Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

One day the Minister for Justice paid her a visit. He said he needed her help in a matter of great importance. He had a careful way of speaking, as if each word could be a lasso to trip him up. He seldom uttered a sentence without saying it over in his mind first. Amber felt no threat of nausea from him; in fact, he looked quite poorly himself. He told her about four people, three men and a woman, who were tried and convicted of conspiring to assassinate the President, and were now languishing in jail. He had presided over their sentencing and had been convinced of their guilt, but now new evidence had emerged that pointed to their innocence. This evidence had been suppressed by the police at the time at the behest of the government. It was all very disturbing, quite nauseating in fact. It made him sick to his stomach. Could she help with his investigations? All she had to do was listen to their testimony and let her stomach do the talking. Justice had to be done. How could she refuse? She was so highly respected and trusted now that her verdict would be taken as definitive (you just had to look at her track record). Of course, heads would roll if her stomach remained calm, but that was the price of justice. Someone would have to pay the piper (or churler).

Three weeks later the day of the acid test came, after much publicity and media speculation. The four defendants, looking pale and nervous, and oddly young, stood in the dock, awaiting their fate. The police had renewed their earlier testimony against the four. The four stated their innocence and repeated that that they were more interested in lepidoptery than politics. Amber was escorted into the hushed chamber, a little girl in a big place. But there was no lack of confidence in her demeanor. She felt happy that her special skill could be put to good use, though she dreaded being sick if that was what happened (she never knew). She faced the prisoners. The judge instructed them to state their names. In turn they did so. Everyone waited and watched. The cameras focused on Amber’s throat for the first sign of upchuck. The seconds ticked by. Nothing happened. She coughed, and people sat forward in their seats for the upcoming convulsion. But nothing happened. Nothing. Amber turned to the judge and said, “I don’t feel sick at all”. A commotion broke out in the court, cinematic in its intensity. The judge said to Amber, “You may step down”. The four were grinning wildly and high-fiving. As she walked by the stone-faced police, she buckled slightly, as if in pain. Reporters noticed this and began scribbling. She went home happy.

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Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Predictably, a cult formed around her name—the “Amberists”. Their agenda? To root out evil wherever it was found. They were fanatically anti-evil, and Amber was their tool. They tried to imitate her: they would consume heaps of bad food and then go out to confront evil in all its forms. This never worked very well, because it was hard to get the food down to begin with and it would come up before the evil was confronted. Still, their heart was in the right place. Amberist demonstrations could be messy occasions, requiring a change of clothes and a large supply of air-freshener. But the cause was good and Amber was telegenic.

The members of the cult sought out samples of Amber’s effluent; there was a lively trade in counterfeit substances. Even a small amount of the precious liquid was deemed a great prize. It would be frozen and kept in special containers, to be gazed at, danced around, and otherwise worshipped. On Amber’s birthday, there was a giant celebration complete with theatrical recreations. A good time was had by all. This was a strictly non-violent cult, though scuffles were inevitable, sadly. Some people objected to being labelled morally bad. Lawsuits were filed. Amber herself kept her distance from the cult, leaving its day-to-day management to others. She was more of a reclusive figurehead. But her picture was everywhere, online and off. Money was made from Amber merch, but it all went to good causes, such as training camps for the soldiers of evil-detection. Nothing to be worried about.

All this attention led to questions. What did the girl herself have to tell her disciples? How did the religion of Amber relate to other religions? What was her message to humanity? They needed to know, to have it spelled out to them. But Amber had little to say: she felt that her stomach was more eloquent than her tongue. Her voice sounded tinny to her, but her gut spoke volumes. Films of her throwing up (churling, as it was called) were doted over. Sometimes she spoke of the Big and the Small. The world is big, but we are small. We must see the large, but not ignore the small. The small is good, and so is the large. That kind of thing. Then she would talk of the seeds. Inside everyone there was a seed. The seed could grow healthy or it could wither and die. We each had to care for the seeds of others (she included animals). Tiny as the seeds were, they were what really mattered. But then she would run out of things to say and lapse into silence. Some people questioned her religious convictions, which never failed to give her an upset stomach. The cult itself was mildly dyspeptic.

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Chapter Five

Chapter Five

You might not have thought that Amber and Tang Wurlitzer had a lot in common, but Tang didn’t see it that way. She had all these problems with people and things: advertisements, supermarket chickens, news programs, history, politics, prisons. But Tang never had a problem with anyone: it was his job not to have a problem with people. He was a talk-show host, one of the best in his estimation. You might have seen him: well-dressed, creamy, full of laughs, a thoroughly nice guy. Networks compete for his talk-show services. TW was always on the look-out for new guests, and novelty guests were his specialty. Anything unusual, preferably polarizing. His ratings were consistently high. Well, his producers had come across this weird girl with a funny tummy, name of Amber. Tang felt this was a concept he could work with. He arranged to speak with her personally by phone. He assured her and her parents that nausea control was his number one priority; she was safe with him. “This is an opportunity to use your gift for good,” he explained, relishing the last three words. “Folks should see that someone feels deeply about right and wrong in today’s world. And I can offer you a substantial reward for your participation, which I’m sure will help with your medical bills and other necessities.” Oh, he could be persuasive, Tang Wurlitzer, most persuasive. He had once persuaded a man with two left feet to take his shoes and socks off on public television (a high point in the history of the show). It was a matter of pride, he argued, to show that two left feet were nothing to be ashamed of—and he was nothing if not shameless. At first, they were against it, but as Tang talked on, they softened and eventually came round (those medical bills and other necessities). Why not monetize Amber’s gift? And wouldn’t it be a good thing to inspire people? Perhaps she had been put on Earth to fulfill a divine purpose—sort of a freaky bilious Jesus. Mr. Wurlitzer seemed like a nice sincere man with a good reputation—what harm could it do? So, they agreed to the proposal, then and there.

And so, she found herself, at age ten, ready to go out in front of 16 million people to talk about her queasy belly, her allergy to evil. As a precaution, she had taken a modest lunch and avoided anything triggering. Mr. Wurlitzer had been very upbeat about the whole thing, telling her that being on television was much easier than it looks. You just had to smile at a camera and act like you were in your own living room. At the appointed time she was ushered onto the stage to spread the good word (his phrase). “This is Amber,” he began, “a very special child. She is here today to tell us about a very special gift she has, or some would say problem—aren’t you, Amber?” “Yes,” said Amber warily. “And what is that gift, or problem, you have, Amber?” “I feel sick when people do certain things.” “And what kind of things are we talking about?” “Lots of things—I don’t like saying what they are”. “I hear you once barfed when you saw one boy bullying another—is that correct?” “Yes, that did happen.” “And I’ve heard that your own father can make you queasy sometimes. Hey, my old man could be a pain at times”. He smiled good-naturedly, showing TV-ready teeth. She replied, “It’s just a feeling I get, I don’t think anything. It just happens. I suppose it’s like smelling something bad.” Cocking his head, Tang said, “And are you ever wrong?” “Not that I know of,” she replied. “Well, isn’t that something, ladies and gentlemen? This girl can spot a bad apple infallibly. She can see into your soul. When we come back, we’ll delve into this further. It sounds spooky, even miraculous.” They went to commercial break. Tang said in his quiet concerned voice: “This is going great, Amber, but we need something less wordy, more real. How about we put on a show of you throwing up? Seeing is believing. How about I pretend to be bad and you do your thing? It would make great television.” “It won’t work if you pretend. I can’t do it at will.” Amber felt a pulse of nausea as she said these words. Tang looked thoughtful. They resumed the on-air conversation. “You know, some people might be skeptical of what you’re saying—it does seem a tad farfetched. How do we know you are telling the truth? People say a lot weird things to make a buck. What do you say to the unbelievers?” Amber sat very still as the waves of nausea came over her. What to do? She leaned forward and buried her face in Tang Wurlitzer’s expensive suit and released a fountain of blue bile. When she looked up, she could see him smiling broadly—great television! It was for real and he’d got the scoop. It would be easy to get the suit dry-cleaned. “I was only kidding,” he said. “I didn’t really think you were lying, but it was the only way to get the proof our audience deserves.” Amber felt ambushed and confused—she was only ten, remember. “When we come back a man who would rather go on vacation with his dog than his wife. Thank you, Amber, for coming on the show. Now we know you are the real deal.”

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Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Several years went by, relatively uneventfully. Amber grew accustomed to her affliction, her special talent. She learned how to manage it, as best she could. She even returned to school. She was permitted to keep mainly to herself. The playground was decreed off-limits. Fortunately, people tended to steer clear of her, for obvious reasons. She was deemed a freak, though not clinically insane. Parents didn’t want their children to associate with her—what if it were contagious?

One day, at school, the teacher, Ms. Westerly, was talking about God. “And so, God cares for all his children,” she said, “even when they don’t deserve it.” She smiled benignly, showing a neat row of teeth, her eyes sparkling like drops of morning dew. “But he wants us to be good, you and me, so that the world will be a happier place”. Amber was listening intently: “Does he ever sleep?” she asked. “No, he never sleeps,” Ms. Westerly replied. “He is always awake and always will be”. Amber persisted: “Does he ever get drowsy?” “No, he is always wide awake”. “Does he have any eyelids?” “That’s a funny question,” was the answer. “He isn’t human, so he has no eyes.” “What kind of person is he, then? What does he look like? What does he do all day? How does he spend his nights, if he has nights?” Ms. Westerly was growing impatient, her own eyes narrowing: “Amber, you are taking it too literally and your question is really not appropriate”. “I just want to understand what God is really like. Why does he let bad things happen?” At this her stomach tightened. “I would never let those things happen and I am just a girl.” The reply came: “I don’t think God wants to hear that kind of talk from you.” She wasn’t smiling now. “Why not? It just seems wrong. It makes me want to…” Ms. W. answered: “That will be quite enough from you. Don’t blame your own problems on God”. At this point Amber excused herself to go to the bathroom because she could feel an attack coming on. Her eyes were watering from holding it back. She jumped up and sprinted down the hall, just making it in time.

Back in the classroom the sniggering had subsided and the teacher looked a little shame-faced (she was quite a nice person really). The children had been warned about the strange little girl with the eating disorder. It might be catching. Best not to go too near her. She was obviously not quite all there in the head. Being sick at sin—they had never heard of such a thing. And who was she to say what sin is and isn’t? What gave her the right?

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Chapter Three

Chapter Three

And so it was established to the highest scientific standards: Amber was suffering from ETS. She had a badness-detector inside her rigged to her esophagus. The news spread quickly, as all medical news will: it was initially reported in a medical magazine by none other than Dr. Denise Evelyn Daniloff. The article caused quite a stir in medical circles, and a degree of skepticism. Some spoke of the limits of Western medicine; others alleged a conspiracy. Dr. Daniloff achieved the notoriety she craved: she was constantly interviewed and televised, and her practice flourished. And she came up with the cure: keep the girl away from all bad behavior and evil motives. Easier said than done. The newspapers were onto it quickly: Toddler Throws Up on Today’s Vice, Magic Girl Spills the Beans, and so on. Opinion writers intoned: “This little girl is a judge and jury unto herself. You had better watch your p’s and q’s around her.” Was she a gift from God or the Devil’s work? There was much discussion of her case throughout the land. She became a minor celebrity, with paparazzi eager to take pictures of her vomiting at the sight of criminals. She hardly knew what was happening, being only five. The Princess of Puke. Amber had hit a nerve, struck a chord, grazed a shin. She was the latest It girl.

Still, the illness did not go away. She had to live with it. And it wasn’t fun. It seemed to get worse with all the attention. Even when alone, she would feel a rumble in her tummy. Her parents had to keep her indoors—no school, no friends. Too risky. In the end they put out a false announcement saying she had been cured by church music and Bible study. The hubbub died down. She returned to her normal life, though now homeschooled, but still suffering from her allergy. Not that her isolation cured the symptoms; there was still the odd spurt or trickle when someone in the house caused her antenna to quiver. In fact, her family become just a little afraid of her; it’s not easy to be around someone that detects every hint of moral failing.

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Chapter Two

Chapter Two

That business with the cards was only the beginning of Amber’s illness. She had it bad. Her illness was wicked. It could strike at any moment: in the car, in the playground, watching TV. It could even happen while she slept. She might wake up with a soiled pillow if she had a bad dream. She didn’t always disgorge, though, which was a mercy for all concerned, and the amount could vary. Sometimes it took the form of a queasy feeling in the stomach with no danger of ejection, but sometimes it was a fiercer feeling. Sometimes it was more like a burp. She developed the ability to hold it back—but this didn’t always work. Nausea was always lying in wait for her.

It had nothing to do with what she ate or whether she was sick with anything like measles or chicken pox. She was a healthy little girl generally, much given to running and jumping and playing with balls. She experienced no headache or fatigue. It was something of the mystery. She could be happily talking to a friend and it would start up, sometimes requiring a trip to the bathroom. It seemed like an allergy of some sort, but no one could put their finger on what it was an allergy to. Some people thought she was faking it to get attention, but this only made the condition worse. She tried her best not to do it in public so as not to upset people.

Even more curious was the stuff itself, which actually wasn’t that bad, as vomit goes. It had a funny color, sky blue, and it glowed in the dark. It had no odor. It had the consistency of porridge. It didn’t produce nausea in others, though you wouldn’t want to carry it around in a plastic bag. Animals were puzzled by it, wrinkling their noses in perplexity. Amber’s cat hardly noticed it. Yet it seemed to be triggered by something nasty, and Amber herself wasn’t happy about the whole thing.

Naturally her parents were worried, so they took her to the family doctor, a pink man with silvery nostril hairs. The doctor examined her in all the ways he knew how, but declared himself baffled. Were they giving her the wrong type of food? Was she getting enough exercise? Did she suffer from indigestion? All negative. He summed up thus: “If there’s anything medically wrong with her, I’m a Dutchman, and I’ve never even been to Holland.” This made Amber smile, though she felt a twinge of unease. It was no common-or-garden eating disorder. When he examined the material itself, he was utterly baffled—what subtle substance could be responsible for that bluish glow? This wasn’t some kind of practical joke, was it? He was a busy man, you know. Amber stifled a burp at this point. A thorough chemical analysis must be undertaken, top scientists consulted. It could cost a pretty penny. The doctor didn’t like his expertise to be doubted but he admitted defeat.

The specialist who was called in, a Dr. Daniloff, a lady doctor, had a big office with many certificates on the wall. She was famous! She had a swivel chair that could zoom around the office and she wore prominent spectacles. You had to respect Dr. Daniloff, MD, BS, PhD. The doctor declared herself intrigued by the case, very intrigued indeed, and wondered aloud whether it might be christened Daniloff’s Syndrome. Or course, she was concerned by Amber’s suffering—who wouldn’t be—but also medically stimulated. It was unique. She could go down in the annals of medical history—her and Amber. There might even be a Knobble prize in it. This was no routine virus or genetic disorder; this was clearly a new disease entirely. Could it be contagious? Tests were necessary, scans were indicated. She was determined to get to the bottom of it. We must first isolate the cause of the problem, eliminating every possibility. Experiments must be performed, substances injected, brain waves recorded. Her reputation depended on it. Meanwhile Amber was feeling a touch queasy. The cause of the problem appeared to be Dr. Daniloff herself, despite all her good intentions. She was now exploring the possibility that the condition (she called it that) was purely psychological, perhaps reflecting parental failings. She asked the parents if there was any sign of what she called “domestic stress”. At this suggestion Amber felt a surge inside her and promptly ejected a pint of blue porridge. It fell at the doctor’s feet, whereupon she examined her shoes. She paused in silent thought, then said: “I think I have it—the girl is allergic to moral badness!” Not for nothing was she top of her class in medical school. “She reacts to the unethical”. She smiled broadly, anticipating headlines, TV appearances. “The little girl is a badness barometer, a litmus test of evil if you like. She can sense it and then respond appropriately. It’s like a sixth sense. She has ETS—Evil Toxicity Syndrome. Bad people make her sick”.

The family left Dr. Daniloff’s office feeling puzzled but satisfied. They always knew she was special. Now they knew what to say to people who inquired about their daughter’s condition.

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THE LITTLE SICK GIRL

                                      THE LITTLE SICK GIRL[1]

Chapter One

Not very long ago, under a bright quarter moon, a little girl was born. The moon blinked as her round bald head popped out from inside her mother, and a purplish pale light came over the night sky. The wind stopped its gossiping for a moment. Even space and time eavesdropped. She was slow to take her first breath, as if unsure what the air might contain—tiny feathers maybe. But she gulped it down before the doctor had a chance to smack her bottom to make her cry. She wasn’t stupid.

The little sick girl was here, down among us.

Her parents were happy she was born, because they had always wanted a little girl.  Amber, she was christened, one day in their small kitchen (the microwave humming in the background as if it was excited). An older brother, Timmy, was already in the world, waiting for her to arrive. The moon and the wind had not disturbed themselves when he plopped into the world five years earlier. He was a strong healthy boy, with dark tufts of hair shooting from his scalp. They all lived in a small town, somewhere near Somewhere. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it, except it was where Amber came to Earth. It was like any other somewhere.

To all appearances, Amber looked like a perfectly normal child. Her straight blonde hair grew like any child’s, a bit more quickly than the rest of her. She cried and kicked and wet herself, and slept when it suited her, like any baby. Perhaps her light blue eyes (those miniature ponds of trapped light) opened rather wider and shut rather tighter than the average infant’s eyes, but not so as you would notice. She began to walk when her legs told her to, amazed she could stay upright on those tapering lengths of wax. She giggled when she took a few steps. Words soon began to jump from her mouth, like little acrobats of sound, twirling and somehow landing on their feet. She felt the preciousness and power of her words, as if each word carried a part of her into the outside world. And meanwhile her understanding grew: of people, animals, the sky, the dirt. Her mind formed itself, secretly, cleverly, until she was filled with it, until it was her.

That was when the first strange thing happened. Amber and Timmy were playing cards, fanning out hearts and diamonds, clubs and spades, slapping them down and yelling “I’ve won!”. She wasn’t very good at cards—she was only three years old—but sometimes she got lucky with the cards she was dealt. Then she felt that thrill of unearned good fortune: the world was being kind to her. She wanted to tell her brother about her good luck, but knew that wasn’t done. She kept quiet. She laid down her cards slowly and carefully. “Look,”’ she said, “a royal blush”. Timmy glared at her cards and angrily hit them with the flat of his hand. “You cheated!” he shouted. He scattered them across the carpet. “But I didn’t,” she protested. “I won”. Sullenly he replied, “Well, I’m not playing with you anymore. This is boring.” She gazed at him with a look of wonder and confusion in her eyes. Then she felt a peculiar welling up in her stomach. It was a sensation she had never felt before: a sharp nausea inside her, as if something nasty had slunk in there and badly wanted to get out. Normally her stomach was calm and quiet, but now it felt like erupting, like a volcano. She vomited onto the carpet. This created some new patterns and bright colors, but it wasn’t a work of art. She had made a picture—but of what?

Her mother sent her straight to bed, saying she must have eaten something she shouldn’t. Did she feel ill? Had she been eating too many sweets? These questions only made her feel worse and she felt the nausea well up again. In bed she wondered what had happened, but couldn’t make sense of it. Now the nauseous feeling had gone away, leaving only an unpleasant aftertaste and a premonition of what might be to come. All she knew was that she didn’t want it to happen again. Was she to blame for winning at cards? Did she enjoy the feeling too much? It seemed like some kind of message, but what was it?

[1] This is a children’s story I wrote nearly thirty years ago. I came across it by accident the other day and decided to convert it to electronic form and send it out. I intend to post it here a chapter at a time.

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Human Morality

Human Morality

Humans have an elaborate moral system, but animals don’t. We have all sorts of moral rules and think about right and wrong constantly, but animals hardly give it a moment’s thought. We are the moral (naked) ape. This fact is commonly taken to show that we are superior to animals, morally superior. They do all sorts of bad things and don’t give a damn, but we have a finely developed moral sense; we have a conscience, they just act any way they feel like. This is somehow connected to the fact that we have a soul while they are soulless. Perhaps God has given us morality, while letting animals wallow in a cesspool of unethical behavior. I think this point of view is complete baloney; if anything, the opposite is true. We have morality because we are so bad. This point is not difficult to appreciate: we are constantly lying, cheating, breaking promises, acting selfishly, being ungrateful, being cruel, being nasty, discriminating, betraying, bad-mouthing, committing adultery, and generally mistreating other people and animals. So it has always been, and so it is everywhere. Animals kill, fight, even rape and pillage, but they can’t match us for range of bad behavior; we are immorally superior. Original sin, bad seed, bad to the bone, rotten to the core—that kind of thing. Morally, we suck. We are experts in the art of unethical behavior. It is one of our native competences; we are really good at being bad. Animals are rank amateurs compared to us—scarcely immoral at all. There are no career criminals or miscreants or moral deviants among animals. Have you ever heard of an evil animal—a mass murderer, an abuser of children? Are there any baboon psychopaths and cold-hearted koala serial killers? Are there any feline Dorian Greys? Hitlers and Stalins? Envious plotters and lying con-men? Animals seem relatively innocent of these vices and moral shortcomings.

This is the reason we have morality—because we are otherwise so bad. We need morality, but other animals don’t. We need morality in order to curb our immoral enthusiasm. Every child has to be taught morality, because every child is naughty, sometimes grievously so. We have to be civilized out of it. We are good because we are bad—naturally bad, culturally good. The superego has to be added to the id; the Mr. Hyde in us must be subjected to the Dr. Jekyll. It is because we are morally inferior to animals that we need to inject some morality into our behavior. But this raises an interesting question: why do we bother? Why not just go around being bad all the time? Why not let it all hang out? In what way would this jeopardize our survival? Wouldn’t it be an advantage reckoned by the probability of gene propagation? Wouldn’t we expect a (selfish) gene for selfishness? Actually, no: for we are a social species essentially, and society requires regulation. You won’t do well at maximizing your gene replication if no one will be your friend, or work with you, or mate with you. You will be shunned and shamed, excluded from polite society, even exiled and thrown in prison. It’s prudent to be moral (also moral to be moral). So, we need a gene for unselfishness—a selfish gene for unselfishness (all genes are selfish). We need a morality gene to combat our genes for immorality. True, we are bad to the bone, but we have a veneer of goodness—a real veneer. We are naturally (natively) moral, because we are also naturally (natively) immoral. We have a morality instinct to counter our immorality instincts. We thus have a split nature, a division within the self (animals have a single unified self). That’s why we are constantly oscillating between the good and the bad: now acting selfishly and wickedly, now regretting it and paying penance. We are a wild bunch policed by a civilized sheriff. These two motivations exist side by side in the human psyche. Thus, we humans are a confused and divided lot. Both traits are natural to us, genetically encoded, part of human nature. But the good part only exists because the bad part exists. If we weren’t bad, we wouldn’t need to be good.[1] It is as if the genes said to themselves, “We had better get our act together morally, because all this bad behavior isn’t going down well with the social group”. They gave up hope of eliminating all the bad stuff (it served a purpose) and settled for an uneasy combination. Hence all those stern commandments about not doing what you feel like doing. It even became clear that being very good had its genetic advantages in terms of group affection and acceptance. Self-control, concern for others—it pays (and it pays not to know that it pays).

But why are we so bloody awful to start with? It doesn’t seem like a smart strategy. Other animals are not this nasty so it is not necessary for success in the gene wars. Why make a species as criminally inclined as the human species? Why are we so immoral as to need morality? It seems excessive, gratuitous. There is no Devil tempting us, so why do we succumb to the call of the immoral? Now that’s a tough one: we seem perversely unethical, stupidly so. Several suggestions suggest themselves, and they each might have some truth in them. The obvious theory is language, because we have it and animals don’t. Language and immorality are coextensive in the animal world. After all, you can’t lie and break promises unless you can speak, and many forms of misconduct are language-dependent (particularly plotting). Speechless criminals are apt to be not very good criminals. But language is a means not an end, and it doesn’t cover the full range of human iniquity. How about money and wealth? Animals don’t have that and we do, so is that the source of our immorality? You can see how this might lead to envy and acquisitiveness, but it seems too recent and parochial to explain the extent of our badness. Is it simple greed? By why so greedy—other animals aren’t. Is it social inequality, rank, status? But these apply to animals too and yet animals don’t seize immorality with open arms. Is it intelligence? This seems more on the right track: we have the brains to see how bad behavior might help us in life, but animals are too dim-witted to see the possibilities. We can plot and connive, anticipate the future, figure things out, rob banks. We are immoral because we are intelligent—and intelligence has its dark side. Capitalism. Family feuds. Master criminals. Sex: is it all about sex? Getting as much of it as possible. Some immoral conduct no doubt stems from this source, but not all: how does girl-on-girl bullying advance one’s sexual prospects? Maybe it’s an unholy alliance of all of the above—a speaking, envious, competitive, clever, sexually voracious, naked ape. This all leads us down the garden path of evil from which we need to be delivered by morality, in our own self-interest. If humans had no moral sense, their lives would be hell, given their propensity to unethical behavior. They would be unable to live together and their lives would be nasty, brutish and short. We are bad by nature and good by necessity. If we had never developed the morality trait, we would have gone extinct long ago. Indeed, all our pre-historic hominid relatives did go extinct—we are the only ones left standing—and this may be because they never discovered morality (or their genes didn’t). We need to cooperate and cohere as a group and immorality is not conducive to that; it gets you ejected from the group on which your life depends. Maybe we were once on the brink of extinction due to our wicked ways and morality came along to save us from ourselves. A meteor caused dinosaur extinction; our rotten souls nearly caused our extinction (and still might). We exist now because we became moral (to some degree), but it’s a battle we might lose as time goes by. Once society begins to fragment as a result human badness, the foundation of our existence is threatened; and morality as it exists now is a frail reed to prevent this from happening. Animals don’t have this problem because their bad behavior, such as it is, is not too extreme and widespread. No species ever went extinct because it was bad to the bone, just a really nasty piece of work. Apart from us, nature is fundamentally virtuous (or at least not vicious). To put it differently, animals don’t hate each other, despise each other, discriminate against each other, persecute each other, seek to annihilate each other. We do, so we need morality to keep us in check (or else it’s curtains). We are ethical because we are unethical. Animals are not ethical because they are not unethical. We should not be proud of our ethics, but ashamed that we need it.[2]

[1] I don’t mean to imply that animals never do any good, or that humans would lack altruism if they were not also morally bad. But the system of morality we have, which forms a kind of organic whole, is largely concerned with prohibitions, and that system would not exist if we never did anything worth prohibiting.

[2] It would be hard to maintain that animals are ever evil, depraved, cruel, and sadistic. I doubt they ever revel in the suffering of others. They don’t experience schadenfreude. Of course, they can be brutal and self-interested, but they are not corrupt, mean, duplicitous, prejudiced. Were any of our extinct hominid cousins as nasty as we are? Are there planets with worse people on them? What would they be like? We can just about imagine a worse species, but it isn’t easy. Even our greatest heroes have their weaknesses and peccadillos. But you can spend your life around animals and never witness a single unethical act—no false accusations, no back-biting, no mean-spiritedness, no viciousness. I wonder if animals ever intentionally produce pain (torture) as an end in itself; I rather doubt it. If not, you don’t need a moral law telling you not to cause pain unnecessarily. The gulf between man and beast is not so much that we are moral and they are not as that we are immoral and they are not. Our lives are thus governed by moral prohibitions, but theirs aren’t. They have no moral consciousness to speak of.

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