Author: Michael LaBossiere

The humble prairie vole was briefly famous because of research into love and voles. Researchers such as Larry Young found that the prairie vole is one of the few socially monogamous mammals that pair bonds for extended periods of time (even for life). Interestingly, this bonding does not occur naturally in other varieties of voles—they behave like typical mammals, such as many politicians.

Larry Young found that the brains of the voles are such that the pleasure reward of sexual activity becomes linked to a specific partner. This mechanism involves oxytocin and vasopressin, and the voles become, in effect, addicted to each other. This is like how a smoker becomes addicted to cigarettes and associates pleasure with the trappings of smoking.  To confirm this, Young genetically modified meadow voles to be like prairie voles. The results showed that the bonding is probably due to the chemistry: the normally non-bonding meadow voles engaged in bonding behavior.

Humans, unlike most other mammals, also engage in pair bonding (sometimes). While humans are different from voles, the mechanism is presumably similar. That is, we are addicted to love.

Young also found that prairie voles suffer from heart ache: when a prairie voles loses its partner, it becomes depressed. Young tested this by dropping voles into beakers of water to determine the degree of struggle offered by the voles. He found that prairie voles who had just lost a partner struggled to a lesser degree than those who were not so bereft. The depressed voles, not surprisingly, showed a chemical difference from the non-depressed voles. When a depressed vole was treated for this depression, the vole struggled as strongly as the non-bereft vole.

This seems to hold for humans as well. While humans typically become saddened by the loss of a partner (by death or breakup), this research suggests that human depression of this sort has a chemical basis and could be cured. This is what is often attempted with therapy and medication.

While the mechanical model of love (and the mind) might seem new, the idea of philosophical materialism (that everything is physical in nature) dates to Thales. Descartes saw the human body as a purely mechanical system, albeit one controlled by a non-material mind. Thomas Hobbes accepted Descartes view that the body is a machine but rejected Descartes’ dualism. Influenced by the physics of his day, Hobbes held that a human being is a deterministic machine, just like all other machines and living creatures.

Perhaps the most explicit early development of the idea of humans as machines was in Julien de La Mettrie’s Man a Machine.  While La Mettrie is not as famous as Hobbes or Descartes, many of his views are duplicated today by modern scientists. La Mettrie held that humans and animals are essentially the same, although humans are more complex than other  animals. He also held that human beings are material, deterministic, mechanist systems. That is, humans are essentially biological machines. Given these views, the idea that human love and vole love are essentially the same would probably be accepted by La Mettrie and would, in fact, be exactly what his theory would predict.

Contemporary science is continuing the project started by philosophers like Thales, Hobbes and La Mettrie. The main difference is that contemporary scientists have much better equipment to work with and can, unlike La Mettrie and Hobbes, examine the chemical and genes that are supposed to determine human behavior. Probably without realizing it, scientists are proving the theories of long dead philosophers.  The chemical theory of love does have some rather interesting philosophical implications and some of these will be considered in upcoming essays.

“The amazing, the unforgivable thing was that all his life he had watched the march of ruined men into the oblivion of poverty and disgrace—and blamed them.”

 

-The Weapon Shops of Isher, A.E. van Vogt

 

In the previous essay, I discussed the role of chance in artistic success. In Salganik’s discussion of his experiment, he noted it probably had broader implications for success. Sorting out the role of chance in success is both interesting and important.

One reason it is important to sort out chance is to provide a rational basis for praise or blame (and any accompanying reward or punishment). After all, success or failure by pure chance would not merit praise or blame. If I win a lottery by pure chance, I have done nothing warranting praise. Aside from acquiring a ticket, I had no substantial role in the process. Likewise, if I do not win a random lottery, I do not merit being accused of failure.

This also ties into morality in that chance can mitigate moral responsibility. If the well-maintained brakes on my truck fail as I approach a stop sign at a reasonable speed and I hit an innocent pedestrian, I am not to blame—this seems a matter of chance. I were to accidentally crash into someone trying to commit murder and save their intended victim, I am not responsible for this fortuitous outcome.

Much less obvious is the connection between chance and setting rational public policy and laws. After all, setting public policy on such matters as unemployment benefits and food stamps without properly assessing the role of chance in success and failure would be a grave moral error. Suppose as some claim, people end up unemployed or in need of food stamps because of factors that are well within their control. That is, they effectively freely decide to be unemployed or in need. If this is the case, then it would be reasonable to set public policy to reflect this (alleged)reality, and this would seem to entail that such support should not exist. To use an analogy, if someone foolishly throws away her money, I have no obligation to give her more money. Her poor decision making does not constitute my obligation.

However, if chance (or other factors beyond the control of the individual) play a significant role in success and failure, then it is reasonable to shape policy to match this alleged reality. Suppose as some claim, people often end up unemployed or in need of food stamps because of chance rather than their own choice. In this case, public policy should reflect this alleged reality, and such aid should be available to help offset chance.  To use an analogy, if someone is robbed of the money she needs to buy food for herself and her children, then her situation does obligate me—if can help her at reasonable cost to myself, I should do so. Otherwise, I am lacking in virtue.

Thus, determining the role of chance in success and failure is important matter. Unfortunately, it is also a very complex matter.  I think it would be helpful to use an example to show that chance seems to be a major factor in success in factor. Since I am most familiar with my own life, I will use myself as an example of the role of chance in success and failure.

As I mentioned in the previous essay on this matter, I was accused of believing in choice because I want to get credit for my successes. As might be imagined, people who are successful usually want to believe their success is largely due to their decisions and efforts—that they have earned success. Likewise, people who are failures often blame chance (and other factors) for their failures. People also apply their view to the opposite of their situations: the successful attribute failure to the decisions of those who have failed. Those who have failed attribute the success of others to chance. People usually embrace the narrative that pleases them most. However, what pleases need not be true. As such, while I like to believe that my success is earned, I am willing to consider the role of chance.

One factor that is entirely a matter of chance is birth. It is, if there is chance, a matter of chance that I was born in the United States to a lower middle-class family and that I was healthy. It is also largely a matter of chance, from my standpoint, that I had a family that took care of me and that I was in a society that provided stability, healthcare and education. If I had been born in a war and poverty ravaged area or had serious health issues, things would have been much different.

The rest of my life was also heavy with chance. For example, I almost ended up a Marine, but budget cuts prevented that and instead I ended up at Ohio State. I ended up meeting a woman there who went to Florida State University and thus I ended up in Tallahassee by chance. This allowed me to get the job I have—which was also largely due to chance. Florida A&M University needed a philosophy professor right away and I just happened to be there. I could, easily enough, go through all the matters of chance that resulted in my success: meeting the right people, being in the right place at the right time, avoiding the wrong people, and so on.

Of course, my desire to take credit drives me to add that I surely had a role to play in my success. While chance put me in the United States with a healthy body and mind, it was my decisions and actions that got me through school and into college. While chance had a major role in my getting a job as a professor, surely it was my actions and decisions that allowed me to keep the job. While chance played a role in my book sales, surely the quality of my work is what wins people over. Roughly put, chance put me into various situations, but it was still up to me to take advantage of opportunities and to avoid dangers.

While my pride drives me to seize a large share of the credit for my success, honesty compels me to admit that I owe almost everything to pure chance—starting with day zero. Presumably the same is true of everyone else as well. As such, I think it wise to always temper praise and condemnation with the knowledge that chance played a major role in success and failure. And we should do what we can to help ensure that everyone can have a good life and not just the lucky few who all too often think they deserve what they have been granted by chance.

 

 

As an undergraduate, I participated in a faculty-student debate about artificial intelligence and I defended free will. The opposing professor claimed I believed in free will because I wanted credit for my success. That remark stuck and I found it applied elsewhere, such as in the context of luck.

As a gamer I am aware of the role (or roll) of chance in success. However, as the professor noted, I want credit for my successes and while I acknowledged the role of luck, I tended to minimize it. However, after modest success as a writer and teaching Aesthetics, I accepted that luck (favorable chance) has a huge role in success. But this was a largely unsupported view. Fortunately, Princeton’s Matthew Salganik investigated success and had the resources to do an effective experiment.

To determine the role of chance in success Salganik created nine identical online worlds. He then distributed the 30,000 teens he recruited for his experiment among these virtual worlds.  Each group of teens was exposed to the same 48 songs from emerging artists that were unknown to the teens. In return, the teens were able to download the songs they liked best free of charge.

One world was set up as the control world—in this world the teens were isolated from social influence in that they could not see what songs others were downloading. In the other eight worlds, they could see which songs were being downloaded—which informed them of what the other teens saw as worth downloading.

This experiment was well designed: each world is identical at the start and the test subjects were randomly assigned to them.  With the quality and size of the experiment, the results can be safely regarded as statistically significant.

Given that the same 48 songs were available in each world, if quality was the defining factor for success, then each world should be similar in terms of which songs were downloaded the most. However, Salganik found that the worlds varied significantly. For example, 52 Metro’s song “Lock Down” was first in one world and 40th in another. Salganik concluded that “small, random initial differences” were magnified by “social influence and cumulative advantage.” In short, chance was the decisive factor in the outcome. As a gamer, I certainly appreciated these findings and could easily visualize modelling this process with some dice and charts—like in games such as Pathfinder and D&D.

Lest it be thought that chance is the sole factor, Salganik found that quality does have a role in success—but much less than one might suspect. Based on additional experiments, he found that succeeding with poor quality work is hard but that once a certain basic level of quality is achieved, then success is primarily a matter of chance.

In terms of the specific mechanism of artistic success, a group of people will, as a matter of chance, decide a work is good. The attention of this group will attract more attention and this process will continue. Those drawn by the attention seem to reason that the work must be good and special because other people seem to believe it is good and special.

Leo Tolstoy seemed to have hit on a similar idea in his philosophy of aesthetics.  As Tolstoy said, “a work that pleases a certain circle of people is accepted as art, then a definition of art is devised to cover these productions.”  Tolstoy believed this approach failed to distinguish between good and bad art and saw it as flawed. With a tweak, this can be used to capture Salganik’s findings: “a work that pleases a certain circle of people is accepted as good, then it is believed by others to be good.”

The sort of “reasoning” that Salganik’s experiment seems to have revealed is the Appeal to Popularity fallacy: this is the “reasoning” that because something is popular, it follows that it is good or correct. It also nicely matches the similar Bandwagon fallacy: that because something is winning, it follows that it is good or correct. Not surprisingly, this is grounded in the cognitive bias known as the Bandwagon Effect: people have a psychological tendency to align their thinking with other people. In the case of Salganik’s experiment, the participants aligned their thinking in terms of their aesthetic preference and thus created a bandwagon effect. The effect is like the stereotype of an avalanche: a small, random event that sets of a cascade. Given that the process of selection is essentially not a rational assessment of quality but rather driven by cognitive bias and (perhaps) fallacious reasoning, it makes sense that the outcomes would be decided largely by chance. The same, if his experiment extends by analogy, would seem to hold true of the larger world. This would presumably also extend beyond music and even beyond aesthetics. It would also help explain why it can be so difficulty to manufacture success consistently: even if the art or product is good, it comes down to rolling dice.

Negativity bias is the tendency to give more weight to the negative than the positive. For example, people tend to weigh wrongs done to them more heavily than the good deeds done for them. As another example, people tend to be more swayed by negative political advertisements than by positives ones. This bias can also have an impact on education.

Some years ago, one of my colleagues always asked his logic students if they planned to attend law school. When he noticed a dramatic decline in logic students planning on law school, curiosity led him to investigate. He found that logic had been switched from being a requirement for pre-law to just recommended. Back then, my colleague said it seemed irrational for students who planned on taking the LSAT to avoid the logic class, given that the LSAT was largely a logic test and that law school requires logical reasoning.  From his philosophical soap box, he said that students prefer to avoid the useful when it is not required and only grudgingly take what is required. We discussed how this relates to the negativity bias.  A student who did not take the logic class when it was required would be punished by being unable to graduate. When the class became optional, there remained only the positive benefits of taking the class. Since people weigh punishments more than rewards, this behavior made sense—but still seemed irrational. Especially since many of the students who skipped the logic class ended up paying for LSAT preparation classes to spackle over their lack of logic skills.

Over the years, I have seen a similar sort of thing in my own classes. My university had a policy that allowed us to lower a student’s grade if they missed too many classes. While attendance has always been required in my classes, I have never inflicted a punishment for missing class. Not surprisingly, when the students figure this out, attendance plummets. Before I started using Blackboard and Canvas for coursework, attendance would increase dramatically on test days. Now that all work can be done on Canvas (a relic of COVID), attendance remains consistently low. Oddly, students often say my classes are interesting and useful. But, since there is no direct and immediate punishment for not attending (just a delayed “punishment” in terms of lower grades and a lack of learning), many students are not motivated to attend class.

I do consider I might be a bad professor or that most students see philosophy courses as useless or boring. However, my evaluations are consistently good, former students have returned to say good things about me and my classes, and so on. That said, perhaps I am deluding myself and being humored. That said, it is easy enough to draw an analogy to exercise: exercise does not provide immediate rewards and there is no immediate punishment for not staying fit—just a loss of benefits. Most people elect to avoid exercise. This and similar things show that people often avoid that which is difficult now but yields lasting benefits latter.

I have, of course, often considered adopting the punishment model for my classes. However, I have resisted this for a variety of reasons. The first is my personality: I am inclined to offer benefits rather than punishments. This is an obvious flaw given the general psychology of people. The second is that I believe in free choice: like God, I think people should be free to make bad choices and not be coerced into doing what is right. It must be a free choice. Naturally, choosing poorly brings its own punishment—albeit later. The third is the hassle of dealing with attendance: the paperwork, having to handle excuses, hearing poorly crafted lies, and so on. The fourth is the that classes are generally better for the good students when people who do not want to be there elect to do something else. The fifth is my moral and religious concern for my students: if they are not punished for missing classes, there is no reason to lie to me about what they missed. Finally, COVID changed things and if I punished students for not attending, too many students would end up failing simply because of not attending enough.

I did consider adopting the punishment model for three reasons. One is that if students are compelled to attend, they might learn something and I do worry that by not compelling them, I am doing them a disservice. The second is that this model is a lesson for what the workplace will be like for most of the students—so habituating them to this (or, rather, keeping the habituation they should have acquired in K-12) could be valuable. After all, they will probably need to endure awful jobs until they retire or die. The third is that perhaps people must be compelled by punishment—this is, of course, the model put forth by thinkers like Aristotle and Hobbes. But I will almost certainly stick with my flawed approach until I retire.

Back in 2014 Sandra Y.L. Korn proposed dispensing with academic freedom in favor of academic justice. Korn begins the essay with example of Harvard psychology Professor Richard Hernstein’s 1971 article for Atlantic Monthly. Hernstein endorsed the view that intelligence is primarily hereditary and linked to race. Hernstein was criticized for this view but was also defended by appeals to academic freedom. Korn seems to agree that the attacks on Hernstein impinged on academic freedom. However, Korn proposed that academic justice is more important than academic freedom.

Korn uses the American Association of University Professors view of academic freedom: “Teachers are entitled to full freedom in research and in the publication of the results.” However, Korn regards the “liberal obsession” with this freedom as misplaced. 

Korn notes that there is not “full freedom” in research and publication. As Korn correctly notes, which proposals get funded and which papers get published is largely a matter of academic politics. Korn also notes, correctly, that no academic question is free from the realities of politics. From this, Korn draws a conditional conclusion: “If our university community opposes racism, sexism, and heterosexism, why should we put up with research that counters our goals simply in the name of ‘academic freedom’?”

One might suspect a false dilemma is lurking here: either there is full academic freedom or restricting it on political values is acceptable. There is not full academic freedom. Therefore, restricting it on political values is acceptable. This would be a false dilemma because there are many options between full academic freedom such restrictions. As such, one could accept that there is not full academic freedom while also rejecting that academic freedom should be restricted on the proposed grounds.

To use an analogy to general freedom of expression, the fact that people do not possess full freedom of expression (there are limits on expression) does not entail that politically based restrictions should therefore be accepted. After all, there are many alternatives between full freedom and the specific restrictions being proposed.

To be fair to Korn, no such false dilemma might exist. Instead, Korn might be reasoning that because political values restrict academic expression it follows that adding additional restrictions is not a problem. To re-use the analogy to general free expression, the reasoning would that since there are already limits on free expression, more restrictions are (or could be) acceptable. This might be seen as a common practice fallacy but could be justified by showing that the proposed restrictions are warranted. Sorting this out requires considering what Korn is proposing.

In place of the academic freedom standard, Korn proposes “a more rigorous standard: one of ‘academic justice.’ When an academic community observes research promoting or justifying oppression, it should ensure that this research does not continue.”

While Korn claims this is a more rigorous standard, it seems to be only more restrictive. There is also the challenge of rigorously and accurately defining what it is for research to promote or justify oppression. While this was of concern way back in 2014, it is of even greater concern in 2026. This is because the American right has embraced the strategy of claiming that white, straight, men are the truest victims of “woke” oppression. This is part of a broader approach of the right to turn terms, tactics and strategies used by the left against them. For example, the right has used accusations of antisemitism to attack institutions of higher education.

Back in 2014, Korn proposed that students, faculty and workers should organize to “to make our universities look as we want them to do.” While that sounds democratic, there is still the concern about what standards should be used.

While there are paradigm cases (like the institutionalized racism of pre-civil rights America), people do use the term “oppression” to refer to what merely offends them. In fact, Korn refers to the offensiveness of a person’s comment as grounds for removing a professor.

 One danger is that the vagueness of this principle could be used to suppress and oppress research that vocal or influential people find offensive. There is also the concern that such a principle would create a hammer to beat down those who present dissenting or unpopular views. Ironically, this principle from 2014 would be ideal for “conversion” into a tool for the right: they could claim that “woke” and “DEI” views oppress white, straight men and hence “academic justice” would require suppressing such views. This would, of course, strike some as a perversion of the principle.

In closing, I favor justice and what is morally good. As such, I think people should be held morally accountable for their actions and statements. However, I do oppose restrictions on academic freedom for the same reason I oppose restrictions on the general freedom of expression. In the case of academic freedom, what should matter is whether the research is properly conducted and whether the claims are well-supported. To explicitly adopt a principle for deciding what is allowed and what is forbidden based on ideological views would, as history shows, have a chilling effect on research and academics. While the academic system is far from perfect, flawed research and false claims do get sorted out. Adding in a political test would not seem to help with reaching the goal of truth. Ironically, this sort of political test under the guise of addressing (imagined) oppression of white straight men (like me) is now being used by the right.

In terms of when academic freedom should be restricted, this is when an action creates enough harm to warrant limiting the freedom. Merely offending people is not enough to warrant restrictions—even if people are very offended. Threatening people or engaging in falsification of research results would not be protected by academic freedom.

As such, back in 2014 I was opposed to Korn’s modest proposal to impose more political restrictions on academic freedom. As Korn noted, there were already many restrictions in place—and there seemed to be no compelling reasons to add more. As this is being written in 2026, the right is using their own version of Korn’s principle and attempting to achieve their end of shaping the academy to fit their values. As would be suspected, I also oppose this.

On my runs, I often find lost phones, credit cards, wallets, IDs and other items. A few years ago, I came across a wallet fat with cash and credit cards. As always, I sought out the owner and returned it. Being a philosopher, I’m interested in the ethics of this.

While using found credit cards would be a bad idea and a crime, found cash is different. After all, cash is cash and there is nothing to link cash to a specific person. As money is useful, a person who finds a wallet stuffed with cash would have a practical reason to keep it. One exception would be if the reward for returning it exceeded the value of the cash—but the finder would have no idea if this was the case. So, from a purely practical standpoint, keeping cash would be a smart choice. A person could even return the credit cards and other items in the wallet, plausibly claiming that it was otherwise empty when found. However, a smart choice need not be the right choice.

One argument in favor of returning found items can be built on the golden rule: do unto others as you would have them do unto you. More formally, this is moral reasoning involving the method of reversing the situation. Since I would want my lost property returned, I should treat others the same. Unless I can justify treating others differently by finding relevant differences that would warrant the difference. Alternatively, it could also be justified on utilitarian grounds.  For example, someone who is poor might contend that it would not be wrong to keep money she found in a rich person’s wallet because the money would do her more good than it would for the rich person: such a small loss would not affect him, such a gain would benefit her significantly.

Since I am now not poor and find relative small sums of money (hundreds of dollars at most), I have had the luxury of not being tempted. However, even when I was a poor graduate student, I still returned whatever I found. Even when I honestly believed that I would put the money to better use than the original owner. This is due to ethics rather than some sort of devotion to America’s horrific class system.

One of the reasons is my belief that I do have obligations to help others, especially when the cost to me is low relative to the aid rendered. In the case of finding someone’s wallet or phone, I know that the loss would be a significant inconvenience for most people. In the case of a wallet, a person will need to replace a driver’s license, credit cards, insurance cards and worry about identity theft. It is easy for me to return the wallet—either by dropping it off with police or contacting the person after finding them via Facebook or some other means. That said, the challenge is justifying my view that I am so obligated. However, I would contend that in such cases, the burden of proof lies on the selfish rather than the altruistic.

Another reason is that I believe I should not steal. While keeping something you find differs from the morality of active theft (this could be seen as being like the distinction between killing and letting die), it does seem to be a form of theft. After all, I would be acquiring what does not belong to me by choosing not to return it. Naturally, if I have no means of returning it to the rightful owner (such as finding a quarter), then keeping it would probably not be theft. But it could be contended that keeping lost property is not theft (even when it could be returned easily), perhaps on the ancient principle of finders keepers, losers weepers. It could also be contended that theft is acceptable, which would be challenging. However, the burden of proof would seem to rest on those who claim that theft is acceptable or that keeping lost property when returning it would be quite possible is not theft. Naturally, there can be some specific exceptions.

I also return what I find for two selfish reasons. The first is that I want to build the sort of world I want to live in—and in that world people return what is lost. While my acting the way I want the world to be is a tiny thing, it is more than nothing. Second, I feel a psychological compulsion to return things I find—so I must do it for peace of mind.

Because of my work on metaphysical free will, it is hardly a shock that I am interested in whether sexual orientation is a choice. One problem with this issue is it seems impossible to prove (or disprove) the existence of free will in this, or any, context. As Kant argued, free will seems to lie beyond the reach of our knowledge. As such, it cannot be said with certainty that a person’s sexual orientation is a matter of choice. But this is nothing special: the same can be said about the person’s political party, religion, hobbies and so on.

Laying aside metaphysical speculation, it can be assumed (or pretended) that people do have a choice in some matters. Given this assumption, the question would seem to be whether sexual orientation is in the category of things that can be reasonably assumed to be matters of choice.

On the face of it, sexual orientation is within the domain of what a person finds sexually appealing and attractive. This falls within a larger set of what a person finds appealing and attractive in general.

Thanks to science, it seems reasonable to believe that some of what people find appealing and attractive has a foundation in our neural hardwiring rather than in choice. For example, humans find symmetrical faces more attractive than non-symmetrical faces and this does not seem to be a preference we choose. Folks who like the theory of evolution often claim that this preference exists because those with symmetrical faces are often healthier and hence better “choices” for reproductive activities.  

Food preferences also involve some hard wiring: humans like salty, fatty and sweet foods and the usual explanation also ties into evolution. For example, sweet foods are high calorie foods but are rare in nature, hence our ancestors who really liked sweets did better at surviving than those who did not really like sweets. Or some such story of survival of the sweetest.

Assuming such hardwired preferences, it makes sense that sexual preferences also involve at least some hardwiring. So, for example, a person might be hardwired to prefer light hair over dark hair.  Then again, the preference might be based on experience—the person might have had positive experiences with those with light hair and thus was conditioned to have that preference. The challenge is, of course, to sort out the causal role of hard wiring from the causal role of experience (including socialization). What is left over might be what could be described as choice.

In the case of sexual orientation, it seems reasonable to have some doubts about experience being the primary factor. After all, homosexual behavior has often been condemned, discouraged and punished. As such, it seems less likely that people would be socialized into being homosexual—especially in places where being homosexual is punishable by death. However, this is not impossible—perhaps people could be somehow socialized into being gay by all the social efforts to make them be straight.

Hardwiring for sexual orientation does seem plausible. This is mainly because there seems to be a lack of evidence that homosexuality is chosen. Assuming that the options are choice, nature or nurture, then eliminating choice and nurture would leave nature. But, of course, this could be a false trilemma as there might be other options.

It can be objected that people do choose homosexual behavior and thus being homosexual is a choice. While this does have some appeal, it is important to distinguish between a person’s orientation and what the person chooses to do. A person might be heterosexual and choose to engage in homosexual activity for practical reasons or curiosity. A homosexual might act like a heterosexual to avoid being killed. However, these choices would not change their orientation. As such, my view is that while behavior can be chosen, orientation is probably not.

As a runner, I have been accused of being a masochist or at least possessing masochistic tendencies. As I routinely subject myself to pain and my previous essay about running and freedom was pain focused, this is hardly surprising. Other runners, especially those masochistic ultra-marathon runners, are often accused of masochism.

In some cases, the accusation is not serious. Usually, people just observe that runners do things that both hurt and make little sense to nonrunners. However, some see runners as masochists in a strict sense. Being a runner and a philosopher, I find this interesting, especially when I am the one accused of being a masochist.

Some do accuse runners of being masochists with some seriousness. While some say runners are masochists in jest or with some respect for the toughness of runners, it is sometimes presented as an accusation: that there is something wrong with runners and running is deviant behavior. While runners do like to joke about being odd and different, we probably prefer to not be seen as mentally ill deviants. After all, that would indicate that we are doing something wrong—which I believe is (usually) not the case. Based on my experience and meeting thousands of runners, I think that runners are generally not masochists.

Given that runners engage in painful activities (such as speed work and racing marathons) and that they often run despite injuries, it is tempting to believe they are masochists and that I am in denial about our collective deviance.

While this does have some appeal, it rests on a confusion about masochism in terms of means and ends. For the masochist, pain is a means to the end of pleasure. The masochist does not seek pain for the sake of pain, but seeks pain to achieve pleasure. However, there is a special connection between the means of pain and the end of pleasure: for the masochist, the pleasure they desire is that which is generated specifically by pain. While a masochist can get pleasure by other means (such as drugs, cake or drug cakes), it is the desire for pleasure caused by pain that defines the masochist. So, the pain is not optional—mere pleasure is not the end, but pleasure caused by pain.

This is different from those who endure pain as part of achieving an end, be that end pleasure or some other end. For those who endure pain to achieve an end, the pain can be part of the means or, more accurately, as an effect of the means. It is valuing the end that causes the person to endure the pain to achieve the end—the pain is not sought out as being the “proper cause” of the end. In the case of the masochist, the pain is not endured to achieve an end—it is the “proper cause” of the end, which is pleasure.

In the case of running, runners usually see pain as something to be endured as part of the process of achieving their desired ends, such as fitness or victory. However, runners usually prefer to avoid pain when they can. For example, while I endure pain to run a race, I prefer running with as little pain as possible. This is like a person putting up with the unpleasant aspects of a job to make money—but they would prefer as little unpleasantness as possible. After all, she is in it for the money, not the unpleasant aspects of work. Likewise, a runner is typically running for some other end (or ends) than hurting herself.  It just so happens that achieving that end (or ends) requires doing things that cause pain.

In my essay on running and freedom, I described how I endured pain while running the Tallahassee Half Marathon. If I were a masochist, experiencing pleasure by means of that pain would have been my primary end. However, my primary end was to run the half marathon well and the pain was an obstacle to that end. As such, I would have been glad to have had a painless start and I was pleased when the pain diminished. I enjoy the running and I do enjoy overcoming pain, but I do not enjoy the pain itself—hence the aspirin in my medicine cabinet.

While I cannot speak for all runners, my experience is that runners do not run for pain, they run despite the pain. Thus, we are not masochists. We might, however, show some poor judgment when it comes to pain and injury—but that is another matter. But I would suggest to any masochists that they do take up running, as running is really good for a person.

A few years ago, I was doing my pre-race day run and, for no apparent reason, my left leg began to hurt. I made my way home, estimating the odds of a recovery by the next day. On the morning of the race, my leg felt better and my short pre-race run went well. Just before the start, I was optimistic: it seemed my leg would be fine. Then the race started. Then the pain started.

I hobbled forward and “accelerated” to an 8:30 per minute mile (the downside of a GPS watch is that I cannot lie to myself). The beast of pain grew strong and tore at my will. Behind that armor, my fear and doubt hid—urging me to drop out with whispered pleas. At that moment of weakness, I considered doing the unthinkable: hobbling to the curb and leaving the race.

From the inside this seemed a paradigm example of freedom of the will: I could elect to push through the pain, or I could take the curb. It was all up to me. While I was once pulled from a race because of injuries, at that time I had never left one by choice—and I decided that this would not be my first. I kept going and the pain got worse.

At this point in the race, I considered that my pride was pushing me to destruction or at least a fall. Fortunately, decades of running had trained me in pain assessment: like most veteran runners I am good at distinguishing between what merely hurts and what is causing significant damage. Carefully considering the nature of the pain and the condition of my leg, I judged that it was mere pain. While I could have decided to stop, I decided to keep going. I did, however, grab as many of the high caffeine GU packs as I could—I figured that being wired would help with pain management.

Aided by the psychological boost of my self-medication (and commentary from friends about my unusually slow pace), I chose to speed up. By the time I reached mile 5 my leg had gone comfortably numb and I increased my speed, steadily catching and passing people. Seven miles went by and then I caught up with a former student. He yelled “I can’t let you pass me Dr. L!” and went into a sprint. I decided to chase after him, believing that I could still hobble a mile even if I was left with only one working leg. Fortunately, the leg held up better than my student—I got past him, then several more people, then crossed the finish line running a not too bad 1:36 half-marathon. My leg remained attached, thus vindicating my choice. I then chose to stuff pizza into my pizza port—pausing only to cheer on people and pick up my age group award.

As the above narrative indicates, my view is that I was considering my options, assessing information from my body and deciding what to do. That is, I had cast myself as having what we philosophers like to call free will. From the inside, that is what it seems like. Maybe.

Of course, it would presumably seem the same way from the inside if I lacked free will. Spinoza, for example, claims that if a stone were conscious and hurled through the air, it would think it was free to choose to move and land where it does. As Spinoza saw it, people think they are free because they are “conscious of their own actions, and ignorant of the causes by which those actions are determined.” As such, on Spinoza’s view my “decisions” were not actual decisions. That is, I could not have chosen otherwise—like the stone, I merely did what I did and, in my ignorance, believed that I had decided my course.

Hobbes takes a somewhat similar view. What I would regard as a decision making process of assessing the pain and then picking my action, he would regard as a competition between two competing forces within the mechanisms of my brain. One force would be pulling towards stopping, the other towards going. Since the forces were closely matched for a moment, it felt as if I was deliberating. But the matter was determined: the go force was stronger and the outcome was set.

While current science would not bring in Spinoza’s God and would be more complicated than Hobbe’s view of the body, the basic idea would remain the same: the apparent decision making would be best explained by the working of the “neuromachinery” that is me—no choice, merely the workings of a purely mechanical (in the broad sense) organic machine. Naturally, many would throw in some quantum talk, but randomness does not provide any more freedom than strict determinism. Rolling dice does not make one free.

While I think that I am free and that I was making choices in the race, I have no way to prove that. At best, all that could be shown was that my “neuromachinery” was working normally and without unusual influence—no tumors, drugs or damage impeding the way it “should” work. Of course, some might take my behavior as clear evidence that there was something wrong, but they would be wrong.

Kant seems to have gotten it quite right: science can never prove that we have free will, but we certainly do want it. And pizza.