Making Sense of Wilson, pt. 4: Self-Control

While in middle school, I had to stay after classes had ended for tutorials in English grammar.  I cannot recall now if that was because I incorrectly wrote my homework or quizzes, or if it was because I asked questions that the teacher could not answer fully before having to move on through the lesson.  I do remember one week when all I did after school was practice how to distinguish an adjectival from an adverbial prepositional phrase.  Once I got that down, something clicked.  Grammar became not only an interest but also more closely aligned with the way I thought -- or how I thought about how I thought.  This tendency only increased when I began to learn foreign languages, which in turn enhanced my understanding of English grammar.

Among other things, I was drawn by grammar to the conventional nature of language.  I am not sure whether I was taught or simply caught prescriptivism, the notion that grammar does not merely reflect language usage but specifies what it should be.  Proper grammar is how people ought to employ language.  Inasmuch as there was an obligatory element to grammar, there was a moral dimension to it for me:  This is not only how others ought to speak and write, which is how we got the grammar rules I was learning, but also how I myself ought to speak and write.

What is more, if I could speak and write in such a fashion, other people, because of our shared convention, would understand me and trust me not only to communicate but also as a communicator.  Well-executed grammar would say something about me, about my person, about my character.  Not splitting my infinitives could suggest that I would likely not divide my loyalty.  Faithfulness in small things would augur faithfulness in larger things.  If I were trustworthy in my communication by following shared conventions, I would be trustworthy in the rest of my life by adhering to that shared life.

To be sure, I may not have been able to articulate all of this explicitly at the time, but I can safely say now that this was to a significant degree how I thought and felt then.  This understanding is similar to thoughts that appear in a previous post on the usefulness of grammar in the workplace.  A main point of that post, of the person quoted in it, and of my remarks above relates to the third of James Q. Wilson's moral sensibilities:  self-control.

In this continuation of my series of posts on Prof. Wilson's book The Moral Sense, I offer mostly a descriptive recapitulation of his main ideas, because I find myself agreeing generally with him.  For those who wish to become familiar with his ideas but who do not have time or inclination to read the book itself, such a recap may be useful.  In this vein, I touch briefly below on (i) what self-control is and why it is moral, (ii) some historical perspective, and (iii) addiction and morality.  Lastly (iv) I offer some additional reflections.

i.  Self-control.  Why is self-control a moral sense?  Why, for example, did Aristotle devote a chapter to temperance in the Nicomachian Ethics?  First, we need to know what is involved in self-control.  Second, we need to know why or when self-control, or the person who possesses it, is virtuous.

What, then, is involved in self-control?  Or, to say the same thing, why is it difficult to perform?  According to Prof. Wilson, "self-control is only a problem when one is faced with a choice between an immediate pleasure and a more distant one that is of greater value" (The Moral Sense, 80).

Why is self-control or the person who possesses it virtuous?  "For self-control to be virtuous," he continues, "it is not enough that the more distant pleasure be greater than the more immediate one; it is also necessary that the more distant one be more praiseworthy" (80-81).  The element of praiseworthiness is why the temperate person is good and not merely prudent or cunning (as, for example, a politician or professional criminal).

What are the benefits of self-control, and why do we value it in people?  The answer to this question turns out to be, in Prof. Wilson's estimation, similar to why we esteem sympathy in people as a moral virtue.

Temperate people are more likely to keep promises, resist temptations, and reciprocate our affections than are intemperate ones; sympathetic people are more disposed to help us when we are in need and to take our feelings into account than are hard-hearted ones.  Since we are usually better off dealing with temperate and sympathetic people, we praise them.  What we are praising is not an abstract rule such as "Moderation in all things!" or "Love all of your enemies!"  There are some actions, such as bravery, that are immoderate in the extreme and some enemies who deserve only contempt.  Rather, we are praising a state of character that is disposed to moderation or sympathy.  Self-control acquires moral standing in the same way that sympathy and fairness do:  just as most people cannot imagine living in a society in which self-indulgence, self-centeredness, and self-dealing are the accepted standards of right conduct, so they cannot imagine living a life devoted to such principles and still calling it human. (82)

What is moral, or virtuous, in other words reflects something fundamental about our humanity.  That which is virtuous about self-control is largely that which promotes life lived well.  And life lived well reveals something basic about the character of the one who lives that life.  Again, Prof. Wilson:

It is a remarkable characteristic of human society that most of the things that are best for us -- that is, most likely to produce genuine and enduring happiness -- require us to forgo some immediate pleasure.  Success at an occupation requires study now; success at music requires practice now; success at romantic love requires courtship now; a reputation for honesty requires forgoing temptations now; the respect and affection of our grown children requires long hours and much effort devoted to their infant years.  In these examples self-control is not only advantageous but also praiseworthy, because a competent worker, a skilled musical performance, a loving marriage, a reputation for honesty, and the respect of one's children are all universally praised.  If these goals are good, then the character trait that is necessary for their achievement must also be good insofar as it produces these goals and not others -- such as skill at stealing -- that are universally condemned.  (81; emphasis mine)

The "not only ... but also ..." correlative makes an important distinction.  The idea of success or more broadly of living well is not a matter of pure utility.  It is not that self-control is viewed positively only because it is useful, or only because it is advantageous, or only because it leads to greater happiness than its absence.  No.  Rather, it is the case that self-control is viewed positively -- it is praiseworthy -- because of the nature of the greater goals to which it leads and because of the nature of the virtuous human character that it reflects.

ii.  Historical perspective.  An historical example is instructive, and it is not dissimilar to my grammar anecdote above.  Both support the notion that self-control in small things bespeaks self-control in large things.  In European history, a case in point is the development of etiquette.  Both aspects of usefulness and honor are present.

According to the social historian Norbert Elias, Europeans in the late Middle Ages were accustomed to expressing their wants and emotions directly, immediately, and forcefully.  Under those circumstances it was essential to have rules that would reduce the chances that innocent actions -- reaching in front of another to grab a piece of meat or waving a knife around while cutting a piece of meat -- might be seen as affronts or threats that would escalate into violent confrontations.  Moreover, as feudalism weakened, to be replaced by a court-based aristocracy and a nascent bourgeoisie, one's social standing required confirmation by outward signs.  The concept of civility and the role of the gentleman (or aristocrat) were born both to control human impulses and establish social claims. ... Manners were taught in order to manage impulses; honor was given to those where the most mannerly.  (83, 84)

The same goes for modesty and the morality associated with it -- a point made, for example, in Wendy Shalit's book A Return to Modesty:  Discovering the Lost Virtue and her follow-up publication Girls Gone Mild:  Young Women Reclaim Self-Respect and Find It's Not Bad to Be Good.

But is this going a bit too far?  Is it really the case that etiquette and dress have any relation to morality?  Aren't those just social conventions pure and simple, just arbitrary designations by one social culture or another?

This is an important question.  As Prof. Wilson confronts the objection, he concedes that a particular action (say, one's salutation in correspondence or choice of shoes) may not be manifestly moral in nature.  There may, however, be some daily affairs that are moral, and the more basic point is that the moral messages that these things communicate are, if not explicit, implicit.  Implicit messages, like explicit ones, can be palpable, powerful, and persuasive.

A display of manners and conventional attire is a signal to other people, especially to strangers, that you have self-control; you display it in small, everyday ways to assure others that it will be present in adequate degree when the stakes are much higher.  The everyday display of self-control has, in any particular case, no evident moral message. ... But we can say that the repetition of [unconventional and unmannerly] acts will persuade others that when the moral issues are front and center you do not have the state of character to restrain you from preferring your own immediate advantage over the rightful and more distant interest of others. (84-85)

But, it might be further objected, that does not really address the relativity of cultural differences, which might seem to undermine the idea that morality is tied to cultural conventions if those conventions differ from one place to the next.  What is really at stake in all this?  This is another good question.  One answer to what is at stake in trivializing the morality associated with conventions because of cultural differences is this:  the risk of communicating to others what you do not wish to communicate to them.  In other words, the risk is communication miscalculation.

While it is obvious that cultures differ in standards of everyday conduct and that any given culture may change its standards profoundly over several generations, those who too readily embrace the view that everyday conduct is a trivial and purely personal matter may be surprised to learn that they have paid too little attention to the signals they emit and so lack the trust of others when matters are neither trivial nor personal. (85)

iii.  Self-control, morality, and addiction.  How does self-control relate to addiction, and what can be said about morality and addiction? Prof. Wilson's answer repeats his basic stance and casts the matter in terms of interpersonal relationships:

People take self-control seriously because in routine matters it is useful and in large matters it is essential.  It becomes a dimension of morality to the extent that it implicates the fundamental features of man's social nature:  the respect for and the obligation toward others with whom we spend our lives or from whom we expect important benefits.  For this reason, it is a profound error to say that one should not be "moralistic" or "judgmental" about the more serious addictions.  Judging them morally is essential to correcting and preventing them. (97)

This may appear to fly in the face of popular perception of addiction as a disease, not in some sense a moral failing.  Such a popular opinion is stronger now than when Prof. Wilson wrote the book nearly twenty years ago in 1993.  Since then, the label "disease" is ubiquitous, and it usually carries the connotation that the person who has it is not responsible for the entailed behavior or effects.  So is Prof. Wilson either naive or irrelevant, or both?  

No.  He makes an important concession, but he reiterates his main point:

There is no doubt that alcoholism and drug addiction, like schizophrenia or depression, are diseases in the sense that they result in part from an abnormal condition of a human organ, the brain, and are responsive in some degree to medication.  That is a good reason for placing the addict under the care of a physician.  But addiction, unlike cancer or smallpox, is also a behavior, and the task of the physician is to induce the patient to alter that behavior.  Medication can often help, but medication alone is insufficient, and even the medication requires a change in patient behavior:  he or she must regularly take the pill.  It is necessary to supplement the medication by changing the patient's psychic state and daily behavior; indeed, this is often a prerequisite to successful medication.  He or she must acknowledge the addition, admit that help is essential, avoid (or keep to the absolute minimum) any use of the addictive drug, and shun social settings in which the temptation to use the drug is very powerful. (95-96)

To drive home the point, Prof. Wilson adds, "The best-known programs for aiding people in fighting addiction, such as Alcoholics Anonymous, require of the participant an admission of shame and a commitment to right conduct that are, in their intensity and justification, little different from any moral obligation" (96).

iv.  Additional reflections.  Too often, I suppose, the connotation of self-control is negative in the sense that it is that faculty which enables a person to refrain from doing something bad.  For example, you do not give free rein to anger through outbursts; you do not act upon lustful or envious thoughts; you do not disobey just figures of legitimate authority; you do not lie or cheat.  In short, you do not let your passions get the better of you, where passions are viewed largely as immoral.  (By the way, have you noticed that in our day the term "immoral" has been replaced by the term "inappropriate" with its less morally judgmental and more relativistically cultural connotation?)  This does not seem to be to be the full story.

Self-control also may be the faculty to act positively.  Put differently, self-control may be the power that one possesses which enables her to behave morally.  With it she may guide her thinking and actions in such a way as to pursue that which is good and beautiful, peaceable and fair, sympathetic and kind, obedient and admirable.  She does not merely stop short of doing something bad by self-control; she actually does something good.

Another way, then, of thinking about self-control is self-discipline.  The word "discipline" more than "control" conveys the learning process and cultivation of restraint central to this moral sensibility.  The idea of "control" is one of power, and that is surely involved, as I have just observed.  What it misses by itself is something equally involved and perhaps more significant for those of us who seek to possess both self-control and the personal character of the one who possesses it.  That additional element is the task involved in acquiring, producing, practicing, and refining self-control, understood as it really is:  a discipline, something taught (as an object) and something of which we are disciples (as subjects).

Like an athlete who trains himself, both body and mind, to win a contest through skill, endurance, and following the rules, so must we humans, if we wish to excel in our humanity, do the same.  The point is not self-discipline, or self-control, as a standalone activity; the point is the goal, the prize toward which we press.  Virtue in a sense may be its own reward, where, in this case, that reward is improved social relations with others to whom we have obligations or with others who rely upon us.  Morality always seems to return to who we are, or should be, as humans and how we relate, or should relate, to each other.

After reading this chapter on self-control in The Moral Sense, self-discipline seems even more clearly than before related to character, specifically the character trait of dependability.  Self-control, put differently, is, like one's eyes, a window into the soul.  It opens up to view not only the question, How will this person behave with respect to himself?, but the more communally relevant question, How will this person behave with respect to me? 

Dependability and self-control are not identical.  But I can certainly appraise better one's dependability by displays of one's self-discipline.  And determining that directly influences the nature and extent of my association with someone.

As I get older, I increasingly find myself looking at small things in a person and wondering about bigger things.  If I do not find someone to be disciplined in a few incidentals, I also find myself not trusting him with more substantive matters.  I am judging character, and I am measuring the nature and extent of a relationship.

I want my friends to be dependable.  This means that they will, to varying degrees, possess self-control.  They will appropriately blend sympathy and fairness with self-discipline.  They will know when not to prefer their "own immediate advantage over the rightful and more distant interest of others."  And they will display it daily in small ways, perhaps by listening attentively and without interruption as I speak.  In other instances I may find my conversation partner trustworthy in humanity and justice.  This seeming convention of etiquette signals to me not just that she is a patient listener who exercises restraint but that she may be, more fundamentally and positively, a sympathetic person who gives me a fair hearing.

The moral senses are not abstracted from each other.  They signal character and the path to shared life lived well.

And I wish also to be that same sort of trustworthy, dependable person in my shared life with others.  It remains a daily challenge -- in things small and large.