Is it possible for postmodernism to offer viable, coherent accounts of ethics? Or are our social and intellectual worlds too fragmented for any broad consensus about the moral life? These issues have emerged as some of the most contentious in literary and philosophical studies. In Renegotiating Ethics in Literature, Philosophy, and Theory a distinguished international gathering of philosophers and literary scholars address the reconceptualisations involved in this 'turn towards ethics'. An important feature of this has been a renewed interest in (...) the literary text as a focus for the exploration of ethical issues. Exponents of this trend include Charles Taylor, Bernard Williams, Iris Murdoch, Cora Diamond, Richard Rorty and Martha Nussbaum, the latter a contributor and a key figure in this volume. This book assesses the significance of this development for ethical and literary theory and attempts to articulate an alternative postmodern account of ethics which does not rely on earlier appeals to universal truths. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Philosophy and Literature 28.2 (2004) 393-405 [Access article in PDF] Decency and Its Discontents Richard Freadman La Trobe University In The Beginning of the Journey, Diana Trilling makes this rather shocking claim about her husband, Lionel: "In the dark recesses of his heart where unhappiness was so often his companion, he was contemptuous of everything in his life that was dedicated to seriousness and responsibility."1 Lionel had been dead (...) almost 20 years when a near blind Diana dictated this comment in her controversial auto/biography in the early 1990s. Of course he was revered for—among other things—precisely his qualities of intellectual "seriousness and responsibility." But Diana argued that Lionel had in effect settled for such sober virtues because for temperamental and other reasons he could not live the life he really craved—the life of a swashbuckling novelist, with all its recklessness, its refusal of compromise, even its moral waywardness. When Hemingway died Lionel wrote in his notebook: "who would suppose how much he haunted me? How much he existed in my mind—as a reproach? He was the only writer of our time I envied" (Beginning, p. 371). Lionel's critical discussions of Hemingway's fiction are judicious and qualified.2 He admired the uncompromising short story writer who was "passionately and aggressively concerned with truth" (SLS, p. 127), but found the work of the self-conscious "legend" (p. 125), writing in the first-person, ponderous and disappointing. It was not the prose that Lionel so wanted to emulate. It was the life; in particular, its power to release and nurture creativity. Diana continues: "It was to decency that Lionel felt he had sacrificed his hope of being a writer of fiction—conscience had not made a coward of him, it had made him a critic" (Beginning, p. 372). [End Page 393]Decency—how often we use the word. How seldom we ask what we mean by it. Usually it functions as a sort of guarantor term, like the caged canary in the coal mine. If the canary lives, the miners are judged to have fair air to breathe; if a person possesses certain qualities, or a society provides certain requisite conditions, we say the person is "decent," or that this is a "decent society." Yet remarkably few virtue ethicists have countenanced the possibility that decency might be counted among the virtues; that it might be the subject of substantive intellectual reflection; that we might investigate its relation to other virtues, its internal structure, its characteristic patterns and possibilities of existential investment. As John Kekes, one of the very few philosophers to have paid the notion serious philosophical attention, says: "Decency is generally admitted to be a good thing, but is not generally supposed to be particularly important."3In this short essay I attempt two linked undertakings: first, to offer a characterization of Decency—the term henceforth accorded a capital "D" to indicate its status as a moral virtue; second, to read aspects of Lionel Trilling's life and work, and Diana's late assessment of him, in the light of Decency, as I understand the term. I "Decent" seems to refer to a "state," a sort of moral condition a person is "in," and to a resultant orientation towards others. The "state" is one of modesty, even humility. The ego doesn't loom large or get in the way. The orientation is one of solicitude towards others. Decent people of this kind genuinely care about, feel for others. Unless they are given good reason to behave otherwise, their disposition towards others tends to be respectful; they bring to most situations an assumption that the other person is worthy, deserves to be taken seriously. Decency of this kind tends to be associated with receptiveness, relatedness, a patient openness to others, though it need not be passive.The word "decent" derives from the Latin, deceré—to become, to be fitting. It's been used in English since about the 1530s. From that period to the early twentieth century "decent" has generally indicated that something is fitting, appropriate, with respect to social rank... (shrink)

The principle aim of this book is to explore the relationship between contemporary literary theory and analytic philosophy. The volume addresses this issue in two ways: first, through four exchanges between, on the one hand, proponents of avant-garde literary theory and, on the other, proponents of analytic philosophy (or of related literary critical positions); and second, through three cross-disciplinary essays on the relationship in question. Central topics in the volume include Self, Ethics, Interpretation, Language and characterisations of 'analytic' and 'continental' (...) philosophy. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Ethics, Theory and the NovelRichard FreadmanEthics, Theory and the Novel, by David Parker; x & 218 pp. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994, $54.95 paper.“The word ‘ethics’ seems to have replaced ‘textuality’ as the most charged term in the vocabulary of contemporary literary and cultural theory”— so writes Steven Connor in the TLS. The claim will strike some as surprising—not least the so-called “humanist” critics who for almost three (...) decades have been defending ethical discourse against attacks from proponents of “literary and cultural theory.” There have been various intellectual sources for these attacks: neo-Marxists have claimed that ethical discourse is intrinsically class-specific and therefore ideological; psychoanalytic critics and theorists have often eschewed ethical inquiry in the belief that human conduct is predominantly determined by amoral unconscious forces; many feminists have argued that traditional ethical discourses are rendered untenable by their “gendered” histories; poststructuralists, while in some cases wanting to keep ethics on the agenda, have found it disconcertingly hard—even impossible—to conjure worthwhile ethical discourse out of a position which denies the existence of “centered” moral agents, and which sees language as inherently slippery and self-contradictory; postcolonialists tend to see Western ethical discourses as culpably ethnocentric. And so on.Yet, whatever the rhetoric of these and other strands of literary and cultural theory, it is too simple to say that they have renounced ethics altogether. Clearly, feminism, postcolonialism, Marxism, and other movements are ethical projects, and one of David Parker’s central points in Ethics, Theory, and the Novel is that the rhetoric of ethical refusal on the part of some proponents of these movements reflects an act of costly and unwarranted cultural repression: “the expansive moment of poststructuralism in the 1970s and early 1980s has suppressed some discursive possibilities which, constituted as we are partly by [End Page 519] various religious and humanistic traditions, we stand in abiding need of, and are poorer without” (pp. 3–4). Another casualty of the process, he argues, has been literature itself: it has been downgraded by the proponents of cultural studies, relegated to secondary, evidential status. Parker wants to retrieve cultural centrality and prestige for literature, and to insist that literary theory needs a rich conception of canonical literature, which “ought to be regarded as Theory’s resistant Other” (p. 6). Together with humanist criticism itself, such texts should function as the “subversive Other to the suppressive will of hegemonic Theory” (p. 146).The sense of regret at suppressed human richness and possibility is everywhere apparent in this subtle, deeply considered book. Parker’s characterization of our ethical and broader cultural predicament owes much to Charles Taylor’s monumental Sources of the Self; in particular, to Taylor’s claim that we need to “acknowledge the full range of goods we live by” (p. 20), and his three-fold account of our ethical traditions: Kantian/Judeo-Christian, Enlightenment, Romantic. Out of the cultural pluralism inherent in Taylor’s project Parker fashions a critical pluralism which reads, and also evaluates, novels in the light of their treatment of the “various goods”—the ethical strands—they explore, dramatize, and embody. His principle texts are Middlemarch, Anna Karenina, The White Peacock, and Women in Love. It is central to his case that with variousness comes tension and conflict, and that the greatest literature is that which gives ethical complexity and diversity the least reductive, “the fullest, most engaged and most intelligent examination” (p. 197). Such writing constitutes a canon—an institution for which Parker offers a courageous and compelling defense. He argues that some texts just are better than others at reflecting “the full range of good we live by,” and that, far from being merely an expression of supremacist cultural bias, the ethnocentrism of the Western canon actually schools us in “a long ethical tradition of self-reflection precisely on the tendency to self-righteous superiority” (p. 50).Literature’s contribution to “self-reflection” is crucial precisely because we are so prone to repress, to forget: the cultural selectivity against which Taylor warns is mirrored and enacted in the individual psyche. Parker is particularly concerned with two kinds of forgetting: a righteousness which blinds us... (shrink)