Custom, tradition, and habit all also guide ethical decisions.

If you’re standing in the bookstore and you’ve never stolen a thing in your life, the possibility of appropriating the text may not even occur to you or, if it does, may seem prohibitively strange. The great advantage of custom or tradition or just doing what we’ve always done is that it lets us take action without thinking. Without that ability for thoughtlessness, we’d be paralyzed. No one would make it out of the house in the morning: the entire day would be spent wondering about the meaning of life and so on. Habits—and the decisions flowing from them—allow us to get on with things. Ethical decisions, by contrast, tend to slow us down. In exchange, we receive the assurance that we actually believe in what we’re doing, but in practical terms, no one’s decisions can be ethically justified all the time.

Finally, the conscience may tilt decisions in one direction or another. This is the gut feeling we have about whether swiping the textbook is the way to go, coupled with the expectation that the wrong decision will leave us remorseful, suffering palpable regret about choosing to do what we did. Conscience, fundamentally, is a feeling; it starts as an intuition and ends as a tugging, almost sickening sensation in the stomach. As opposed to those private sensations, ethics starts from facts and ends with a reasoned argument that can be publicly displayed and compared with the arguments others present. It’s not clear, even to experts who study the subject, exactly where the conscience comes from, how we develop it, and what, if any, limits it should place on our actions. Could, for example, a society come into existence where people stole all the time and the decision to not shoplift a textbook carries with it the pang of remorse? It’s hard to know for sure. It’s clear, however, that ethics is fundamentally social: it’s about right and wrong as those words emerge from real debates, not inner feelings.

History and Ethics

Conflicts, along with everything necessary to approach them ethically (mainly the ability to generate and articulate reasoned thoughts), are as old as the first time someone was tempted to take something from another. For that reason, there’s no strict historical advance to the study: there’s no reason to confidently assert that the way we do ethics today is superior to the way we did it in the past. In that way, ethics isn’t like the physical sciences where we can at least suspect that knowledge of the world yields technology allowing more understanding, which would’ve been impossible to attain earlier on. There appears to be, in other words, marching progress in science. Ethics doesn’t have that. Still, a number of critical historical moments in ethics’ history can be spotted.

In ancient Greece, Plato presented the theory that we could attain a general knowledge of justice that would allow a clear resolution to every specific ethical dilemma. He meant something like this: Most of us know what a chair is, but it’s hard to pin down. Is something a chair if it has four legs? No, beds have four legs and some chairs (barstools) have only three. Is it a chair if you sit on it? No, that would make the porch steps in front of a house a chair. Nonetheless, because we have the general idea of a chair in our mind, we can enter just about any room in any home and know immediately where we should sit. What Plato proposed is that justice works like that. We have—or at least we can work toward getting—a general idea of right and wrong, and when we have the idea, we can walk into a concrete situation and correctly judge what the right course of action is.

Moving this over to the case of Ann Marie Wagoner, the University of Alabama student who’s outraged by her university’s kickback textbooks, she may feel tempted, standing there in the bookstore, to make off with a copy. The answer to the question of whether she ought to do that will be answered by the general sense of justice she’s been able to develop and clarify in her mind.

In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, a distinct idea of fundamental ethics took hold: natural rights. The proposal here is that individuals are naturally and undeniably endowed with rights to their own lives, their freedom, and to pursue happiness as they see fit. As opposed to the notion that certain acts are firmly right or wrong, proponents of this theory—including John Locke and framers of the new American nation—proposed that individuals may sort things out as they please as long as their decisions and actions don’t interfere with the right of others to do the same. Frequently understood as a theory of freedom maximization, the proposition is that your freedom is only limited by the freedoms others possess.

For Wagoner, this way of understanding right and wrong provides little immediate hope for changing textbook practices at the University of Alabama. It’s difficult to see how the university’s decision to assign a certain book at a certain price interferes with Wagoner’s freedom. She can always choose to not purchase the book, to buy one of the standard versions at Amazon, or to drop the class. What she probably can’t justify choosing, within this theory, is responding to the kickback textbooks by stealing a copy. Were she to do that, it would violate another’s freedom, in this case, the right of the university (in agreement with a publisher) to offer a product for sale at a price they determine.

A third important historical direction in the history of ethics originated with the proposal that what you do doesn’t matter so much as the effects of what you do. Right and wrong are found in the consequences following an action, not in the action itself. In the 1800s John Stuart Mill and others advocated the idea that any act benefitting the general welfare was recommendable and ethically respectable. Correspondingly, any act harming a community’s general happiness should be avoided. Decisions about good or bad, that means, don’t focus on what happens now but what comes later, and they’re not about the one person making the decision but the consequences as they envelop a larger community.

For someone like Wagoner who’s angry about the kickback money hidden in her book costs, this consequence-centered theory opens the door to a dramatic action. She may decide to steal a book from the bookstore and, after alerting a reporter from the student newspaper of her plan, promptly turn herself into the authorities as a form of protest. “I stole this book,” she could say, “but that’s nothing compared with the theft happening every day on this campus by our university.” This plan of action may work out—or maybe not. But in terms of ethics, the focus should be on the theft’s results, not the fact that she sneaked a book past security. The ethical verdict here is not about whether robbery is right or wrong but whether the protest stunt will ultimately improve university life. If it does, we can say that the original theft was good.

Finally, ethics is like most fields of study in that it has been accompanied from the beginning by skeptics, by people suspecting that either there is no real right and wrong or, even if there is, we’ll never have much luck figuring out the difference. The twentieth century has been influenced by Friedrich Nietzsche’s affirmation that moral codes (and everything else, actually) are just interpretations of reality that may be accepted now, but there’s no guarantee things will remain that way tomorrow. Is stealing a textbook right or wrong? According to this view, the answer always is, “It depends.” It depends on the circumstances, on the people involved and how well they can convince others to accept one or another verdict. In practical terms, this view translates into a theory of cultural or contextual relativism. What’s right and wrong only reflects what a particular person or community decides to believe at a certain moment, and little more.