, which suggests the best course of action is that which maximises the ‘greatest happiness of the greatest number’ (LaFollette 2002, p. 9). 

The act of playing computer games has many consequences, however, the moral implications of playing violent games is hard to determine (Reynolds 2002, p. 4). For example, whilst there are plenty of meta-studies of the literature which argue that simulated violence is harmful, there is also a significant amount of work on the contrary that shows bias among researchers critical of gaming (see Anderson and Dill 2000; Ferguson 2007). There may also be positive benefits which outweigh the potential harms of video games. These benefits include: entertainment value, increased dexterity and problem solving skills, economic advantages, and technological advancement (Schulzke 2010, p. 130; Reynolds 2002, p. 5). 

So, even if the empirical studies turned out to be true and there was a causal link between these games and violence, a consequentialist arguing for their immorality would have to prove that the costs outweigh the benefits. Furthermore, the cost of banning and/or censorship has to be considered as an imposition against free speech, which is essential to liberal democracy and carries a high priority as a right (Schulzke 2010, p. 135). If it is to be accepted that some games are banned (as some are in Australia), it follows that in order to be consistent, other media or activities which display similar or a greater amount of violence should also be restricted (Schulzke 2010:135; Fyfe 2011). This then, is the weakest of the moral positions that violent video games are immoral. 

The next argument comes from Kantian deontology, which is based on moral obligations to duties and rights, in which the rightness or wrongness of an act is judged according to its conformity with duty, and is to be considered removed from consequences (McCormick 2001, p. 282; LaFollette 2002, p. 10). From this perspective, the immorality of a violent video game should focus on how players act, with the morality of the act being determined by how others are treated within the game world (Schulzke 2010, p. 128). This approach starts with Kant’s (1996, p. 73, 80) second formulation of the categorical imperative which states:
  1. Act as if the maxim of your action were to become by your will a universal law of nature.
  2. So act that you use humanity, whether in your own person or in the person of any other, always at the same time as an end, never merely as a means.
It is clear that real violence against another human violates the first statement. However, given the fictional nature of violent video games, the player is not committing violence against another human; rather it is violence against a representation of a human (or alien, animal, etc) character. Therefore, violent video games do not violate the first statement (Waddington 2007, p. 124). In the second statement, a player could be said to be violating this maxim if they were to behave with bad sportsmanship in a game against another player. This is because the player gives their personal interest priority over that of an opponent and treats them poorly in the interest of gratification (Schulzke 2010, p. 128). 

In focusing on respect for others, the deontologist could argue that as the game encourages using others to progress through the game, it encourages the player to treat others as mere means to an end (Gotterbarn 2010, p. 375). In destroying an avatar, the act is immoral only when there is an intention to actually harm someone (Schulzke 2010, p. 129). Where the deontologist does have an argument, is that there is clear justification for regulation based on the duty of governments to protect its citizens from harm. It is the responsibility of governments to protect minors from harm and inform consumers through suitable systems of content classification (Reynolds 2002, p. 7-8). Here we have John Stuart Mill’s famous harm principle – ‘[t]hat the only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilised community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others’ (Mill 1971, p. 15; my emphasis).

The final ethical position is also the oldest and takes its cue from Aristotle, who defined ethics as ‘a practical science, as a practice of virtues oriented towards the achievement of a better life’ (cited in Sicart 2005, p. 15). This position is best explained by McCormick (2001, p. 284) who provides the example of holo-rape and holo-murder, in which a simulation allows a player to commit these heinous and grossly immoral acts in a virtual environment. He notes that there is something wrong with the activity without having to look outside for consequences or breaches of duty – ‘there is something wrong with the act solely with respect to the person who commits it’ (McCormick 2001, p. 285).

Returning to Aristotle, the question of a player’s character is ‘more fundamental and important than a person’s obedience to rules or conduct’ and exceeds the ‘implications of an act for other people’ (McCormick 2001, p. 285). Therefore, the virtue ethicist can provide a reasonable account for our strong moral intuition that games which involve extreme immorality such as holo-rape and holo-murder, and by extension, violent video games, are immoral. In participating in these ‘simulations of excessive, indulgent, and wrongful acts, we are cultivating the wrong sort of character’ (McCormick 2001, p. 285). In other words, the virtue of the player is eroded, and they are distanced from the chance to achieve eudaimonia – a deep and fulfilled happiness through the capacity to reason; that is, to be human (McCormick 2001, p. 285). 

However, whilst the virtue ethics approach provides the better insight into the immorality of violent video games, it can’t answer for their regulation. Simply being immoral is not reason enough to justify legislation for censorship or outright banning. To ban or restrict any type of media based on purely supposed immoral grounds is paternalistic and a form of legal moralism. In other words, it is the interference of the state with another person against their will, with the defence that they are being protected against harm; that is, ‘the idea that certain ways of acting are morally wrong or degraded and may be prohibited’ (Dworkin 2010).

In conclusion, this essay has sought to answer the questions first posed: What are the arguments that violent video games are immoral? Which arguments provide the strongest reasons for regulation? This was achieved by looking at the problem through the ethical approaches of consequentialism, deontology and virtue ethics. It was found that the consequentialist position provides little support for regulation and is the weakest argument from a moral standpoint. The deontological response, whilst it struggled in condemning the immorality of violent video games, actually provides the strongest reason for regulation due to the duty of governments to inform consumers and protect minors from harm. Finally, the virtue ethics approach provided the strongest approach to understanding why such games could be considered immoral, but failed to provide an argument for regulation. 


References

Anderson, CA and Dill, KE 2000, ‘Video games and aggressive thoughts, feelings, and behaviour in the laboratory and in life’, Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, vol. 78, no. 4, pp: 772-790.

Dworkin, G 2010, ‘Paternalism’, Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2010 edition), viewed 17 May 2011, .

Ferguson, C 2007, ‘Evidence for publication bias in video game violence effects literature: a meta-analytic review’, Aggression and Violent Behaviour, vol. 12, no. 1, pp: 470-482.

Fyfe, M 2011, ‘Video games reform rebuffed over violent fears’, The Sydney Morning Herald, April 2, viewed 17 May 2011, .

Gotterbarn, D 2010, ‘The ethics of video games: mayhem, death, and the training of the next generation’, Information Systems Frontiers, vol. 12, pp. 369-377.

Kant, I 1996, ‘Groundwork of the metaphysics of morals’, in Practical Philosophy, trans. Mary Gregor (ed.), Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 42-108.

LaFollette, H 2002, ‘Theorizing about ethics’, in H LaFollette (ed.), Ethics in Practice: An Anthology (2nd edition), Blackwell Publishing, Cambridge, pp. 3-11.

McCormick, M 2001, ‘Is it wrong to play violent video games?’, Ethics and Information Technology, vol. 3, pp. 277-287.

Mill, JS 1971, On liberty, representative government, the subjection of women: three essays. Penguin Books, London.

Reynolds, R 2002, Playing a “good” game: a philosophical approach to understanding the morality of games, International Game Developers Association, viewed 15 May 2011, .

Schulzke, M 2010, ‘Defending the morality of violent video games’, Ethics and Information Technology, vol. 12, pp. 127-138.

Sicart, M 2005, ‘Game, player, ethics: a virtue ethics approach to computer games’, International Review of Information Ethics, vol. 4, pp. 13-18.

Sicart, M 2009, The ethics of computer games, MIT Press, Cambridge and London.

Waddington, DI 2007, ‘Locating the wrongness in ultra-violent video games’, Ethics and Information 
Technology, vol. 9, pp. 121-128.

Monday, 2 May 2011

In search of an aetiology of evil - The Pandora Myth

Around the time I first started this blog I wrote a short piece regarding my desire to write on the Pandora and Eve myths, and how these narratives have worked to structure patriarchal views about women. At that time I was too busy to see the project through, but have now been fortunate to return to the idea as a serious research project for my Myth and Meaning in Ancient Worlds unit.

I thought I'd share my work in progress with you. Here is the first part of my essay. I will next move into a close reading of Genesis 1 and 3, and then return to look at how both these myths have worked to keep women subjected under patriarchy.

Essay (WIP)

The notion of an origin holds an important and powerful force in the human psyche. Such narratives can function to provide an explanation for where we have come from, where we currently are, and where we will be in the future. In particular, creation myths provide valuable ‘insights into a society’s ethos, its root beliefs, and provide the basis for many of its customs and even its legal system.’ This essay will seek to discuss the origin of evil. This will be achieved through an aetiological investigation and comparative analysis of two myths which describe the creation of the first woman: the Greek myth of Pandora and the Judeo-Christian myth of Eve. In examining these myths from a feminist perspective, it will be shown that blaming woman for the origin of evil is a patriarchal construction, which has had a negative and pervasive influence on Western society – in particular, on misogynist attitudes towards women, and their subjection and abjection as ‘second class creatures’.

Written towards the end of the eighth century, Hesiod chronicles the myth of Pandora across two poems, the first in the Theogony, and the second in Works and Days. In the Theogony, Hesiod characterises Pandora as a ‘beautiful evil’ – a ‘hopeless trap, deadly to men’. In another translation, she is a ‘lovely curse’, personified as ‘sheer guile, not to be withstood by men.’ Ordered by Zeus as a punishment for Prometheus’ trick of the sacrifice and subsequent theft of fire, Pandora is fashioned out of the earth in the ‘image of a girl’ and ‘a modest virgin’ by the craftsman of the gods, Hephaistos. She is then dressed by Athena in bridal ‘robes of silver’, with ‘a veil, and ‘a lovely wreath of blossoms’, and a ‘crown of gold’. Thus adorned, she is ‘an evil’ sent upon men as ‘a price…to pay for fire’. And ‘from her comes all the race of womankind, the deadly female race and tribe of wives who live with mortal men and bring them harm’.

Not only is Pandora the first woman, but she is also the first bride, and it is in marriage that the source of a second evil is to be found. Hesiod tells us that
if a man avoids marriage and the troubles women bring and never takes a wife, at last he comes to a miserable old age, and does not have anyone who will care for the old man. He has enough to live on, while he lives, but when he dies, his distant relatives divide his property.
The picture is also bleak for the man who marries a ‘good wife, suited to his taste’; this man gets ‘good and evil mixed’, and ‘lives all his life with never-ending pain inside his heart’.

The narrative of Pandora’s creation is repeated in Works and Days but this time with a more misogynist tone. It is also here that the full nature of the significance of her evil is revealed. In payment for the theft of fire she is ‘another gift to men, an evil thing for their delight, and all will love this ruin in their hearts.’ In the lines which document her creation, she is once again crafted by Hephaistos. This time she is given ‘a voice’ and ‘a face like an immortal goddess’, and the shape of a ‘lovely figure of a virgin girl.’ Athena teaches her to weave, and Aphrodite pours ‘charm upon her head, and painful, strong desire, and body-shattering cares. Hermes is ordered to give her ‘sly manners and the morals of a bitch’ and in her chest put ‘lies and persuasive words and cunning ways.’ It is in this passage that she is given her name Pandora – ‘all the gifts’ – and declared the ‘ruin of mankind’.

Thus adorned, ‘the deep and total trap was now complete’ and she is sent as a bride to Epimetheus who, although previously warned by his brother Prometheus (foresight) ‘to take no gift from Zeus’, in fulfilment of his name (hindsight), ‘he took the gift, and understood, too late.’ This is because Pandora ‘opened up the cask, and scattered pains and evils among men’, with only ‘hope’ remaining. We are also told that prior to the creation of Pandora, mankind lived ‘apart from sorrow and from painful work’ and were ‘free from disease’. Thus, not only do we have an aetiology of evil, but we also have the source of the human condition – that is, ‘bringing death and evil into the world along with laborious toil of human existence.’