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Origins

Environmental problems

Nature is disappearing fast, or so we are led to believe. Fewer whales swim the

oceans. Fewer tigers stalk the Sundarbans of Bengal. Many coral reefs are bleaching,

putting their polychrome communities at risk. The habitats of orang-utans in Sumatra

and Borneo are threatened. Freak hurricanes blight the Caribbean and shred its trees.

Closer at hand, garden birds and butterflies are dwindling in number. In Britain, even

bluebells and Wordsworth’s wild daffodils are said to be endangered. What, we may

wonder, is going on?

The natural world has long ceased to be a reliable backdrop to human life, unaffected

by human activity. For many centuries we have been changing it, through hunting and

farming, through building, mining, and engineering, and through travelling and

trading. We may still think of it as our unceasing, enduring environment, unchanging

as the stars above us, but the environment that our grand-children inherit will be

vastly different from that of our early ancestors, and even from the environment we

were born into ourselves. We can no longer take it for granted, even if we ever could.

Because of human impacts on the world of nature, many people call the present age

‘the Anthropocene’, coining this term to echo geological ages such as the Eocene and

the Pleistocene. What they mean is that human impacts have become predominant

over the whole surface of the Earth.

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They fail to agree about when this age began. Did it begin with the invention of ships,

with the industrial revolution, or with the world wars of the twentieth century? There

is no agreement either on whether this means that it is too late to preserve the natural

world, whether we are free to re-mould the face of the Earth as we please (for a

version of this view, see the section of Chapter 6 on Social Ecology), or whether we

should use our knowledge and technology to restore tracts of the world to their pre-

human condition. But they agree that humankind has become one of the main

influences on the face of our planet. (See Figure 1.)

Deforestation and soil erosion are among ways in which people have changed the

natural world. Alongside positive developments such as the building of cities, others

include the loss of numerous species, the growth of deserts, the depletion of resources,

pollution, and, as we have discovered in recent decades, climate change. These

processes used not to be regarded as environmental problems, because nature

appeared inexhaustible. Problems only come to be recognized as such when they are

seen to involve avoidable harms, and when ways can be envisaged to solve or at least

alleviate them, as John Passmore has sagely remarked in Man’s Responsibility for

Nature.

Among philosophers, Plato (in his dialogue Critias) was one of the earliest to be

aware of soil erosion and deforestation, but he was untroubled by these developments,

as was his disciple Aristotle, who, in his Meteorologica, depicted nature as permanent

and fundamentally unchanging. It was not until the nineteenth century that people like

George Perkins Marsh, in Man and Nature (1864), came to regard nature as
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significantly vulnerable to human activity, and at the same time human life as

vulnerable to nature and its changes.

The twentieth century saw the rise of ecological science, and the related study of

nature as composed of interacting natural systems, but the case for preserving systems

such as rivers and forests had to await the publication of Aldo Leopold’s A Sand

County Almanac (1949). Leopold advocated extending ethics to encompass

ecosystems, but philosophers and ethicists (Leopold was neither of these) remained

unimpressed. What may have served to change the atmosphere was Rachel Carson’s

work Silent Spring (1962), with its disclosure that pesticides such as DDT, used in

Europe, were now to be found in the flesh of Antarctic penguins.

Another factor was the spectacle of defoliation used by American forces during the

American intervention in Vietnam (1961-75), with its implicit attempt to embark on

biological warfare and to sequestrate or even eradicate the natural world of central

Indo-China. The new awareness of the unexpected side-effects of human impacts on

the environment, and how human action can imperil whole species and ecosystems,

emboldened ethicists to redirect their focus to environmental issues. [Insert Figure 1

here.]

The emergence of environmental ethics

Philosophical ethics had for some decades held back (at least in the Anglo-Saxon

world) from reflection on practical issues, focussing instead on the analysis and the

meaning of concepts. But from the 1960s new issues in medicine (such as
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experimentation on human subjects and the requirements of informed consent)

brought a new lease of life to the ancient sub-discipline of medical ethics, and the

spread of nuclear weapons rekindled reflection on the ethics of war.

The stage was thus set for the emergence in the early 1970s of environmental

philosophy and ethics, and related attempts to apply philosophy to environmental

concepts and problems. Up to the start of the twentieth century, philosophy had

always been understood as applicable to practical issues (think of the political

philosophy of Plato, Aristotle, Spinoza, Locke, and Kant). The various branches of

applied philosophy now set about rescuing this longstanding tradition and bringing it

back to life and vigour.

At a World Congress of Philosophy held in Bulgaria in 1973, Richard Routley (later

Sylvan), an Australian philosopher, gave an address entitled ‘Is There a Need for a

New, an Environmental Ethic?’. His answer to this question was emphatically

affirmative. He took the traditional Western view to be that only human interests

matter, and that we humans may treat nature as we please. He rejected this view on

the basis of thought-experiments.

For example, if ‘the Last Man’, a survivor of a nuclear holocaust, lays about him,

eliminating, as far as he can, every remaining living being, animal or vegetable, what

he does would be permissible for the traditional view, but in most people’s intuitive

judgement his action is to be condemned as wrong. Such thought-experiments

(several were presented) disclose, Routley argued, that there is a growing

environmental ethic at odds with the traditional view, and one which better responds
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to the assaults of human beings on the natural world. We should thus reject the

human-interests-only stance (soon to be called ‘anthropocentrism’), and adopt a

stance for which other living creatures matter as well.

One widespread response to Routley’s thought-experiments is that they concern such

extreme and exceptional circumstances that people’s intuitive judgements about them

cease to be reliable, let alone indicative of the principles that we need. Critics

suggested that, when judging the deeds of the Last Man, we inadvertently smuggle

back into the scenario assumptions that fit more normal cases. We assume (they say)

that other people or future people will somehow suffer from his behaviour, even

though Routley’s scenario was devised specifically to exclude all this.

Yet Routley could reply that he needs to supply a scenario of this kind to allow us to

make judgements about a case where there are no remaining human interests (the Last

Man, we may imagine, is shortly going to die himself), and where the only interests at

stake are those of nonhuman animals and plants. Besides, he could insist that even in

cases where it is clear that no human interests remain at stake, most people still

consider it wrong to destroy other living beings.

So Routley’s argument against anthropocentrism and in support of a new

environmental ethic was widely found to be persuasive. At the very least it seemed to

show that nonhuman animals should be taken into consideration in human decision-

making. And if his thought-experiment were adjusted to exclude the remaining

presence of animal interests (if, say, all animals in the vicinity had been killed by the

same nuclear holocaust), the widespread judgement that the Last Man would be acting
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wrongly in destroying, as far as he could, the surviving plants could be held to suggest

that the good of plants should be regarded as mattering, from an ethical perspective,

alongside that of nonhuman animals and human beings.

But was Routley right in his characterization of Western traditions? Routley was

responding to a depiction of the Western tradition by John Passmore, whose book

Man’s Responsibility for Nature was published the following year (1974). Passmore

held that the majority view was human-centred and involved no ethical restrictions on

the treatment of nature.

Yet he also recognized two minority traditions. In one of these, human beings are

stewards or trustees of the world of nature, and responsible for its care (hence the title

of his book, Man’s Responsibility for Nature)–and, in religious versions of this

tradition, answerable for their stewardship to God. In the second tradition, the role of

human beings is to enhance or perfect the world of nature by co-operating with and

bringing out its potential. Both these ‘minority’ traditions were held to have ancient

roots and a long history in Western culture, and thus Passmore’s suggestion was that

the development of an environmental ethic need not involve a complete rejection of

these traditions, which are richer than is often recognized, but can rather involve

moving towards these other traditional stances.

For his part, Routley maintained that Passmore’s ‘minority’ views were

fundamentally human-centred themselves, and, because they supposedly fail to take

into account non-human interests, need to be rejected and superseded. But these

claims can be contested; for there is evidence that both of Passmore’s ‘minority’
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traditions were widely held and advocated in the early centuries of Christianity, and

are thus hardly minority traditions at all, and also that they can be interpreted (and

have long been interpreted) in ways that recognize the ethical importance of

nonhuman interests as well as the interests of human beings. (Much of this evidence

had already been assembled by Clarence Glacken.)

Routley’s contribution, then, was an important one with regard to the kind of ethic

required, but his narrow view of Western traditions and their resources needs to be

taken with a considerable pinch of salt. Many of the saints, for example, were

prominent in treating animals, both wild and domesticated, with concern and

kindness; so a broader view of Western traditions could well be preferable.

Naess and Deep Ecology

In the same year as Routley’s World Congress address, the philosophical journal

Inquiry published another ground-breaking paper, this one by the Norwegian

philosopher Arne Naess, ‘The Shallow and the Deep, Long-Range Ecology

Movement. A Summary’. Naess contrasted two kinds of ecology movement.

The shallow kind is concerned with human interests of the next fifty years or so, and

in particular with those of the people of developed countries. By contrast, the deep

kind is additionally concerned with the good of the people of developing countries,

with the long-term future, and with nonhuman species, affirming their ‘equal right to

live and blossom’. Naess recognized the practical need for some harvesting and

killing of animals and plants if human life was to continue, but still adhered in
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principle to what he called ‘biospherical egalitarianism’ or the equal entitlement of all

species to live their own way of life.

Naess’s advocacy of the Deep Ecology movement involved support for a broad

platform of stances (for such broad inclusiveness is part of what he meant by a

‘movement’), including biological diversity. (By ‘biological diversity’ he will have

intended promoting or preserving as full a range as possible of species, sub-species,

and habitats.) He regarded the cultivation of such diversity as life-enhancing,

probably having in mind its fostering of nonhuman life and enriching human life

simultaneously.

At the same time cultural diversity was commended too, together with opposition to

inter-human oppression such as exploitation through economic advantage or the

power of class. Pollution and resource-depletion were to be contested, not just local

forms affecting developed countries, or ones ignoring wider, global perspectives. The

central value was self-realization, or the fulfilment of the potentials of organisms of

every kind.

While others might focus on different values from those just mentioned, Naess’s

approach has much to offer, not least its stress on self-realization and its globally

inclusive scope. But his ‘Deep Ecology’ platform also includes some controversial

claims, including his account of personal identity.

For Naess, my true self is not confined to my physical body, but (because everything

is connected to everything else) extends to the whole of nature. It is this extended or

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greater Self that I am (supposedly) obliged to defend. But this move seems to take

identification far too far. Besides, many people find that tracts of nature are well

worth defending even if they do not identify with nature in this way. For there are

plenty of other motivations, such as respect, admiration, and wanting our successors

to be free to appreciate the same scenes as ourselves.

More worryingly, the ‘Deep Ecology’ platform advocated a significant reduction of

the human population. This tenet was thought to be needed to allow room for the

continued flourishing of other species. But it also led some of Naess’s followers

(though not Naess himself) to welcome catastrophes like famines, and the consequent

decrease in human numbers they were expected to bring. Others were inclined to

reject any platform capable of carrying such implications. We should perhaps respond

to the ‘Deep Ecology’ platform cautiously and selectively.

Rolston’s contribution

Another striking foundational contribution to environmental ethics was Holmes

Rolston III’s early essay ‘Is There an Ecological Ethic?’ (1975). Rolston (an

American philosopher, now widely regarded as the father of environmental

philosophy) was concerned to explain why we ought, for example, to recycle, and

thus how to get from facts and scientific laws to conclusions that hinge around an

‘ought’, particularly ones of an ecological kind.

The problem of justifying statements with an ‘ought’ at their centre was a

longstanding one, drawn to attention in the eighteenth century by the philosopher

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David Hume. But Rolston was able to suggest more than one solution for the

recycling example he had selected. A first possible solution is that (ultimately) human

life depends on recycling (through life-supporting ecosystems being maintained), and

that human life is itself valuable. This approach makes recycling a matter of fostering

human interests, and (Rolston would say) embodies humanist rather than ecological

values. However, Rolston’s preferred solution instead says that we should recycle

because this promotes ecosystem integrity, and ecosystem integrity has value in itself,

or intrinsic value.

Much could be said to elucidate the notion of ecosystem integrity. It may suffice to

say that this would involve healthy, functioning ecosystems, both incorporating and

supporting interacting living organisms and their cycles of life. Here, Rolston’s

thinking evokes echoes of Leopold’s earlier advocacy of maintaining the integrity,

stability, and beauty of the biosphere.

But Rolston was also drawing attention to the need for environmental ethics to adopt

an understanding of value that does not stop short at what is valuable merely as a

means (like money and resources), and instead goes on to identify what is valuable for

its own sake. A fairly uncontroversial example of something valuable for its own sake

is health.

Nearly everyone takes it for granted that something or other is valuable for its own

sake. Very few people seriously believe that nothing at all has this character.

Rolston’s distinctive suggestion is that an ecological ethic might stand out from other

approaches to ethics through finding what is fundamentally valuable not only in

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human fulfilments, but also in nonhuman lives or well-being, or perhaps in the

biological systems of which they are part.

One common feature of the contributions of Routley, Naess, and Rolston was their

rejection of a human-interests-only or ‘anthropocentric’ approach to ethics. Here

many readers may wish to sympathize, at least tentatively.

Yet the issue soon arose of whether you can study environmental ethics at all if you

endorse such an anthropocentric approach, or whether you are disqualified before you

begin. But subjects of study should not be defined by ideological stances, and in any

case one of the reasons for environmentally-friendly activities like recycling could

well be that they benefit human beings.

So, while many of us may wish to support one or another ampler and broader value-

theory than anthropocentrism, it would be wise not to banish anthropocentrist thinkers

from the community of environmental ethicists, and certainly not to exclude them by

definition. Such thinkers often call themselves ‘pragmatists’, and some, such as Bryan

Norton, have actually made important contributions to this field.

Themes and issues arising

One issue raised by these early thinkers was the question of which beings matter

where ethics is concerned, and should be taken into account when decisions are being

made. To use different language, this is the question of the scope of moral standing.
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One cogent answer to this question has been supplied by Kenneth Goodpaster:

whatever has a good of its own and can be benefited. For bestowing benefits is central

to morality. In other words, all living organisms have moral standing. Stances of this

kind have been called ‘biocentric’ ones, in emphatic contrast to the ‘anthropocentric’

approach of some traditional views. Another kind of answer will be mentioned

shortly.

A further issue concerns whether, and how much, future interests count. (Naess’s

essay in particular raises this matter.) Aristotle thought that including these interests

would make ethics too complicated. But the effects of modern technology are often

foreseeable, and it would be irresponsible to utilize this technology while ignoring

them. So the future impacts of current actions should be taken into account where

they can be foreseen. In this context, Hans Jonas has argued (in The Imperative of

Responsibility) that the newly enlarged range of impacts of human behaviour on

future generations and on non-human species requires reconfiguring our conception of

ethics itself.

Yet most economists believe in discounting future goods and bads so that they count

for less than present ones. They have some good reasons, because (for example) some

future impacts are uncertain. But philosophers have tended to respond that

discounting should be limited to cases where these reasons can be seen to apply, and

not applied across the board, or blanketwise. Future injuries and future pollution will

be just as bad as present cases, and, when foreseeable, should be treated just as

seriously.
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Another issue, raised seminally by Rolston (and touched on already in the previous

section of this chapter), concerns what has value not as a means (or instrumentally)

but in itself (or intrinsically). Things of this kind will be what give moral ‘oughts’

their point. One possible answer is the flourishing of human beings. But if we accept

that other living creatures also have moral standing, then the flourishing of these

creatures must be seen as having intrinsic value as well.

Some philosophers have reservations about the very concept of intrinsic value. But if

anything has value of any other sort, then something must have intrinsic value (value

that is not derivative from something else). For if nothing had such value, then

nothing would have value at all. And while human happiness or flourishing is usually

agreed to be one such ‘something’, reflection on the themes discussed in this chapter

(for example on Routley’s Last Man thought-experiment) suggests that most of us

assume that the flourishing of other creatures is another such ‘something’.

One final issue concerns the question of the grounds for preserving species and

ecosystems. Some environmental ethicists suggest that these entities must be held to

have intrinsic value themselves, a stance called ‘ecocentrism’. We do seem to attach

greater importance to preserving the last members of a species than (like numbers of)

members of unthreatened species; and this tendency could be predicted if ecocentrism

is correct. But it could instead be due to the moral standing and intrinsic value of

future species-members, the existence of which depends on the survival of current

ones. So biocentrism can answer this question too. Similar reasoning is relevant to

ecosystems.
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Anthropocentrism can also answer this question, but only for species and ecosystems

that are beneficial to humanity. Arguably, though, many are not. Does this mean that

there is no case for preserving them? The answer to this question may allow you, the

reader, to discover where you stand yourself in matters of environmental preservation.