(no subject)
I’m currently reading Adam Smith’s “Theory of Moral Sentiments,” and will be posting thoughts and reflections.
Smith’s primary thesis is that sympathy is the cornerstone of our moral behaviour, the key from which all else flows.
But because sympathy will never be complete, our desires for what we might call authenticity can never be completely fulfilled.
“Mankind, though naturally sympathetic, never conceive, for what has befallen another, that degree of passion which naturally animates the person principally concerned. The thought of their own safety, that they themselves are not really the sufferers, continually intrudes upon them....
The person principally concerned is sensible of this, and at the same time passionately desires a more complete sympathy. He longs for that relief which nothing can afford him but the entire concord of the affections of the spectators with his own.
But he can only hope to obtain this by lowering his passion to that pitch, in which the spectators are capable of going along with him. He must flatten the sharpness of his natural tone in order to reduce it to harmony and concord with the emotions of those who are about him.”
Smith sees a benevolence about all of this, but I’m not so confident.
“The mind is rarely so disturbed, but that the company of a friend will restore it to some degree of tranquility and sedateness...we assume less sympathy from a common acquaintance than from a friend...we assume still more tranquility before an assembly of strangers, and we assume, therefore, still more tranquility. Nor is this only an assumed appearance; for if we are at all masters of ourselves, the presence of a mere acquaintance will really compose us, more than that of a friend, and that of an assembly of strangers, still more than that of an acquaintance.”
Again the conflict: it will compose us. But will it comfort us? Certainly Smith isn’t arguing that we would rather spend our time with acquaintances than friends.
I have two answers to that question.
Last year, on break I was sitting at home, chatting with a good friend, Elizabeth, who had come over to visit. The phone rang. I picked it up. I heard my grandfather’s doctor tell me he had died. Elizabeth hugged me and left. I felt far more comforted that she was there than, say, a group of acquaintances: she could indulge me more my emotions than a mere group of acquaintances.
From the days I taught math after-school in a Palo Alto elementary, I think of sensitive six-year-old Sam L. Sam was inclined to whine and start crying - but more likely to continue his out-of-proportion complaints the more I indulged him. And as his mother realized, it was best not to encourage such behaviour. Why? Because a person whose reactions are far out of proportion with others’ will never find sympathy or happiness. He must be constantly indulged.
This hammers at a concept called elasticity.
In economics, elasticity refers to how much the quantity demanded of a good changes in relation to price. Fettucine is a very elastic good: if the price goes up much, I’ll just buy linguini instead, or perhaps ravioli or macaroni. But prescription medications, for example, are less elastic.
The relevant elasticity here is not in the quantity of unsympathizable, overly “sharp-toned” behaviour we exhibit at the moment. It’s about the amount we learn to exhibit.
Sam’s whining and similar self-indulgent behavior was fairly elastic: once I raised the price by establishing that I wouldn’t play with him on break unless he did his mathwork and toned down the complaining, he...toned down the complaining. Over time, similar treatment by his mother will likely lead him to feel less.
But my grief at my grandfather’s death: never having a sympathetic shoulder to cry on may dull the edge of my feeling, but the effect will be less than the effect of his mother on little Sam. In short: my amount of feeling is less elastic. If we could somehow dole out an equal amount of pressure on Sam and I to exhibit less emotion, my felt emotion in death-grief would change less than Sam’s felt emotion in everyday life.
If “feeling elasticity” is high - that is, if we’re able to easily and relatively painlessly adjust our emotions - then we should retool ourselves almost completely to “flatten the sharpness of our natural tone to reduce it to harmony and concord with the emotions of those around.”
In this scenario, I should endeavor to feel only the emotions of an impartial spectator at even my grandfather’s death. Changing myself that way will be ‘cheap’ in emotional pain, and I will no longer “passionately desire more complete sympathy” when such events come. I will hurt less, on net.
If “feeling elasticity” is very low - that is, if it’s very difficult and takes much painful pressure to adjust our emotions - then we should reconsider even commonsensical activities like shaping children’s behaviour patterns.
In this scenario, Sam’s mom should ask seriously whether the great pain she’s going to have to cause him is worth the relatively small behavioural adjustment that will occur.
Smith seems to be of the opinion that the former scenario is more descriptive of the world than the latter; that feeling elasticity is fairly high. He’s optimistic than an “equality of temper” - natural concord of one’s emotions with the impartial spectator, is attainable through socialization:
“Society and conversation, therefore, are the most powerful remedies for restoring the mind to its tranquility, if, at any time, it has unfortunately lost it; as well as the best preservatives of that equal and happy temper, which is so necessary to self-satisfaction and enjoyment.”
(Quotes are all from Theory of Moral Sentiments, Part 1, Section 1, Chapter IV)
Smith’s primary thesis is that sympathy is the cornerstone of our moral behaviour, the key from which all else flows.
But because sympathy will never be complete, our desires for what we might call authenticity can never be completely fulfilled.
“Mankind, though naturally sympathetic, never conceive, for what has befallen another, that degree of passion which naturally animates the person principally concerned. The thought of their own safety, that they themselves are not really the sufferers, continually intrudes upon them....
The person principally concerned is sensible of this, and at the same time passionately desires a more complete sympathy. He longs for that relief which nothing can afford him but the entire concord of the affections of the spectators with his own.
But he can only hope to obtain this by lowering his passion to that pitch, in which the spectators are capable of going along with him. He must flatten the sharpness of his natural tone in order to reduce it to harmony and concord with the emotions of those who are about him.”
Smith sees a benevolence about all of this, but I’m not so confident.
“The mind is rarely so disturbed, but that the company of a friend will restore it to some degree of tranquility and sedateness...we assume less sympathy from a common acquaintance than from a friend...we assume still more tranquility before an assembly of strangers, and we assume, therefore, still more tranquility. Nor is this only an assumed appearance; for if we are at all masters of ourselves, the presence of a mere acquaintance will really compose us, more than that of a friend, and that of an assembly of strangers, still more than that of an acquaintance.”
Again the conflict: it will compose us. But will it comfort us? Certainly Smith isn’t arguing that we would rather spend our time with acquaintances than friends.
I have two answers to that question.
Last year, on break I was sitting at home, chatting with a good friend, Elizabeth, who had come over to visit. The phone rang. I picked it up. I heard my grandfather’s doctor tell me he had died. Elizabeth hugged me and left. I felt far more comforted that she was there than, say, a group of acquaintances: she could indulge me more my emotions than a mere group of acquaintances.
From the days I taught math after-school in a Palo Alto elementary, I think of sensitive six-year-old Sam L. Sam was inclined to whine and start crying - but more likely to continue his out-of-proportion complaints the more I indulged him. And as his mother realized, it was best not to encourage such behaviour. Why? Because a person whose reactions are far out of proportion with others’ will never find sympathy or happiness. He must be constantly indulged.
This hammers at a concept called elasticity.
In economics, elasticity refers to how much the quantity demanded of a good changes in relation to price. Fettucine is a very elastic good: if the price goes up much, I’ll just buy linguini instead, or perhaps ravioli or macaroni. But prescription medications, for example, are less elastic.
The relevant elasticity here is not in the quantity of unsympathizable, overly “sharp-toned” behaviour we exhibit at the moment. It’s about the amount we learn to exhibit.
Sam’s whining and similar self-indulgent behavior was fairly elastic: once I raised the price by establishing that I wouldn’t play with him on break unless he did his mathwork and toned down the complaining, he...toned down the complaining. Over time, similar treatment by his mother will likely lead him to feel less.
But my grief at my grandfather’s death: never having a sympathetic shoulder to cry on may dull the edge of my feeling, but the effect will be less than the effect of his mother on little Sam. In short: my amount of feeling is less elastic. If we could somehow dole out an equal amount of pressure on Sam and I to exhibit less emotion, my felt emotion in death-grief would change less than Sam’s felt emotion in everyday life.
If “feeling elasticity” is high - that is, if we’re able to easily and relatively painlessly adjust our emotions - then we should retool ourselves almost completely to “flatten the sharpness of our natural tone to reduce it to harmony and concord with the emotions of those around.”
In this scenario, I should endeavor to feel only the emotions of an impartial spectator at even my grandfather’s death. Changing myself that way will be ‘cheap’ in emotional pain, and I will no longer “passionately desire more complete sympathy” when such events come. I will hurt less, on net.
If “feeling elasticity” is very low - that is, if it’s very difficult and takes much painful pressure to adjust our emotions - then we should reconsider even commonsensical activities like shaping children’s behaviour patterns.
In this scenario, Sam’s mom should ask seriously whether the great pain she’s going to have to cause him is worth the relatively small behavioural adjustment that will occur.
Smith seems to be of the opinion that the former scenario is more descriptive of the world than the latter; that feeling elasticity is fairly high. He’s optimistic than an “equality of temper” - natural concord of one’s emotions with the impartial spectator, is attainable through socialization:
“Society and conversation, therefore, are the most powerful remedies for restoring the mind to its tranquility, if, at any time, it has unfortunately lost it; as well as the best preservatives of that equal and happy temper, which is so necessary to self-satisfaction and enjoyment.”
(Quotes are all from Theory of Moral Sentiments, Part 1, Section 1, Chapter IV)