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I have been unemployed for six months, during which time I’ve faced a tough job market with few interviews and no offers. Now I’ve been offered a senior executive role in an industry that is, while legal, known for exploiting financially vulnerable people through predatory practices. The role comes with a significantly higher salary than my previous positions, which would help my family; we’re currently incurring debt to pay our mortgage. However, the company’s ownership structure means that, even at a senior level, I would have little to no chance of enacting positive changes from within.
Would it be ethically wrong to accept this role, knowing that my compensation would be derived from taking advantage of those in financial distress? Does the fact that I know I have no other offers and that my family’s financial stability is at stake justify taking a position in an industry that I know is predatory? — Name Withheld
From the Ethicist:
You’re a decent soul; you don’t want to profit from the hardship of the vulnerable. Payday-loan companies, for example, lend money at rates that many of us would regard as usurious. The Consumer Financial Protection Bureau has noted that a typical payday loan, involving a $15 fee for every $100, is extracting the equivalent of an annual rate of almost 400 percent. Even in a predatory industry, though, one company may be worse than another. The administrative costs of small loans are high; the typical payday-loan recipient has poor credit; and some of these companies seem to be well regarded by their customers. It’s possible that in the absence of payday-loan companies, certain people would be worse off.
But let’s suppose that the quandary you’re facing is exactly as you’ve described it. By taking this job, you’d be a participant in wrongdoing — in the sort of commercial activity that would, ideally, be regulated away. It’s still the case that it’s reasonable and right to give special weight to the needs of your own family. You’d justly find the work dispiriting, but at least you wouldn’t be making things worse. And you can’t be reproached for deciding that the welfare of your dependents matters more than your own peace of mind. That company no doubt has a pool of candidates it can turn to; your family does not.
A Bonus Question
I recently read a novel set in France during World War II. There are clichés (blond and beautiful heroines, British airmen with clipped accents, big and loud Americans) and many incongruities (e.g., treatment with antibiotics before they were widely available). And yet I enjoyed reading it. Here is my question: The greatest catastrophes make the best stories. Is it ethical to derive enjoyment from the miseries of others, or is this exploitation? Does literary quality matter? For example, would it be more ethical to enjoy the suffering in ‘‘War and Peace’’ or ‘‘The Grapes of Wrath’’ than in lesser works? — Bernard Hirschel
From the Ethicist:
There are various theories about what happens when we read fiction, but I’ve long been drawn to an account offered by the philosopher Kendall Walton, in which our response to fictions is an adult version of what children do in their imaginative play. Children who play at baking pies in a sandbox know that they’re not really making a pie. They respond in some of the ways one would if a pie were actually being made, while responding in other ways that show they know better. As a rule, they don’t gobble down mud; they don’t expect it to taste like an actual pie. Adults can be similarly moved by the cruelty and suffering they see on a stage, but they don’t leap up to stop it happening. Aside from participatory fictions — cosplay, for instance — the right response is in the realm of thought and feeling, not in the realm of action.
Of course, a pie, mud or otherwise, would seem at some remove from a harrowing ordeal, evoked or experienced. Why do we enjoy stories — whether by Agatha Christie or Ágota Kristóf — that involve the representation of human suffering? Literary status isn’t to the point. We avoid anguish in real life, and yet we’ll praise a book for moving us to tears. Is it about catharsis and emotional release? Are we comforted by the thought that we’re not so badly off as the characters we’re following? Is it a way for us to confront fear and loss, to explore the cruelty of fate, to rehearse whatever challenges might lie ahead? Is Walton right that fiction lets us access big emotions (or, more precisely, what he’d call ‘‘quasi emotions’’) without real-world consequences, affording us ‘‘some of the benefits of hard experience without having to undergo it’’?
I suspect there’s no one-size-fits-all answer to the satisfactions we get from narrative. Rigid rules don’t work in this arena. For one thing, the greatest catastrophes don’t necessarily make for the best fiction. The smaller-bore miseries and elations that Jane Austen wrote about have gripped generations of readers. And though Tolstoy’s ‘‘War and Peace’’ features grand battle scenes, its depiction of Natasha’s personal turmoil is no less riveting. The scale of our emotional engagement simply isn’t calibrated to the scale of the misfortune involved.
The fact is that narrative almost always features suffering, whether ordinary disappointment or outsize enormities. Our response to it typically involves some measure of identification and attunement with a character’s experience; it certainly can’t be reduced to Schadenfreude. Indeed, I wonder if someone incapable of being absorbed by narrative can feel like a full participant in the human cavalcade. In some primordial way, we’re the storytelling animal, and what’s our signal achievement if not the transformation of mud?
Readers Respond
The previous question was from a person who needed help deciding on his dog’s name. He wrote: “My family recently adopted a rescue dog. As we were going through a long list of possible names for our pup, two of the more charming possibilities were Odin (the king of the gods in ancient Norse mythology) and Zeus (the leader of the gods in ancient Greek mythology). I was concerned that naming our dog for someone else’s deity would be disrespectful. After all, would it be OK to name our pet Yahweh or Allah? … Does it make a difference whether anybody still worships the ancient Norse and Greek gods, as opposed to the gods and prophets of the very active Judeo-Christian, Islamic or Hindu religions? For that matter, is the answer different depending on which active religion we’re talking about?”
In his response, the Ethicist noted: “Whatever your personal beliefs, refraining from giving offense is simply a matter of respect for actual, living human beings. It makes sense, in a religiously plural society, to avoid burdening our pets with names that will dismay some complement of our neighbors. Fortunately, the nomenclatural constraints this imposes are pretty minuscule. You may safely call your dog Odin or Zeus. Other popular choices: Thor (a son of Odin) or Hercules (a son of Zeus). Pay homage to the denizens of Valhalla and Mount Olympus. Plunder the past; repurpose your nephew’s childhood nickname. When it comes to naming our animal companions, we’re hardly on a tight leash.” (Reread the full question and answer here.)
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My cats are named Sean and Viggo, after Sean Bean and Viggo Mortensen. I may be 76 and widowed, but I’m not dead. Name your pets anything you want. — Jane
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Writing as a neo-pagan, I can say that many of us name our pets after the gods we actively worship. It is a form of giving honor. The letter writer is causing no offense. One single warning: Nothing good has ever come from naming a cat Loki. — Jessica
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Consider this: Apollo was the name of a Greek god, a NASA program and my friend’s dog. I agree with the Ethicist. — Carol
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I read the Ethicist with regularity. The most recent column was particularly delightful. I agree with the Ethicist’s response. With some exceptions, there are few names that would sincerely cause an affront to someone. Unfortunately, this issue is not as simple as it seems. For instance, I know dogs named Bob. Are they named after J.R. Dobbs (also known as Bob), who is the deity of the Church of the SubGenius? There are also pets named Spaghetti. Are their names an affront to the Flying Spaghetti Monster? Sometimes these ethical dilemmas are not as cut-and-dried as they seem. I will continue to enjoy the Ethicist’s columns. — William
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I had a friend who had an acrimonious divorce. Not only did he negotiate that his former partner had to take back her maiden name, he ended up naming a new dog after her, too, so he could boss her around and yell at her for misbehaving. Well, yes, it seems that he harbored some unresolved issues. — Henry
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I have for years named my cats and dogs (all rescues) after goddesses and gods across belief systems. I choose those names for two reasons: 1) I am all about themes to organize my life, and 2) I am an anthropologist and as such cannot subscribe to any one belief system, but rather I see the similarities across all that I have learned about. In naming my beloved pets after goddesses and gods across the world, I am honoring both the belief system and the power of the particular figure who bore the name. My current rescued dog is named Brek, short for Breksta, the Lithuanian goddess of twilight and dreams. And I’ve already picked out the name for my next male dog: Jaiyk, the Mongolian god of rivers. (Living in Pittsburgh, how can I not have a dog named after a god of rivers?!) Dogs waiting for me on the Rainbow Bridge have been named Thor, Zeus, Barong Ket (Balinese protector spirit) and Ares. Cats awaiting me in the spirit world have been named Selket (Egyptian goddess of childbirth and nursing) and Oshalla (Yoruban minor spirit). Current cats are Xochiquetzal (Aztec flowered goddess), Inari (Japanese god/goddess of fertility), Ishtar (Babylonian goddess of fertility) and Bahuchara Mata (Indian goddess). Another cat was named Klara, after my granddaughter, about as close as you can get to a goddess on earth. Thanks for the thoughtful essay. — Martha Ann
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