Philosophy: A Very Short Introduction

relativist will hold that there is no such thing as good (pure and simple), rather there is good-in-this-society, good-in-that-society. An aesthetic relativist rejects the idea that an object might simply be beautiful; we always have to ask ‘Beautiful for whom, in whose eyes?’ A ‘gastronomic relativist’ won’t be interested in the question whether pineapple tastes nice—it has to be ‘tastes nice to whom, when, and in combination with what?’ A literary relativist doesn’t believe that texts have meanings—except at best in the sense that they have a variety of meanings for a variety of readers, and probably even for one reader at different times. A relativist about rationality will say that what is rational is relative to cultures, with the consequence (for instance) that it is illegitimate to apply ‘western’ scientific standards to traditional African beliefs about witchcraft and pronounce them irrational.
That bunch of examples illustrates a number of points about relativism. One is that the initial plausibility of different cases of relativism varies widely. Many people will find aesthetic relativism easily acceptable, and some will think that what I have called ‘gastronomic relativism’ is obviously true. That rationality is culture-relative is a much more difficult doctrine, as is relativism about moral values. These doctrines do not say, remember, that different beliefs are accounted rational in different societies, and different moral values avowed, for this nobody doubts. They say that what these really are can differ from society to society, and that is about as far from obvious as you can get. So if you hear someone going on about relativism without saying relativism about what, give a badly concealed yawn.
The examples illustrate another important point. It isn’t just what the particular relativism is about, it is also what it relativizes to: the individual, a society, a culture (there are plenty of multicultural societies), a historical epoch, or what. Those forms of relativism, like the ‘gastronomic’, which can plausibly focus on the individual, have a big advantage: unlike societies, cultures, and epochs, it is clear where an individual begins and ends. If Europeans shouldn’t bring their scientific standards to bear on African beliefs in witchcraft, may they properly bring them to bear on European beliefs in witchcraft? Or only on contemporary European beliefs in witchcraft? Imagine yourself living intermingled with a people who, routinely and without moral qualms, abandon unwanted babies and leave them to die. (Such societies have existed.) Could you just say, ‘Oh, fine. That’s what they think, that’s their moral culture, ours is different’, as if it were like ‘They speak French and we speak English’? Bitter experience suggests that many people are unlikely to find it that easy.
I would be a bad guide if I left you with the impression that a short paragraph can dispose of moral and intellectual relativism, just like that. Be aware, though, that in several areas relativism is in for a rough ride. The ride is rough theoretically, because of the difficulty of stating clearly just what relativism does and doesn’t say; and it is rough practically, because of the difficulty of standing by it when the crunch comes.

Chapter 7 Some more high spots: a personal selection
In Chapters 2, 3, and 4 we looked closely at three pieces of philosophical writing. In this chapter I briefly introduce a few more of my favourites. The selection is personal—another author would very likely have made quite different choices. And it can only be a few. But be assured that there are plenty more, indeed that however much you read, there will still be plenty more.Descartes: Discourse on the Method
In Chapter 2 I remarked that, whereas the ethical discussion presented in Plato’s Crito could almost have taken place yesterday, Plato’s cosmology takes us back to a completely different world. True—but we needn’t go back that far; four centuries will be enough. In 1600 it was, admittedly, over fifty years since Copernicus had offered his replacement for the old Ptolemaic astronomy, moving the sun to the centre of the solar system and letting the Earth, now just one of a number of similar planets, circle round it. But few believed him. Galileo (1564–1642) had not yet begun publicly to champion his cause, and when he did so by no means everybody believed him.
It was not just that the Earth was displaced from its proud position in the centre. In fact it wasn’t really that at all, since according to what we would now call the physics of the day the centre was not a very desirable place to be: it was where the basest matter tended to congregate, the cosmic rubbish tip one might almost say. Other factors were far more important. Passages in the Bible appear to maintain that the Earth is stationary; here was an individual prepared to reject or at least reinterpret those passages on the basis of his own reasoning without reference or deference to proper authority. Besides, the claims made by Copernicus, let alone Galileo, were in conflict with the (neo-Aristotelian) physics and cosmology that held sway in the universities.
For an Aristotelian, the baser kinds of matter are earth and water. Unlike the other two kinds, air and fire, they naturally strive towards the centre of the universe. So a spherical mass of earth and water has formed there, and this is the Earth. (However often you hear it said, it just isn’t true that the medievals believed that the Earth was flat!) But the Moon, the Sun, the planets and stars don’t consist of this sort of matter at all, not even air and fire. They are made of the Quintessence—the fifth element—incorruptible and unchanging, and all they do is go round in circles, eternally, in godlike serenity. Now the new astronomy wants to blow this distinction away: however things may look and feel from where we are standing, the Earth is itself in the heavens; and the heavenly bodies are not utterly set apart, but are as much proper objects of scientific investigation as the Earth itself.