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I have talked of scales, of talionic equivalence, and of getting even, of revenge and redemption. I thus introduced “oddmen” (the arbitrators) and “unevenmen” (those who refused to submit to arbitration and refused to pay for their wrongs); we have seen how people equilibrate, commensurate, evaluate, and price pretty much everything when called on to do so. Redemption, the foundation of their moral edifice, requires no less. We have seen them mint coin in the strangest of substances: in living flesh, dead flesh, animal or human, parted or whole, in blood, grain, and peppercorns, as well as in what we have come to think of as traditional money substances like silver and gold. I have spoken of the play in the joints of actual instruments of measurement, and the play, the ambiguities, in the conceptual joints of payback and redemption so that peace and “satisfaction” could be achieved, at least for a while.
Justice and obligation are treated by political, moral, and legal philosophers so abstractly. They lose sight of the fact that matters of justice and matters of obligation are concrete, practical, and homely: justice was first a matter of paying back, of buying back, of determining the amount of the obligation owed or the value of the thing or person to be redeemed. In the end it was never far from being a matter of blood, flesh, and bone.
It is not always readily apparent to the principal parties when they are even, hence the need for an oddman as noted. The image of the scales suggests it needn't be all that hard to figure out; the instrument will provide an answer. It is merely a mechanical operation. But what are we to weigh against what? What properly enters into the accounting? What does discharging a debt involve, especially in as much as these debts are as likely to be debts of honor, humiliation, and blood as of sheep and cows and shekels? Do you, for instance, pay back with interest?
Getting Even?
Consider our own use of what it means to get even: if you get even by bringing the pan on the left back up to its neutral position, by one account you are back to where you started, back to zero; but by another account you have been undercompensated, for, if the debt is of honor, the wrongdoer enjoyed a certain amount of time indulging in the pleasures of looking down on you and of gloating at your humiliation; he has not been made to disgorge his pleasure. Or if he withheld or took your ox, he got to enjoy its labor while he had it.
Fair compensation requires this: you had me down, and now it is my turn to have you down, to witness and delight in your humiliation as you delighted in mine.
We are used to seeing Justice figured as a strong woman, bearing a sword, sometimes crowned with sprigs of a plant – laurel or grain stalks – blindfolded perhaps, and surely bearing scales. Most of us, I would bet, assume that the scales merely reproduce the message of the blindfold: that justice is impartial, not a respecter of persons, which means it is blind to the social status of the people before it. The blindfold is a late addition to the iconography of Justice. It dates from the early sixteenth century, whereas scales have been associated with Egyptian Maat, Greek Dike, and Roman Lady Aequitas for a couple of millennia longer than that.
The scales overflow with productive meanings – for starters, are they properly represented in Justice's hand as even or tipped? – but the blindfold quickly degenerates into absurdity if we think on it too closely. Do you want to blindfold someone with a sword? It may not be wise to have her unable to see what she is striking, unless you do not give a damn about how much it costs to do justice; collateral damage, though unfortunate, must be borne. Blind justice morphs into blind fury. And how is she supposed to read the scales, if she is blind? This troubled early representers of Justice; some thus gave her two faces like Janus, with the side bearing the sword prudently left unblindfolded.
In all cases of penal procedure, the declared supposition is, that the party accused is innocent; and for this supposition, mighty is the laud bestowed upon one another by judges and law-writers. This supposition is at once contrary to fact, and belied by their own practice…. The defendant is not in fact treated as if he were innocent, and it would be absurd to deal by him as if he were. The state he is in is a dubious one, betwixt non-delinquency and delinquency: supposing him non-delinquent, the[n] immediately should that procedure against him drop; everything that follows is oppression and injustice.
—Jeremy BenthamJEREMY BENTHAM, PRINCIPLES OF JUDICIAL PROCEDURE 169 (1829).
If the presumption of innocence is not sacred in our system then what is to become of us?
—Judge Reta Strubhar (Oklahoma Court of Criminal Appeals)Flores v. Oklahoma, 1995 OK CR 31 (Okla. Crim. App. 1995).
David McCarthy has recently suggested that our compensation and liability practices may be interpreted as reflecting a fundamental norm to hold people liable for imposing risk of harm on others. Independently, closely related ideas have been criticized by Stephen R. Perry and Arthur Ripstein as incompatible with central features of negligence law. We aim to show that these objections are unsuccessful against McCarthy's risk–liability theory and that such an approach is a promising means both for understanding the moral basis of liability for negligence and for reasoning about possible reforms of the institution of negligence law.
So-called “urban renewal” programs provide some compensation for the properties they take, but no compensation is possible for the subjective value of these lands to the individuals displaced and the indignity inflicted by uprooting them from their homes…. [E]xtending the concept of public purpose to encompass any economically beneficial goal guarantees that these losses will fall disproportionately on poor communities. Those communities are not only systematically less likely to put their lands to the highest and best social use, but are also the least politically powerful. If ever there were justification for intrusive judicial review of constitutional provisions that protect “discrete and insular minorities,” surely that principle would apply with great force to the powerless groups and individuals the Public Use Clause protects.
In this article I develop a Razian account of the authority of customary law. I then use this account to refute Matthew Kramer's claim that insofar as Raz endorses custom as a possible source of law, he ought to grant the same status to correctness as a moral principle. I contend that it is because customary norms can be authoritative, and not because they are what Kramer labels free-floating, that customary norms can be incorporated into law while moral norms cannot. In addition, I argue that nothing in Raz's conception of the nature of law entails that being free-floating is even a necessary condition for a norm's being eligible for incorporation as law. Reasons of political morality or political psychology, however, may weigh against incorporating norms that are not free-floating.
Joel Feinberg's four volume work The Moral Limits of the Criminal Law can, I believe, be accurately characterized as a normative treatise on what criminal law theorists call the “special part” of the criminal law. The “general part” deals with the basic elements of all criminal offenses—whatever is prohibited. Thus general part theorists analyze the notions of actus reus and mens rea, the conditions that negate voluntariness in acting, the distinction between acts and omissions, the nature of causation, joint participation in crime such as complicity and conspiracy, and the various defenses labeled justifications and excuses. Feinberg has little to say about these matters. His concern is with what conduct may be forbidden and punished—the specific substance rather than the general form of the criminal law.
Among Joel Feinberg's almost innumerable achievements are his development and defense of the sovereign-right conception of autonomy and its corresponding rejection of hard legal paternalism. According to Feinberg, a competent individual's voluntary, self-regarding conduct falls within the protected realm of sovereign self-rule and is therefore immune from coercive, paternalistic interference by the state. It does not matter whether the self-harm the state wants to prevent is big or the coercion needed to prevent it is small. The coercive interference would be illegitimate because “sovereignty is an all or nothing concept; one is entitled to absolute control of whatever is within one's domain however trivial it may be.”
Joel Feinberg's brief against legal paternalism, which is the central focus of his Harm to Self, is undoubtedly the most scrupulous, nuanced, and thorough critique of the view yet provided by a liberal philosopher. I was once convinced of Feinberg's case and am now less sure. This makes me uneasy, both because I have strong liberal instincts that I would prefer to be able to justify, and also because I suppose I have not thought about the matter with the kind or degree of care that Feinberg himself did. In assessing his antipaternalist arguments, I include here a number of excerpts from Feinberg's own writings to remind us of his subtlety and precision, his broad range of references, his elegant and informed style, his sound good sense, his ability to provide the revealing, compelling example, and his supple cast of mind. That my commentary is bound to pale by comparison is inevitable, but I take some comfort in thinking that one cannot be held liable for what cannot be helped.
Patricia Smith provides an analysis of the concept of omission that builds upon the work of Joel Feinberg. Her account succeeds in bringing together more systematically than did Feinberg several key elements of his analysis. She also usefully extends the analysis to include unintentional omissions. Nonetheless, I argue that she mistakenly presupposes that there is a unique and logically fundamental concept of omission. Rather, I contend, there are multiple omission concepts, each mapping the conceptual terrain of inaction in a somewhat different way. These different concepts, each useful for a distinct purpose, will emerge from an examination of the flaws that Smith's account shares with Feinberg's analysis.
The essays in this volume constitute a symposium on the work of Joel Feinberg. Ten leading scholars in ethics, legal philosophy, and social and political philosophy offer a glimpse of the scope and impact of Feinberg's work. They address issues such as a theory of rights, antipaternalism, an account of action and omission, and the legal enforcement of morals.
In Chapter 4 of his famous work, Harm to Others, Joel Feinberg, with characteristic clarity and insight, outlined the major problems associated with analyzing the foundations of responsibility for the failure to act. In that chapter he made a number of controversial claims supported by arguments that have generated debate ever since he made them in 1984. His analysis led him to conclude that liability (or responsibility) for the failure to act falls within the moral limits of the criminal law in cases in which a random bystander could easily rescue a seriously imperiled stranger.
Joel Feinberg was a brilliant philosopher whose work in social and moral philosophy is a legacy of excellent, even stunning achievement. Perhaps his most memorable achievement is his four-volume treatise on The Moral Limits of the Criminal Law, and perhaps the most striking jewel in this crowning achievement is his passionate and deeply insightful treatment of paternalism. Feinberg opposes legal paternalism, the doctrine that “it is always a good reason in support of a [criminal law] prohibition that it is probably necessary to prevent harm (physical, psychological, or economic) to the actor himself.” Against this doctrine Feinberg asserts that when an agent's sufficiently voluntary choice causes harm to herself or risk of harm to herself, this category of harm-to-self is never a good reason in support of criminal law prohibition of that type of conduct.
Richard Arneson finds that Joel Feinberg's “principled arguments against hard paternalism are defective and merit rejection.” Furthermore, Arneson concludes with a tone of finality, “there is no successful case against hard paternalism to be made.” This diagnosis seems especially dire coming from Arneson, who formerly defended hard antipaternalism against Feinberg's revisionistic “soft” antipaternalism. On Feinberg's behalf I will try to show how Arneson's critique downplays certain costs of hard paternalism. These costs may be worth paying, but (I think Feinberg believed) their magnitude itself constitutes a powerful case against paternalism.
Christopher Wellman argues that Joel Feinberg fails to grasp the distinction between will theories and interest theories. According to Wellman, this failure leads Feinberg to defend a will theory in “The Nature and Value of Rights” and an interest theory in “The Rights of Animals and Unborn Generations” and therefore to hold an inconsistent theory of rights. Wellman's interpretation of Feinberg is plausible. I will argue that there is another plausible interpretation and that the texts do not allow us to determine which of the two plausible interpretations is correct. I will also argue that this alternative interpretation allows Feinberg to avoid Wellman's charge of inconsistency but has problems of its own. Along the way, I will make some points about how to defend a theory of rights and about the strengths and weaknesses of the will and interest theories of rights. (Wellman holds that choice theories are a subset of will theories. I have argued elsewhere that it is better to see will theories as a subset of choice theories. However, how one cuts up the field is irrelevant to the issue at hand. For the sake of argument, I will assume that Wellman's topology is correct.)
This article argues that there is a fundamental tension between Joel Feinberg's theory of the nature of rights and his account of what types of beings are potential right-holders. In explaining this tension, I argue that Feinberg actually adopts two competing concepts of rights. Clearly, Feinberg must choose between these two theories, but I suggest that both are attractive and that neither view can be selected as either “correct” or “incorrect” on the grounds of either logical consistency or even straightforward conceptual analysis. In the end, one's preference between these two concepts of rights depends upon competing values, values about which reasonable people can disagree.
We have already seen in Chapter 8 how ownership can be fragmented in a variety of ways to form a complex matrix of interlocking interests. It can be sliced across time via the mechanism of present and future interests; split at a qualitative level into its legal and equitable components; or divided via mechanisms that from a functional perspective separate management from enjoyment. The unifying factor in all of this is that in each case ownership has been sliced in such a way as to create two (or more) interests that are conceptually and functionally quite distinct from the other. For example, an interest in possession gives its holder wholly different rights to those belonging to the remainderman despite the fact that both interests are held in respect of the same object of property. Likewise, a legal interest gives those in whom it is vested a very different interest to that enjoyed by equitable interest holders in the same thing. The directors of BP, for example (or any other plc), possess rights which are quite distinct from those held by its shareholders.
In contrast, this chapter deals not with different interests in the same thing but with shared interests. The hallmark of co-ownership is that ownership has only been split (if at all) at a quantitative, and not a qualitative, level.