‘If the deontological ethic fails to redeem its own liberating promise, it also fails plausibly to account for certain indispensable aspects of our moral experience. For deontology insists that we view ourselves as independent selves, independent in the sense that our identity is never tied to our aims and attachments. Given our ‘moral power to form, to revise, and rationally to pursue a conception of the good’ (Rawls 1980: 544), the continuity of our identity is unproblematically assured. No transformation of my aims and attachments could call into question the person I am, for no such allegiances, however deeply held, could possibly engage my identity to begin with.
But we cannot regard ourselves as independent in this way without great cost to those loyalties and convictions whose moral force consists partly in the fact that living by them is inseparable from understanding ourselves as the particular persons we are – as members of this family or community or nation or people, as bearers of this history, as sons and daughters of that revolution, as citizens of this republic. Allegiances such as these are more than values I happen to have or aims I ‘espouse at any given time’. They go beyond the obligations I voluntarily incur and the ‘natural duties’ I owe to human beings as such. They allow that to some I owe more than justice requires or even permits, not by reason of agreements I have made but instead in virtue of those more or less enduring attachments and commitments which taken together partly deﬁne the person I am.
To imagine a person incapable of constitutive attachments such as these is not to conceive an ideally free and rational agent, but to imagine a person wholly without character, without moral depth. For to have character is to know that I move in a history I neither summon nor command, which carries consequences none the less for my choices and conduct. It draws me closer to some and more distant from others; it makes some aims more appropriate, others less so. As a self-interpreting being, I am able to reﬂect on my history and in this sense to distance myself from it, but the distance is always precarious and provisional, the point of reﬂection never ﬁnally secured outside the history itself. A person with character thus knows that he is implicated in various ways even as he reﬂects, and feels the moral weight of what he knows.
This makes a difference for agency and self-knowledge. For, as we have seen, the deontological self, being wholly without character, is incapable of self-knowledge in any morally serious sense. Where the self is unencumbered and essentially dispossessed, no person is left for self-reﬂection to reﬂect upon. This is why, on the deontological view, deliberation about ends can only be an exercise in arbitrariness. In the absence of constitutive attachments, deliberation issues in ‘purely preferential choice’, which means the ends we seek, being mired in contingency, ‘are not relevant from a moral standpoint’ (Rawls 1975: 537).
When I act out of more or less enduring qualities of character, by contrast, my choice of ends is not arbitrary in the same way. In consulting my preferences, I have not only to weigh their intensity but also to assess their suitability to the person I (already) am. I ask, as I deliberate, not only what I really want but who I really am, and this last question takes me beyond an attention to my desires alone to reﬂect on my identity itself. While the contours of my identity will in some ways be open and subject to revision, they are not wholly without shape. And the fact that they are not enables me to discriminate among my more immediate wants and desires; some now appear essential, others merely incidental to my deﬁning projects and commitments. Although there may be a certain ultimate contingency in my having wound up the person I am – only theology can say for sure – it makes a moral difference none the less that, being the person I am, I afﬁrm these ends rather than those, turn this way rather than that. While the notion of constitutive attachments may at ﬁrst seem an obstacle to agency – the self, now encumbered, is no longer strictly prior – some relative ﬁxity of character appears essential to prevent the lapse into arbitrariness which the deontological self is unable to avoid.
The possibility of character in the constitutive sense is also indispensable to a certain kind of friendship, a friendship marked by mutual insight as well as sentiment. By any account, friendship is bound up with certain feelings. We like our friends; we have affection for them, and wish them well. We hope that their desires ﬁnd satisfaction, that their plans meet with success, and we commit ourselves in various ways to advancing their ends.
But for persons presumed incapable of constitutive attachments, acts of friendship such as these face a powerful constraint. However much I might hope for the good of a friend and stand ready to advance it, only the friend himself can know what that good is. This restricted access to the good of others follows from the limited scope for self-reﬂection, which betrays in turn the thinness of the deontological self to begin with. Where deliberating about my good means no more than attending to wants and desires given directly to my awareness, I must do it on my own; it neither requires nor admits the participation of others. Every act of friendship thus becomes parasitic on a good identiﬁable in advance. ‘Benevolence and love are second-order notions: they seek to further the good of beloved individuals that is already given’ (191 [Rawls Theory of Justice 1971]). Even the friendliest sentiments must await a moment of introspection itself inaccessible to friendship. To expect more of any friend, or to offer more, can only be a presumption against the ultimate privacy of self-knowledge.
For persons encumbered in part by a history they share with others, by contrast, knowing oneself is a more complicated thing. It is also a less strictly private thing. Where seeking my good is bound up with exploring my identity and interpreting my life history, the knowledge I seek is less transparent to me and less opaque to others. Friendship becomes a way of knowing as well as liking. Uncertain which path to take, I consult a friend who knows me well, and together we deliberate, offering and assessing by turns competing descriptions of the person I am, and of the alternatives I face as they bear on my identity. To take seriously such deliberation is to allow that my friend may grasp something I have missed, may offer a more adequate account of the way my identity is engaged in the alternatives before me. To adopt this new description is to see myself in a new way; my old self-image now seems partial or occluded, and I may say in retrospect that my friend knew me better than I knew myself. To deliberate with friends is to admit this possibility, which presupposes in turn a more richly – constituted self than deontology allows. While there will of course remain times when friendship requires deference to the self-image of a friend, however ﬂawed, this too requires insight; here the need to defer implies the ability to know.
So to see ourselves as deontology would see us is to deprive us of those qualities of character, reﬂectiveness and friendship that depend on the possibility of constitutive projects and attachments. And to see ourselves as given to commitments such as these is to admit a deeper commonality than benevolence describes, a commonality of shared self-understanding as well as ‘enlarged affections’. As the independent self ﬁnds its limits in those aims and attachments from which it cannot stand apart, so justice ﬁnds its limits in those forms of community that engage the identity as well as the interests of the participants.’
Section from p 175–83 – Liberalism and the Limits of Justice, Michael Sandel, 1985. Excerpt from p. 154-157 Debates In Contemporary Political Philosophy – An Anthology – ed. by Derek Matravers and Jon Pike, 2003.