Is evil always diabolical?

No man is voluntarily evil.
“Socrates: Then are there some who desire the evil and others who desire the good? Do not all men, my dear sir, desire good?
Meno: I think not.
Soc. There are some who desire evil?
Men. Yes.
Soc. Do you mean that they think the evils which they desire, to be good; or do they know that they are evil and yet desire them?
Men. Both, I think.
Soc. And do you really imagine, Meno, that a man knows evils to be evils and desires them notwithstanding?
Men. Certainly I do.
Soc. And desire is of possession?
Men. Yes, of possession.
Soc. And does he think that the evils will do good to him who possesses them, or does he know that they will do him harm?
Men. There are some who think that the evils will do them good, and others who know that they will do them harm.
Soc. And, in your opinion, do those who think that they will do them good know that they are evils?
Men. Certainly not.
Soc. Is it not obvious that those who are ignorant of their nature do not desire them; but they desire what they suppose to be goods although they are really evils; and if they are mistaken and suppose the evils to be good they really desire goods?
Men. Yes, in that case.
Soc. Well, and do those who, as you say, desire evils, and think that evils are hurtful to the possessor of them, know that they will be hurt by them?
Men. They must know it.
Soc. And must they not suppose that those who are hurt are miserable in proportion to the hurt which is inflicted upon them?
Men. How can it be otherwise?
Soc. But are not the miserable ill-fated?
Men. Yes, indeed.
Soc. And does any one desire to be miserable and ill-fated?
Men. I should say not, Socrates.
Soc. But if there is no one who desires to be miserable, there is no one, Meno, who desires evil; for what is misery but the desire and possession of evil?
Men. That appears to be the truth, Socrates, and I admit that nobody desires evil.”
Plato (427-347 BC), Meno.

The Christian theodicy
“I can will what is right, but I cannot do it. For I do not do the good I want, but I do the evil I do not want.”
Saint Paul (5-67 CE), Epistle to the Romans (7:18-19).

“For God, the author of natures, not of vices, created man upright; but man, being of his own will corrupted, and justly condemned, begot corrupted and condemned children. For we all were in that one man, since we all were that one man, who fell into sin by the woman who was made from him before the sin. For not yet was the particular form created and distributed to us, in which we as individuals were to live, but already the seminal nature was there from which we were to be propagated; and this being vitiated by sin, and bound by the chain of death, and justly condemned, man could not be born of man in any other state. And thus, from the bad use of free will, there originated the whole train of evil, which, with its concatenation of miseries, convoys the human race from its depraved origin, as from a corrupt root, on to the destruction of the second death, which has no end, those only being excepted who are freed by the grace of God.”
Saint Augustine, The City of God, Book XIII, Chapter 14 (429).

“All of nature, therefore, is good, since the Creator of all nature is supremely good. But nature is not supremely and immutably good as is the Creator of it. Thus the good in created things can be diminished and augmented. For good to be diminished is evil; still, however much it is diminished, something must remain of its original nature as long as it exists at all. For no matter what kind or however insignificant a thing may be, the good which is its “nature” cannot be destroyed without the thing itself being destroyed. There is good reason, therefore, to praise an uncorrupted thing, and if it were indeed an incorruptible thing which could not be destroyed, it would doubtless be all the more worthy of praise. When, however, a thing is corrupted, its corruption is an evil because it is, by just so much, a privation of the good. Where there is no privation of the good, there is no evil. Where there is evil, there is a corresponding diminution of the good. As long, then, as a thing is being corrupted, there is good in it of which it is being deprived; and in this process, if something of its being remains that cannot be further corrupted, this will then be an incorruptible entity [natural incorruptibility], and to this great good it will have come through the process of corruption. But even if the corruption is not arrested, it still does not cease having some good of which it cannot be further deprived. If, however, the corruption comes to be total and entire, there is no good left either, because it is no longer an entity at all. Wherefore corruption cannot consume the good without also consuming the thing itself. Every actual entity is therefore good; a greater good if it cannot be corrupted, a lesser good if it can be. Yet only the foolish and unknowing can deny that it is still good even when corrupted. Whenever a thing is consumed by corruption, not even the corruption remains, for it is nothing in itself, having no subsistent being in which to exist.”
Saint Augustine, Enchiridion (around 420).

“Prosyllogism: Whoever makes things in which there is evil, which could have been made without any evil, or the making of which could have been omitted, does not choose the best.
God has made a world in which there is evil; a world, I say, which could have been made without any evil, or the making of which could have been omitted altogether.
Therefore God has not chosen the best.
Answer: I grant the minor of this prosyllogism; for it must be confessed that there is evil in the world which God has made, and that it was possible to make a world without evil, or even not to create a world at all, for its creation depended on the free will of God; but I deny the major, that is, the first of the two premises of the prosyllogism, and I might content myself with simply demanding its proof; but in order to make the matter clearer, I have wished to justify this denial by showing that the best plan is not always that which seeks to avoid evil, since it may happen that the evil be accompanied by a greater good. For example, a general of the army will prefer a great victory with a slight wound to a condition without wound and without victory. We have proved this more fully in the large work by making it clear, by instances taken from mathematics and elsewhere, that an imperfection in the part may be required for a greater perfection in the whole. In this I have followed the opinion of St. Augustine, who has said a hundred times, that God permitted evil in order to bring about good, that is, a greater good; and that of Thomas Aquinas’ (in libr. II sent. dist. 32, qu. I, art. 1), that the permitting of evil tends to the good of the universe. I have shown that the ancients called Adam’s fall felix culpa, a happy sin, because it had been retrieved with immense advantage by the incarnation of the Son of God, who has given to the universe something nobler than anything that ever would have been among creatures except for this. And in order to a clear understanding, I have added, following many good authors, that it was in accordance with order and the general good that God gave to certain creatures the opportunity of exercising their liberty, even when he foresaw that they would turn to evil, but which he could so well rectify; because it was not right that, in order to hinder sin, God should always act in an extraordinary manner.
To overthrow this objection, therefore, it is sufficient to show that a world with evil might be better than a world without evil; but I have gone even farther in the work, and have even proved that this universe must be in reality better than every other possible universe.”
G. W. Leibniz, Theodicy (1710).

Kant on radical evil
The depravity of human nature, then, is not so much to be called badness, if this word is taken in its strict sense, namely, as a disposition (subjective principle of maxims) to adopt the bad, as bad, into one’s maxims as a spring (for that is devilish); but rather perversity of heart, which, on account of the result, is also called a bad heart. This may co-exist with a Will [“Wille”] good in general, and arises from the frailty of human nature, which is not strong enough to follow its adopted principles, combined with its impurity in not distinguishing the springs (even of well-intentioned actions) from one another by moral rule. So that ultimately it looks at best only to the conformity of its actions with the law, not to their derivation from it, that is, to the law itself as the only spring. Now although this does not always give rise to wrong actions and a propensity thereto, that is, to vice, yet the habit of regarding the absence of vice as a conformity of the mind to the law of duty (as virtue) must itself be designated a radical perversity of the human heart (since in this case the spring in the maxims is not regarded at all, but only the obedience to the letter of the law).
Immanuel Kant, Religion within the Bounds of Reason Alone (1793).

Process or Holocaust Theology
And God let it happen. What God could let it happen? …After Auschwitz, we can assert with greater force than ever before that an omnipotent deity would have to be either not good or (in his world rule, in which alone we can “observe“ him) totally unintelligible. But if God is to be intelligible in some manner and to some extent (and to this we must hold), then his goodness must be compatible with the existence of evil, and this it is only if he is not all powerful. Only then can we uphold that he is intelligible and good, and there is yet evil in the world. And since we have found the concept of omnipotence to be dubious anyway, it is this that has to give way.”
Hans Jonas, « The Concept of God after Auschwitz: A Jewish Voice », The Journal of Religion, Vol. 67, No. 1 (Jan., 1987), pp. 1-13.

The banality of evil
Adolf Eichmann went to the gallows with great dignity. He had asked for a bottle of red wine and had drunk half of it. He refused the help of the Protestant minister, the Reverend William Hull, who offered to read the Bible with him: he had only two more hours to live, and therefore no “time to waste.” He walked the fifty yards from his cell to the execution chamber calm and erect, with his hands bound behind him. When the guards tied his ankles and knees, he asked them to loosen the bonds so that he could stand straight. “I don’t need that,” he said when the black hood was offered him. He was in complete command of himself, nay, he was more: he was completely himself. Nothing could have demonstrated this more convincingly than the grotesque silliness of his last words. He began by stating emphatically that he was a Gottgläubiger, to express in common Nazi fashion that he was no Christian and did not believe in life after death. He then proceeded: “After a short while, gentlemen, we shall all meet again. Such is the fate of all men. Long live Germany, long live Argentina, long live Austria. I shall not forget them.” In the face of death, he had found the cliché used in funeral oratory. Under the gallows, his memory played him the last trick; he was “elated” and he forgot that this was his own funeral. It was as though in those last minutes he was summing up the lesson that this long course in human wickedness had taught us—the lesson of the fearsome, word-and-thought-defying banality of evil.
(…) There is of course no doubt that the defendant and the nature of his acts as well as the trial itself raise problems of a general nature which go far beyond the matters considered in Jerusalem. I have attempted to go into some of these problems in the Epilogue, which ceases to be simple reporting. I would not have been surprised if people had found my treatment inadequate, and I would have welcomed a discussion of the general significance of the entire body of facts, which could have been all the more meaningful the more directly it referred to the concrete events. I also can well imagine that an authentic controversy might have arisen over the subtitle of the book; for when I speak of the banality of evil, I do so only on the strictly factual level, pointing to a phenomenon which stared one in the face at the trial. Eichmann was not Iago and not Macbeth, and nothing would have been farther from his mind than to determine with Richard III “to prove a villain.” Except for an extraordinary diligence in looking out for his personal advancement, he had no motives at all. And this diligence in itself was in no way criminal; he certainly would never have murdered his superior in order to inherit his post. He merely, to put the matter colloquially, never realized what he was doing . It was precisely this lack of imagination which enabled him to sit for months on end facing a German Jew who was conducting the police interrogation, pouring out his heart to the man and explaining again and again how it was that he reached only the rank of lieutenant colonel in the S.S. and that it had not been his fault that he was not promoted. In principle he knew quite well what it was all about, and in his final statement to the court he spoke of the “revaluation of values prescribed by the [Nazi] government.” He was not stupid. It was sheer thoughtlessness—something by no means identical with stupidity—that predisposed him to become one of the greatest criminals of that period. And if this is “banal” and even funny, if with the best will in the world one cannot extract any diabolical or demonic profundity from Eichmann, that is still far from calling it commonplace. It surely cannot be so common that a man facing death, and, moreover, standing beneath the gallows, should be able to think of nothing but what he has heard at funerals all his life, and that these “lofty words” should completely becloud the reality of his own death. That such remoteness from reality and such thoughtlessness can wreak more havoc than all the evil instincts taken together which, perhaps, are inherent in man—that was, in fact, the lesson one could learn in Jerusalem. But it was a lesson, neither an explanation of the phenomenon nor a theory about it.
Hannah Arendt, Eichman in Jerusalem (1963).

Vivekananda et l’ethique du Tat Tvam Asi

Il y a des moments où tout homme ressent qu’il est un avec l’univers et il se précipite pour l’exprimer qu’il le sache ou non. Cette expression d’unité est ce que nous appelons amour ou sympathie, et elle est la base de notre morale et de notre moralité. Cela est résumé dans la philosophie du Vedanta par l’aphorisme célèbre : Tat tvam asi, « Tu es Cela. »

Ceci est enseigné à chaque homme : tu es un avec cet Etre Universel, et en tant que telle, chaque âme qui existe est votre âme ; et tout corps qui existe est votre corps ; et en blessant quelqu’un, vous vous blessez vous-même, et en aimant quelqu’un vous vous aimez vous-même. Dès lors que le courant de haine est lancé en dehors de vous, qui que ce soit d’autre qu’il blesse, il vous blesse aussi, et si l’amour sort de vous, il est obligé de revenir à vous. Car je suis l’univers ; cet univers est mon corps. Je suis l’Infini, seulement je n’en suis pas conscient maintenant, mais je m’efforce pour obtenir cette conscience de l’Infini, et la perfection serait atteinte lorsque la pleine conscience de cet Infini viendra.

Swami Vivekananda (1863-1902), Conférences et autres écrits.

Un autre au-dela du bien et du mal

Le Mal, “en soi”, n’est pas réellement un problème, traité en tant que tel, dans l’enseignement du Bouddha. Tout d’abord parce que le “Bien”, dans le bouddhisme, n’a pas la valeur absolue qu’on lui attribue dans les religions monothéistes. On n’évoque en effet aucune Création divine, parangon du Bien, au sein de laquelle le Mal pourrait être compris comme une opposition radicale et scandaleuse à un tel projet divin. D’autre part, la distinction établie par le bouddhisme entre deux Réalités (relative et absolue ou, mieux, conditionnée et inconditionnée) nous obligera à considérer deux types de “bien” et, du même coup, deux types de “mal”. S’il existe un “Bien suprême” dans le bouddhisme, il s’agit en effet de l’extinction (nirvâna) de la souffrance (dukkha) ; souffrance caractéristique de l’état conditionné (qui n’est autre que le samsâra, le cycle incessant des naissances et des morts), état conditionné lui-même entretenu par l’Illusion, qui devient du même coup le “Mal suprême”.

(…) Selon l’optique bouddhique, il n’y a là aucune création du Mahâ-Brahma mais le seul cycle des naissances et des morts. (…) Dans cette optique, le bien et le mal ne relèveront du monde que parce qu’ils seront liés à l’idée de Soi. Ils ne sont pas une donnée fondamentale du monde “tel qu’il est” en réalité, mais de “notre” monde en tant que création mentale. (…) Comme toute autre dualité : ils n’existent que dans le cadre strict du samsâra, du relatif, du conditionné, de l’illusion… mais non pas du point de vue de l’absolu. Bien et mal, comme tout autre concept, tout autre construction “singularisée”, ne sont que des concepts vides en réalité absolue !

 

“L’homme dont l’esprit est stable, non troublé par le désir,

qui est au-delà du bien (puñña) et du mal (pâpa),

Celui-là est un être éveillé qui ignore la crainte.” (Dhammapada, stance 39)

 

Dominique Trotignon, Le Bouddhisme : au-delà du bien et du mal (2010).

Perspectivisme et volonte de puissance

Il y a une morale de maîtres et une morale d’esclave. (…) Dans le premier cas, lorsque ce sont les dominants qui déterminent le concept « bon », les états d’âmes sublimes et altiers sont considérés comme ce qui distingue et détermine le rang. L’homme noble se sépare des êtres en qui s’exprime le contraire de ces états sublimes et altiers ; il méprise ces êtres. Il faut remarquer de suite que, dans cette première espèce de morale, l’antithèse « bon » et « mauvais » équivaut à celle de « noble » et « méprisable ». (…) L’homme noble possède le sentiment intime qu’il a le droit de déterminer la valeur, il n’a pas besoin de ratification. Il décide que ce qui lui est dommageable est dommageable en soi, il sait que si les choses sont mises en honneur, c’est lui qui leur prête cet honneur, il est créateur de valeurs.

(…) Il en est différemment de l’autre morale, de la morale des esclaves. (…) Ici nous voyons rendre honneur à la compassion, à la main complaisante et secourable, vénérer le cœur chaud, la patience, l’application, l’humilité, l’amabilité, car ce sont là les qualités les plus utiles, ce sont presque les seuls moyens pour alléger le poids de l’existence. La morale des esclaves est essentiellement une morale utilitaire. Nous voici au véritable foyer d’origine de la fameuse antithèse « bien » et « mal ».

Friedrich Nietzsche, Par delà le bien et le mal, Prélude d’une philosophie de l’avenir (1886).

Le banalite du mal selon Arendt

Pour beaucoup d’historiens, le procès d’Eichmann marque l’émergence sur la scène publique de la parole des victimes. L’originalité d’Arendt est d’avoir, au contraire, focalisé son attention sur la personnalité de l’accusé, d’avoir cherché à le comprendre, ce qui diffère évidemment du fait de sympathiser ou d’excuser.

Qui est donc Eichmann ? Contrairement à ce qu’on aurait pu penser, il n’est ni un monstre, ni un imbécile, ni un fanatique. S’il entre au parti nazi, c’est moins par conviction que par ambition, désir de faire carrière et besoin de trouver le soutien d’un groupe. Et Arendt reconnaît que le procès lui révèle qu’elle a surestimé, au début de son œuvre, l’importance de l’idéologie dans l’adhésion aux mouvements totalitaires.

Un seul trait est, en somme, dominant en Eichmann : son absence de personnalité, son extraordinaire superficialité, ce qu’Arendt appelle son « incapacité à penser ». Ce que dit Eichmann est sans cohérence ni consistance: il se contredit de façon grotesque d’une minute sur l’autre sans s’en apercevoir. L’exemple le plus typique de cette tragique inconsistance réside dans les paroles qu’il prononce au soir de son exécution. Après avoir affirmé qu’il ne croyait pas à un au-delà, il conclut : «Dans peu de temps, messieurs, nous nous reverrons. C’est le destin de tous les hommes. Vive l’Allemagne, vive l’Argentine, vive l’Autriche ! » Ce qu’Arendt commente ainsi :

« Devant la mort, il avait trouvé les phrases toutes faites que l’on dispense dans les oraisons funèbres. Sur l’échafaud, sa mémoire lui joua un dernier tour : « euphorique », il avait oublié qu’il assistait à sa propre mort. Comme si, en ces dernières minutes, il résumait la leçon que nous a apprise cette longue étude sur la méchanceté humaine : l’effrayante, l’indicible, l’impensable banalité du mal ». (Eichmann à Jérusalem, p.277)

Catherine Vallée, Hannah Arendt : Socrate et la question du totalitarisme (1999).

Le mal radical selon Kant

L’hypothèse de la banalité du mal s’inscrit dans le fil d’une notion développée par Kant, celle du mal radical. Si le philosophe allemand n’a pas inventé l’expression de « mal radical » – on la trouve avant lui chez Alexander Gottfried Baumgarten (1714-1762) –, il en a fait un authentique concept dans son ouvrage La Religion dans les limites de la simple raison (1793). Kant part de la définition de l’homme comme être de raison, qui possède en lui la loi morale. Absolue, celle-ci se formule dans l’impératif catégorique : « Agis de telle sorte que la maxime de ta volonté puisse en même temps toujours valoir comme principe d’une législation universelle » (Critique de la raison pratique). Pour accomplir mon devoir, il faut que mon action soit désintéressée, qu’elle puisse se faire au nom de l’humanité tout entière. Or il arrive que l’homme subordonne la loi morale à des considérations d’ordre privé, dictées par l’égoïsme immédiat. C’est là une inversion des priorités, une « occasionnelle déviance » qui est à la base de ce que Kant appelle, précisément, le mal radical.

Évitons donc un contresens : le mal radical n’est pas un mal extrême, horrible ; l’adjectif doit se comprendre dans son sens végétal : la conduite de l’homme est corrompue à la racine, puisque l’universel n’est pas reconnu et suivi sans condition, mais peut à tout moment s’effacer devant les préoccupations particulières. Le mal radical survient « par cela seul que [l’homme] renverse l’ordre éthique des motifs », ce qui constitue une « souillure », une « perversion du cœur » (La Religion dans les limites de la simple raison). Ces expressions très fortes de Kant marquent l’ampleur dramatique du problème : pour lui, le respect de la loi morale est la condition sine qua non de la liberté authentique ; si nous ne lui obéissons pas de nous-mêmes – c’est le concept kantien d’« autonomie » : se donner à soi-même la loi morale –, nous nous éloignons radicalement de notre condition d’être rationnel. Or c’est ce qui se produit dans le mal, qui résulte d’un usage dévoyé du libre arbitre – dont la responsabilité nous incombe. Cela étant, Kant ne se prononce pas sur l’origine du mal, laquelle demeure inconnaissable, insondable. L’être humain n’est ni un animal innocent ni un démon, soutient le philosophe. Ce refus de nous diaboliser montre qu’en définitive, le mal radical est hélas tout à fait… banal.

Martin Duru, « Le Mal Radical selon Kant », Philosophie Magazine, numéro 69 (2013).

 

La reponse de Schopenhauer a la theologie

Je ne connais rien de plus absurde que la plupart des systèmes métaphysiques qui expliquent le mal comme quelque chose de négatif ; lui seul au contraire est positif, puisqu’il se fait sentir… Tout bien, tout bonheur, toute satisfaction sont négatifs, car ils ne font que supprimer un désir et terminer une peine.

Arthur Schopenhauer, Le Monde comme Volonté et comme Représentation (1844).