JULY 19-22, 2016L E A D I N G T O W A R D J U S T I C E

YOUTH PARTICIPANTREADINGS

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Mind. Body. Spirit. Morning hike in Maroon Bells.

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From The Republic of Plato, translation by Allan Bloom, 1968

BOOK II

Now, when I had said this, I thought I was freed from argument. But after all, asit seems, it was only a prelude. For Glaucon is always most courageous ineverything, and so now he didn’t accept Thrasymachus’ giving up but said,“Socrates, do you want to seem to have persuaded us, or truly to persuade us, thatit is in every way better to be just than unjust?”

“I would choose to persuade you truly,” I said, “if it were up to me.”“Well, then,” he said, “you’re not doing what you want. Tell me, is there in your

opinion a kind of good that we would choose to have not because we desire itsconsequences, but because we delight in it for its own sake—such as enjoymentand all the pleasures which are harmless and leave no after effects other than theenjoyment in having them?”

“In my opinion, at least,” I said, “there is a good of this kind.”“And what about this? Is there a kind we like both for its own sake and for what

comes out of it, such as thinking and seeing and being healthy? Surely we delightin such things on both accounts.”

“Yes,” I said.“And do you see a third forml of good, which includes gymnastic exercise,

medical treatment when sick as well as the practice of medicine, and the rest of theactivities from which money is made? We would say that they are drudgery butbeneficial to us; and we would not choose to have them for themselves but for thesake of the wages and whatever else comes out of them.”

“Yes, there is also this third,” I said, “but what of it?”“In which of them,” he said, “would you include justice?”“I, for my part, suppose,” I said, “that it belongs in the finest kind, which the

man who is going to be blessed should like both for itself and for what comes outof it.”

“Well, that’s not the opinion of the many,” he said, “rather it seems to belongto the form of drudgery, which should be practiced for the sake of wages and the

The Ring of Gyges

by Plato(428/427–348/347 B.C.)

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reputation that comes from opinion;2 but all by itself it should be fled from assomething hard.”

“I know this is the popular opinion,” I said, “and a while ago justice, taken asbeing such, was blamed by Thrasymachus while injustice was praised. But I, as itseems, am a poor learner.”

“Come, now,” he said, “hear me too, and see if you still have the same opinion.For it looks to me as though Thrasymachus, like a snake, has been charmed morequickly than he should have been; yet to my way of thinking there was still no proofabout either. For I desire to hear what each is and what power it has all alone byitself when it is in the soul—dismissing its wages and its consequences. So I shalldo it this way, if you too consent: I’ll restore Thrasymachus’ argument, and firstI’ll tell what kind of thing they say justice is and where it came from; second, thatall those who practice it do so unwillingly, as necessary but not good; third, thatit is fitting that they do so, for the life of the unjust man is, after all, far better thanthat of the just man, as they say. For, Socrates, though that’s not at all my ownopinion, I am at a loss: I’ve been talked deaf by Thrasymachus and countless others,while the argument on behalf of justice—that it is better than injustice—I’ve yetto hear from anyone as I want it. I want to hear it extolled all by itself, and I supposeI would be most likely to learn that from you. That’s the reason why I’ll speak invehement praise of the unjust life, and in speaking I’ll point out to you how I wantto hear you, in your turn, blame injustice and praise justice. See if what I’m sayingis what you want.”

“Most of all,” I said. “What would an intelligent man enjoy talking and hearingabout more again and again?”

“What you say is quite fine,” he said. “Now listen to what I said I was going totell first—what justice is and where it came from.

“They say that doing injustice is naturally good, and suffering injustice bad,but that the bad in suffering injustice far exceeds the good in doing it; so that, whenthey do injustice to one another and suffer it and taste of both, it seems profitable—to those who are not able to escape the one and choose the other—to set down acompact among themselves neither to do injustice nor to suffer it. And from therethey began to set down their own laws and compacts and to name what the lawcommands lawful and just. And this, then, is the genesis and being of justice; it isa mean between what is best—doing injustice without paying the penalty—andwhat is worst—suffering injustice without being able to avenge oneself. The justis in the middle between these two, cared for not because it is good but because itis honored due to a want of vigor in doing injustice. The man who is able to do itand is truly a man would never set down a compact with anyone not to do injusticeand not to suffer it. He’d be mad. Now the nature of justice is this and of this sort,and it naturally grows out of these sorts of things. So the argument goes.

“That even those who practice it do so unwillingly, from an incapacity to doinjustice, we would best perceive if we should in thought do something like this:give each, the just man and the unjust, license to do whatever he wants, while we

The Ring of Gyges      3 

follow and watch where his desire will lead each. We would catch the  just man 

red‐handed  going  the  same way  as  the  unjust man  out  of  a  desire  to  get  the 

better; this is what any nature naturally pursues as good, while it is law which by 

force perverts  it  to honor equality. The  license of which  I speak would best be 

realized if they should come into possession of the sort of power that it is said the 5 

ancestor of Gyges,  the Lydian, once got. They say he was a shepherd  toiling  in 

the service of  the man who was  then  ruling Lydia. There came  to pass a great 

thunderstorm and an earthquake;  the earth cracked and a chasm opened at  the 

place where he was pasturing. He  saw  it, wondered at  it, and went down. He 

saw,  along  with  other  quite  wonderful  things  about  which  they  tell  tales,  a 10 

hollow  bronze  horse.  It  had windows; peeping  in,  he  saw  there was  a  corpse 

inside that  looked  larger than human size. It had nothing on except a gold ring 

on its hand; he slipped it off and went out. When there was the usual gathering 

of the shepherds to make the monthly report to the king about the flocks, he too 

came, wearing the ring. Now, while he was sitting with the others, he chanced to 15 

turn the collet of the ring to himself, toward the inside of his hand; when he did 

this,  he  became  invisible  to  those  sitting  by  him,  and  they  discussed  him  as 

though he were  away. He wondered  at  this,  and,  fingering  the  ring  again, he 

twisted the collet toward the outside; when he had twisted it, he became visible. 

Thinking  this  over,  he  tested whether  the  ring  had  this  power,  and  that was 20 

exactly his result: when he  turned  the collet  inward, he became  invisible, when 

outward,  visible.  Aware  of  this,  he  immediately  contrived  to  be  one  of  the 

messengers to the king. When he arrived, he teamed up with the king’s wife and, 

along with her, set upon the king and killed him. And so he took over the rule. 

“Now if there were two such rings, and the just man would put one on, and 25 

the unjust man the other, no one, as  it would seem, would be so adamant as to 

stick by justice and bring himself to keep away from what belongs to others and 

not  lay  hold  of  it,  although  he  had  license  to  take what  he wanted  from  the 

market without fear, and to go into houses and take whomever he wanted, and 

to slay or release from bonds whomever he wanted, and to do other things as an 30 

equal  to a god among humans. And  in  so doing, one would act no differently 

from  the other, but both would go  the same way. And yet, someone could say 

that this is a great proof that no one is willingly just but only when compelled to 

be so. Men do not take it to be a good for them  in private, since wherever each 

supposes he can do injustice, he does it. Indeed, all men suppose injustice is far 35 

more  to  their private profit  than  justice. And what  they suppose  is  true, as  the 

man who makes  this kind of an argument will  say,  since  if a man were  to get 

hold of such license and were never willing to do any injustice and didn’t lay his 

hands on what belongs  to others, he would seem most wretched  to  those who 

were aware of it, and most foolish too, although they would praise him to each 40 

others’ faces, deceiving each other for fear of suffering injustice. So much for that. 

“As to the  judgment itself about the life of these two of whom we are speaking, 

we’ll be able to make it correctly if we set the most just man and the most unjust  

4 The Ring of Gyges

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in opposition; if we do not, we won’t be able to do so. What, then, is thisopposition? It is as follows: we shall take away nothing from the injustice of theunjust man nor from the justice of the just man, but we shall take each as perfectin his own pursuit. So, first, let the unjust man act like the clever craftsmen. Anoutstanding pilot or doctor is aware of the difference between what is impossiblein his art and what is possible, and he attempts the one, and lets the other go; andif, after all, he should still trip up in any way, he is competent to set himself aright.Similarly, let the unjust man also attempt unjust deeds correctly, and get away withthem, if he is going to be extremely unjust. The man who is caught must beconsidered a poor chap. For the extreme of injustice is to seem to be just when oneis not. So the perfectly unjust man must be given the most perfect injustice, andnothing must be taken away; he must be allowed to do the greatest injustices whilehaving provided himself with the greatest reputation for justice. And if, after all,he should trip up in anything, he has the power to set himself aright; if any of hisunjust deeds should come to light, he is capable both of speaking persuasively andof using force, to the extent that force is needed, since he is courageous and strongand since he has provided for friends and money. Now, let us set him down as such,and put beside him in the argument the just man in his turn, a man simple andnoble, who, according to Aeschylus,5 does not wish to seem, but rather to be, good.The seeming must be taken away. For if he should seem just, there would behonors and gifts for him for seeming to be such. Then it wouldn’t be plain whetherhe is such for the sake of the just or for the sake of the gifts and honors. So he mustbe stripped of everything except justice, and his situation must be made theopposite of the first man’s. Doing no injustice, let him have the greatest reputationfor injustice, so that his justice may be put to the test to see if it is softened by badreputation and its consequences. Let him go unchanged till death, seemingthroughout life to be unjust although he is just, so that when each has come to theextreme—the one of justice, the other of injustice—they can be judged as to whichof the two is happier.”

“My, my,” I said, “my dear Glaucon, how vigorously you polish up each of thetwo men—just like a statue—for their judgment.”

“As much as I can,” he said. “With two such men it’s no longer hard, I suppose,to complete the speech by a description of the kind of life that awaits each. It mustbe told, then. And if it’s somewhat rustically told, don’t suppose that it is I whospeak, Socrates, but rather those who praise injustice ahead of justice. They’ll saythat the just man who has such a disposition will be whipped; he’ll be racked; he’llbe bound; he’ll have both his eyes burned out; and, at the end, when he hasundergone every sort of evil, he’ll be crucified and know that one shouldn’t wishto be, but to seem to be, just. After all, Aeschylus’ saying applies far more correctlyto the unjust man. For really, they will say, it is the unjust man, because he pursuesa thing dependent on truth and does not live in the light of opinion, who does notwish to seem unjust but to be unjust,

The Ring of Gyges    5 

Reaping a deep furrow in his mind 

From which trusty plans bear fruit. 

First,  he  rules  in  the  city  because  he  seems  to  be  just.  Then  he  takes  in 

marriage from whatever station he wants and gives in marriage to whomever he 5 

wants; he contracts and has partnerships with whomever he wants, and, besides 

benefiting himself  in  all  this, he  gains  because he has no  qualms  about doing 

injustice. So then, when he enters contests, both private and public, he wins and 

gets the better of his enemies. In getting the better, he is wealthy and does good 

to  friends  and  harm  to  enemies. To  the  gods  he makes  sacrifices  and  sets  up 10 

votive  offerings,  adequate  and magnificent,  and  cares  for  the  gods  and  those 

human  beings  he  wants  to  care  for  far  better  than  the  just  man.  So,  in  all 

likelihood, it is also more appropriate for him to be dearer to the gods than is the 

just man. Thus,  they say, Socrates, with gods and with humans, a better  life  is 

provided for the unjust man than for the just man.”  15 

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Human Nature by Mencius

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Kao Tzu said: “The nature of man may be likened to the willow tree, whereas righteousness may be likened to wooden cups and wicker baskets. To turn 15 man’s nature into humanity and righteousness is like turning a willow tree into cups and baskets.” Mencius replied: “Sir, can you follow the nature of the willow tree, and make the cups and baskets? Or must you violate its nature to make the cups and baskets? If you must violate the nature of the willow tree to turn it into cups and baskets, then don’t you mean you must also violate the nature of man to 20 turn it into humanity and righteousness? Your words, alas, would incite everyone in the world to regard humanity and righteousness as a curse!”

Kao Tzu said: “The nature of man may be likened to a swift current of water: you lead it eastward and it will flow to the east; you lead it westward and it will flow to the west. Human nature is neither disposed to good nor to evil, just as 25 water is neither disposed to east nor west.” Mencius replied: “It is true that water is neither disposed to east nor west, but is it neither disposed to flowing upward nor downward? The tendency of human nature to do good is like that of water to flow downward. There is no man who does not tend to do good; there is no water that does not flow downward. Now you may strike water and make it splash over your 30 forehead, or you may even force it up the hills. But is this in the nature of water? It is of course due to the force of circumstances. Similarly, man may be brought to do evil, and that is because the same is done to his nature.”

Kao Tzu said: “Nature is what is born in us.” Mencius asked: “‘Nature is what is born in us’—is it not the same as saying white is white?” “Yes,” said Kao Tzu. 35 Mencius asked: “Then the whiteness of a white feather is the same as the whiteness of white snow, and the whiteness of white snow the same as the whiteness of white jade?” “Yes,” Kao Tzu replied. Mencius asked: “Well, then, the nature of a dog is the same as the nature of a cow, and the nature of a cow the same as the nature of a man, is it not?” 40

Kao Tzu said: “The appetite for food … is part of our nature. Humanity comes from within and not from without, whereas righteousness comes from without and not from within.” Mencius asked: “What do you mean when you say that humanity comes from within while righteousness comes from without?” Kao Tzu replied: “When I see anyone who is old I regard him as old. This regard for age 45 is not a part of me. Just as when I see anyone who is white I regard him

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� Human Nature

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as white, because I can observe the whiteness externally. For this reason I say righteousness comes from without.” Mencius said: “Granted there is no difference between regarding the white horse as white and the white man as white. But is there no difference between one’s regard for age in an old horse and one’s regard for age in an old man, I wonder? Moreover, is it old age itself or our respectful regard for old age that constitutes a point of righteousness?” Kao Tzu persisted: “My own brother I love; the brother of a man of Ch’in I do not love. Here the sanction for the feeling rests in me, and therefore I call it [i.e., humanity] internal. An old man of Ch’u I regard as old, just as an old man among my own people I regard as old. Here the sanction for the feeling lies in old age, and therefore I call it [i.e., righteousness] external.” Mencius answered him: “We love the Ch’in people’s roast as much as we love our own roast. Here we have a similar situa-tion with respect to things. Would you say, then, that this love of roast is also something external?”

The disciple Kung-tu Tzu said: “Kao Tzu says that human nature is neither good nor bad. Some say that human nature can be turned to be good or bad. Thus when [sage-kings] Wen and Wu were in power the people loved virtue; when [wicked kings] Yu and Li were in power the people indulged in violence. Some say that some natures are good and some are bad. Thus even while [the sage] Yao was sovereign there was the bad man Hsiang, even a bad father like Ku-sou had a good son like [the sage-king] Shun, and even with [the wicked] Chou for nephew and king there were the men of virtue Ch’i, the Viscount of Wei, and the Prince Pi-kan. Now, you say that human nature is good. Are the others then all wrong?” Mencius replied: “When left to follow its natural feelings human nature will do good. This is why I say it is good. If it becomes evil, it is not the fault of man’s original capability. The sense of mercy is found in all men; the sense of shame is found in all men; the sense of respect is found in all men; the sense of right and wrong is found in all men. The sense of mercy constitutes humanity; the sense of shame constitutes righteousness; the sense of respect constitutes decorum (li); the sense of right and wrong constitutes wisdom. Humanity, righteousness, decorum, and wisdom are not something instilled into us from without; they are inherent in our nature. Only we give them no thought. Therefore it is said: ‘Seek and you will find them, neglect and you will lose them.’ Some have these virtues to a much greater degree than others—twice, five times, and incalculably more—and that is because those others have not developed to the fullest extent their original capability. It is said in the Book of Odes:

Heaven so produced the teeming multitudes thatFor everything there is its principle.The people will keep to the constant principles,And all will love a beautiful character.

Human Nature �

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Confucius said, regarding this poem: ‘The writer of this poem understands indeed the nature of the Way! For wherever there are things and affairs there must be their principles. As the people keep to the constant principles, they will come to love a beautiful character.’ ”

Mencius said: “All men have a sense of commiseration. The ancient kings had this commiserating heart and hence a commiserating government. When a com-miserating government is conducted from a commiserating heart, one can rule the whole empire as if one were turning it on one’s palm. Why I say all men have a sense of commiseration is this: Here is a man who suddenly notices a child about to fall into a well. Invariably he will feel a sense of alarm and compassion. And this is not for the purpose of gaining the favor of the child’s parents, or seeking the approbation of his neighbors and friends, or for fear of blame should he fail to rescue it. Thus we see that no man is without a sense of compassion, or a sense of shame, or a sense of courtesy, or a sense of right and wrong. The sense of compassion is the beginning of humanity; the sense of shame is the beginning of righteousness; the sense of courtesy is the beginning of decorum; the sense of right and wrong is the beginning of wisdom. Every man has within himself these four beginnings, just as he has four limbs. Since everyone has these four beginnings within him, the man who considers himself incapable of exercising them is destroying himself. If he considers his sovereign incapable of exercis-ing them, he is likewise destroying his sovereign. Let every man but attend to expanding and developing these four beginnings that are in our very being, and they will issue forth like a conflagration being kindled and a spring being opened up. If they can be fully developed, these virtues are capable of safeguarding all within the four seas; if allowed to remain undeveloped, they will not suffice even for serving one’s parents.”

Mencius said: “Man’s innate ability is the ability possessed by him that is not acquired through learning. Man’s innate knowledge is the knowledge possessed by him that is not the result of reflective thinking. Every child knows enough to love his parents, and when he is grown up he knows enough to respect his elder brothers. The love for one’s parents is really humanity and the respect for one’s elders is really righteousness—all that is necessary is to have these natural feel-ings applied to all men.”

Readings-based, moderated Seminar sessions. Youth participants engage in values-based leadership dialogue.

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IT IS NOT UNREASONABLE that men should derive their concept of the good andof happiness from the lives which they lead. The common run of people and themost vulgar identify it with pleasure, and for that reason are satisfied with a life ofenjoyment. For the most notable kinds of life are three: the life just mentioned, thepolitical life, and the contemplative life.

The common run of people, as we saw, betray their utter slavishness in theirpreference for a life suitable to cattle; but their views seem plausible because manypeople in high places share the feelings of Sardanapallus. Cultivated and activemen, on the other hand, believe the good to be honor, for honor, one might say,is the end of the political life. But this is clearly too superficial an answer: for honorseems to depend on those who confer it rather than on him who receives it,whereas our guess is that the good is a man’s own possession which cannot easilybe taken away from him. Furthermore, men seem to pursue honor to assurethemselves of their own worth; at any rate, they seek to be honored by sensible menand by those who know them, and they want to be honored on the basis of theirvirtue or excellence. Obviously, then, excellence, as far as they are concerned, isbetter than honor. One might perhaps even go so far as to consider excellencerather than honor as the end of political life. However, even excellence proves tobe imperfect as an end: for a man might possibly possess it while asleep or whilebeing inactive all his life, and while, in addition, undergoing the greatest sufferingand misfortune. Nobody would call the life of such a man happy, except for thesake of maintaining an argument. . . . In the third place there is the contemplativelife, which we shall examine later on. As for the money-maker, his life is led undersome kind of constraint: clearly, wealth is not the good which we are trying to find,for it is only useful, i.e., it is a means to something else. Hence one might regardthe aforementioned objects as ends, since they are valued for their own sake. Buteven they prove not to be the good, though many words have been wasted to showthat they are. Accordingly, we may dismiss them.

LET US RETURN AGAIN to our investigation into the nature of the good whichwe are seeking. It is evidently something different in different actions and in eachart: it is one thing in medicine, another in strategy, and another again in each of

Nicomachean Ethics

by Aristotle(384–322 B.C.)

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the other arts. What, then, is the good of each? Is it not that for the sake of whicheverything else is done? That means it is health in the case of medicine, victory inthe case of strategy, a house in the case of building, a different thing in the case ofdifferent arts, and in all actions and choices it is the end. For it is for the sake ofthe end that all else is done. Thus, if there is some one end for all that we do, thiswould be the good attainable by action; if there are several ends, they will be thegoods attainable by action.

. . . Since there are evidently several ends, and since we choose some of these—e.g., wealth, flutes, and instruments generally—as a means to something else, it isobvious that not all ends are final. The highest good, on the other hand, must besomething final. Thus, if there is only one final end, this will be the good we areseeking; if there are several, it will be the most final and perfect of them. We callthat which is pursued as an end in itself more final than an end which is pursuedfor the sake of something else; and what is never chosen as a means to somethingelse we call more final than that which is chosen both as an end in itself and as ameans to something else. What is always chosen as an end in itself and never asa means to something else is called final in an unqualified sense. This descriptionseems to apply to happiness above all else: for we always choose happiness as anend in itself and never for the sake of something else. Honor, pleasure, intelligence,and all virtue we choose partly for themselves—for we would choose each of themeven if no further advantage would accrue from them—but we also choose thempartly for the sake of happiness, because we assume that it is through them thatwe will be happy. On the other hand, no one chooses happiness for the sake ofhonor, pleasure, and the like, nor as a means to anything at all.

We arrive at the same conclusion if we approach the question from thestandpoint of self-sufficiency. For the final and perfect good seems to be self-sufficient. However, we define something as self-sufficient not by reference to the“self” alone. We do not mean a man who lives his life in isolation, but a man whoalso lives with parents, children, a wife, and friends and fellow citizens generally,since man is by nature a social and political being. But some limit must be set tothese relationships; for if they are extended to include ancestors, descendants, andfriends of friends, they will go on to infinity. . . . For the present we define as “self-sufficient” that which taken by itself makes life something desirable and deficientin nothing. It is happiness, in our opinion, which fits this description. Moreover,happiness is of all things the one most desirable, and it is not counted as one goodthing among many others. But if it were counted as one among many others, it isobvious that the addition of even the least of the goods would make it moredesirable; for the addition would produce an extra amount of good, and the greateramount of good is always more desirable than the lesser. We see then thathappiness is something final and self-sufficient and the end of our actions.

IT MAY BE SAID that every individual man and all men in common aim at a certainend which determines what they choose and what they avoid. This end, to sum it

Nicomachean Ethics 3

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up briefly, is happiness and its constituents. Let us, then, by way of illustrationonly, ascertain what is in general the nature of happiness, and what are theelements of its constituent parts. For all advice to do things or not to do them isconcerned with happiness and with the things that make for or against it; whatevercreates or increases happiness or some part of happiness, we ought to do; whateverdestroys or hampers happiness, or gives rise to its opposite, we ought not to do.

We may define happiness as prosperity combined with virtue; or as indepen-dence of life; or as the secure enjoyment of the maximum of pleasure; or as a goodcondition of property and body, together with the power of guarding one’sproperty and body and making use of them. That happiness is one or more of thesethings, pretty well everybody agrees.

From this definition of happiness it follows that its constituent parts are: goodbirth, plenty of friends, good friends, wealth, good children, plenty of children, ahappy old age, also such bodily excellences as health, beauty, strength, largestature, athletic powers, together with fame, honor, good luck, and virtue. A mancannot fail to be completely independent if he possesses these internal and theseexternal goods; for besides these there are no others to have. (Goods of the souland of the body are internal. Good birth, friends, money, and honor are external.)Further, we think that he should possess resources and luck, in order to make hislife really secure. . . .

To call happiness the highest good is perhaps a little trite, and a clearer accountof what it is is still required. Perhaps this is best done by first ascertaining theproper function of man. For just as the goodness and performance of a flute player,a sculptor, or any kind of expert, and generally of anyone who fulfills somefunction or performs some action, are thought to reside in his proper function, sothe goodness and performance of man would seem to reside in whatever is hisproper function. Is it then possible that while a carpenter and a shoemaker havetheir own proper functions and spheres of action, man as man has none, but wasleft by nature a good-for-nothing without a function? Should we not assume thatjust as the eye, the hand, the foot, and in general each part of the body clearly hasits own proper function, so man too has some function over and above thefunctions of his parts? What can this function possibly be? Simply living? Heshares that even with plants, but we are now looking for something peculiar toman. Accordingly, the life of nutrition and growth must be excluded. Next in linethere is a life of sense perception. But this, too, man has in common with the horse,the ox, and every animal. There remains then an active life of the rational element.The rational element has two parts: one is rational in that it obeys the rule of reason,the other in that it possesses and conceives rational rules. Since the expression “lifeof the rational element” also can be used in two senses, we must make it clear thatwe mean a life determined by the activity, as opposed to the mere possession, ofthe rational element. For the activity, it seems, has a greater claim to be thefunction of man.

4 Nicomachean Ethics

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The proper function of man, then, consists in an activity of the soul inconformity with a rational principle or, at least, not without it. In speaking of theproper function of a given individual we mean that it is the same in kind as thefunction of an individual who sets high standards for himself: the proper functionof a harpist, for example, is the same as the function of a harpist who has set highstandards for himself. The same applies to any and every group of individuals: thefull attainment of excellence must be added to the mere function. In other words,the function of the harpist is to play the harp; the function of the harpist who hashigh standards is to play it well. On these assumptions, if we take the properfunction of man to be a certain kind of life, and if this kind of life is an activity ofthe soul and consists in actions performed in conjunction with the rationalelement, and if a man of high standards is he who performs these actions well andproperly, and if a function is well performed when it is performed in accordancewith the excellence appropriate to it; we reach the conclusion that the good of manis an activity of the soul in conformity with excellence or virtue, and if there areseveral virtues, in conformity with the best and most complete.

But we must add “in a complete life.” For one swallow does not make a spring,nor does one sunny day; similarly, one day or a short time does not make a manblessed and happy.

NOW, IF HAPPINESS is activity in conformity with virtue, it is to be expected thatit should conform with the highest virtue, and that is the virtue of the best part ofus. Whether this is intelligence or something else which, it is thought, by its verynature rules and guides us and which gives us our notions of what is noble anddivine; whether it is itself divine or the most divine thing in us; it is the activity ofthis part [when operating] in conformity with the excellence or virtue proper toit that will be complete happiness. That it is an activity concerned with theoreticalknowledge or contemplation has already been stated.

This would seem to be consistent with our earlier statements as well as thetruth. For this activity is not only the highest—for intelligence is the highestpossession we have in us, and the objects which are the concern of intelligence arethe highest objects of knowledge—but also the most continuous: we are able tostudy continuously more easily than to perform any kind of action. Furthermore,we think of pleasure as a necessary ingredient in happiness. Now everyone agreesthat of all the activities that conform with virtue activity in conformity withtheoretical wisdom is the most pleasant. At any rate, it seems that [the pursuit ofwisdom or] philosophy holds pleasures marvelous in purity and certainty, and itis not surprising that time spent in knowledge is more pleasant than time spent inresearch. Moreover, what is usually called “self-sufficiency” will be found in thehighest degree in the activity which is concerned with theoretical knowledge. Likea just man and any other virtuous man, a wise man requires the necessities of life;once these have been adequately provided, a just man still needs people towardwhom and in company with whom to act justly, and the same is true of a self-

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controlled man, a courageous man, and all the rest. But a wise man is able to studyeven by himself, and the wiser he is the more is he able to do it. Perhaps he coulddo it better if he had colleagues to work with him, but he still is the most self-sufficient of all. Again, study seems to be the only activity which is loved for its ownsake. For while we derive a greater or a smaller advantage from practical pursuitsbeyond the action itself, from study we derive nothing beyond the activity ofstudying. Also, we regard happiness as depending on leisure; for our purpose inbeing busy is to have leisure, and we wage war in order to have peace. Now, thepractical virtues are activated in political and military pursuits, but the actionsinvolved in these pursuits seem to be unleisurely. This is completely true ofmilitary pursuits, since no one chooses to wage war or foments war for the sakeof war; he would have to be utterly bloodthirsty if he were to make enemies of hisfriends simply in order to have battle and slaughter. But the activity of thestatesman, too, has no leisure. It attempts to gain advantages beyond politicalaction, advantages such as political power, prestige, or at least happiness for thestatesman himself and his fellow citizens, and that is something other thanpolitical activity: after all, the very fact that we investigate politics shows that it isnot the same [as happiness]. Therefore, if we take as established (1) that politicaland military actions surpass all other actions that conform with virtue in nobilityand grandeur; (2) that they are unleisurely, aim at an end, and are not chosen fortheir own sake; (3) that the activity of our intelligence, inasmuch as it is an activityconcerned with theoretical knowledge, is thought to be of greater value than theothers, aims at no end beyond itself, and has a pleasure proper to itself–andpleasure increases activity; and (4) that the qualities of this activity evidently areself-sufficiency, leisure, as much freedom from fatigue as a human being can have,and whatever else falls to the lot of a supremely happy man; it follows that theactivity of our intelligence constitutes the complete happiness of man, providedthat it encompasses a complete span of life; for nothing connected with happinessmust be incomplete.

MOREOVER, . . . what is by nature proper to each thing will be at once the bestand the most pleasant for it. In other words, a life guided by intelligence is the bestand most pleasant for man, inasmuch as intelligence, above all else, is man.Consequently, this kind of life is the happiest.

Fun in the Aspen outdoors. Youth participants will enjoy Wednesday’s picnic lunch with adult participants.

Daily hikes. Trivia night. Art exhibits. BBQ dinner. 5k run/walk.

The Cure at Troy by Seamus Heaney

From The Cure at Troy Human beings suffer. They torture one another. They get hurt and get hard. History says, Don’t hope 5On this side of the grave, But then, once in a lifetime The longed-for tidal wave Of justice can rise up, And hope and history rhyme. 10So hope for a great sea-change On the far side of revenge. Believe that a farther shore Is reachable from here. Believe in miracles 15And cures and healing wells.

Throughout the week, Action Forum youth participants engage with their peers to develop solutions to societal challenges.

The 2016 Leadership Challenge is: Is there injustice in the world around you?

What might you be able to do about it?

Praise Song for the Day By Elizabeth Alexander (1962 – )

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A Poem for Barack Obama’s Presidential Inauguration

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each other’s eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. 10

All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues.

15 Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere, 20 with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum, with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus. A farmer considers the changing sky. 25 A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed, words to consider, reconsider. 30

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of some one and then others, who said I need to see what’s on the other side.

35 I know there’s something better down the road. We need to find a place where we are safe. We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

picked the cotton and the lettuce, built 5 brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign, 10 the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself, others by first do no harm or take no more than you need. What if the mightiest word is love? 15

Love beyond marital, filial, national, love that casts a widening pool of light, love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

20 In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air, any thing can be made, any sentence begun. On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light. 25

In 2016, 65 youth participants from 15 countries will convene at the Action Forum.

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The Trolley Drive

Some years ago, Philippa Foot drew attention to an extraordinarily interest-ing problem. Suppose you are the driver of a trolley. The trolley rounds a bend, and there come into view ahead five track workmen, who have been repairing the track. The track goes through a bit of a valley at that point, and the sides are steep, so you must stop the trolley if you are to avoid running the five men down. You step on the brakes, but alas they don’t work. Now you suddenly see a spur of track leading off to the right. You can turn the trolley onto it, and thus save the five men on the straight track ahead. Unfortunately, Mrs. Foot has arranged that there is one track workman on that spur of track. He can no more get off the track in time than the five can, so you will kill him if you turn the trolley onto him. Is it morally permissible for you to turn the trolley? Everybody to whom I have put this hypothetical case says, Yes, it is. Some people say something stronger than that it is morally permissible for you to turn the trolley: They say that morally speaking, you must turn it—that morality requires you to do so. Others do not agree that morality requires you to turn the trolley, and even feel a certain discomfort at the idea of turning it. But everybody says that it is true, at a minimum, that you may turn it—that it would not be morally wrong in you to do so.

The TransplanT surgeon

Now consider a second hypothetical case. This time you are to imagine yourself to be a surgeon, a truly great surgeon. Among other things you do, you transplant organs, and you are such a great surgeon that the organs

From Judith Jarvis Thomson, “The Trolley Problem,” The Yale Law Journal, Vol. 94, No. 6 (May 1985), pp. 1395–1396, 1409. Philippa Foot, “The Problem of Abortion and the Doctrine of the Double Effect,” in Virtues and Vices and Other Essays in Moral Philosophy (1978).

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The Trolley Problem

by Judith Jarvis Thomson(1929– )

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you transplant always take. At the moment you have five patients who need organs. Two need one lung each, two need a kidney each, and the fifth needs a heart. If they do not get those organs today, they will all die; if you find organs for them today, you can transplant the organs and they will all live. But where to find the lungs, the kidneys, and the heart? The time is almost up when a report is brought to you that a young man who has just come into your clinic for his yearly check-up has exactly the right blood-type, and is in excellent health. Lo, you have a possible donor. All you need do is cut him up and distribute his parts among the five who need them. You ask, but he says, “Sorry. I deeply sympathize, but no.” Would it be morally permissible for you to operate anyway? Everybody to whom I have put this second hypothetical case says, No, it would not be morally permissible for you to proceed. Here then is Mrs. Foot’s problem: Why is it that the trolley driver may turn his trolley, though the surgeon may not remove the young man’s lungs, kidneys, and heart? In both cases, one will die if the agent acts, but five will live who would otherwise die—a net saving of four lives. What differ- ence in the other facts of these cases explains the moral difference between them? . . .

The FaT Man

Consider a case—which I shall call Fat Man—in which you are standing on a footbridge over the trolley track. You can see a trolley hurtling down the track, out of control. You turn around to see where the trolley is headed, and there are five workmen on the track where it exits from under the footbridge. What to do? Being an expert on trolleys, you know of one certain way to stop an out-of-control trolley: Drop a really heavy weight in its path. But where to find one? It just so happens that standing next to you on the footbridge is a fat man, a really fat man. He is leaning over the railing, watching the trolley; all you have to do is to give him a little shove, and over the railing he will go, onto the track in the path of the trolley. Would it be permissible for you to do this? Everybody to whom I have put this case says it would not be. But why? Suppose the agent proceeds. He shoves the fat man, thereby toppling him off the footbridge into the path of the trolley, thereby causing him to be hit by the trolley, thereby killing him—but saving the five on the straight track. Then it is true of this agent, as it is true of the agent in Bystander at the Switch, that he saves his five by making something which threatens them instead threaten one. But this agent does so by means which themselves constitute an infringe-ment of a right of the one’s. For shoving a person is infringing a right of his. So also is toppling a person off a footbridge.

The Trolley Problem 3

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I should stress that doing these things is infringing a person’s rights even if doing them does not cause his death—even if doing them causes him no harm at all. As I shall put it, shoving a person, toppling a person off a footbridge, are themselves infringements of rights of his. A theory of rights ought to give an account of what makes it be the case that doing either of these things is itself an infringement of a right of his. But I think we may take it to be a datum that it is, the job which confronts the theorist of rights being, not to establish that it is, but rather why it is. . . .

Youth participants present solutions to the 2015 Leadership Challenge during the closing lunch.

Indian Wisdom by Luther Standing Bear (Ota Kte, Mochunozhin) (1868-1939)

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Out of the Indian approach to life there came a great freedom—an intense

and absorbing love for nature; a respect for life; enriching faith in a Supreme

Power; and principles of truth, honesty, generosity, equity, and brotherhood

as a guide to mundane relations.

As a child I understood how to give, I have forgotten this grace since I have 10

become civilised.

Praise, flattery, exaggerated manners and fine, high-sounding words were

not part of Lakota politeness. Excessive manners were put down as insincere,

and the constant talker was considered rude and thoughtless. Conversation

was never begun at once, not in a hurried manner. No one was quick with a 15

question, no matter how important, and no one was pressed for an answer. A

pause giving time for thought was the truly courteous way of beginning and

conducting a conversation. Silence was meaningful with the Lakota, and his

granting a space of silence to the speech-maker and his own moment of silence

before talking was done in the practice of true politeness and regard for the 20

rule that, thought comes before speech.

We did not think of the great open plains, the beautiful rolling hills, the

winding streams with tangled growth, as ‘wild’. Only to the white man was

nature a ‘wilderness’ and only to him was it ‘infested’ with ‘wild’ animals and

‘savage’ people. To us it was tame. Earth was bountiful and we were 25

surrounded with the blessings of the Great Mystery.

If today I had a young mind to direct, to start on the journey of life, and I

was faced with the duty of choosing between the natural way of my

forefathers and that of the... present way of civilization, I would, for its

welfare, unhesitatingly set that child’s feet in the path of my forefathers. I 30

would raise him to be an Indian!

From Wakan Tanka, the Great Spirit, there came a great unifying life force

that flowed in and through all things—the flowers of the plains, blowing

winds, rocks, trees, birds, animals—and was the same force that had been

breathed into the first man. Thus all things were kindred, and were brought 35

together by the same Great Mystery.

Kinship with all creatures of the earth, sky and water was a real and active

principle. In the animal and bird world there existed a brotherly feeling that

kept the Lakota safe among them. And so close did some of the Lakotas come

2 Luther Standing Bear, Indian Wisdom

to their feathered and furred friends that in true brotherhood they spoke a

common tongue.

The animals had rights—the right of man’s protection, the right to live, the

right to multiply, the right to freedom, and the right to man’s indebtedness—

and in recognition of these rights the Lakota never enslaved an animal and 5

spared all life that was not needed for food and clothing. For the animal and

bird world there existed a brotherly feeling that kept the Lakota safe among

them.

This concept of life and its relations was humanizing and gave to the

Lakota an abiding love. It filled his being with the joy and mystery of living; it 10

gave him reverence for all life; it made a place for all things in the scheme of

existence with equal importance to all.

The Lakota could despise no creature, for all were of one blood, made by

the same hand, and filled with the essence of the Great Mystery. In spirit, the

Lakota were humble and meek. ‘Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit 15

the earth’—this was true for the Lakota, and from the earth they inherited

secrets long since forgotten. Their religion was sane, natural, and human.

The old Lakota was wise. He knew that a man’s heart away from Nature

becomes hard; he knew that lack of respect for growing, living things soon

lead to a lack of respect for humans too. 20

The old people came literally to love the soil and they sat or reclined on the

ground with a feeling of being close to a mothering power.

The Action Forum Youth Camp takes places in the Boettcher Building. Youth participants will be split into three groups based on age.

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With a clamor of bells that set the swallows soaring, the Festival of Summer came to the city Omelas, bright‑towered by the sea. The rigging of the boats in harbor sparkled with flags. In the streets between houses with red roofs and painted walls, between old moss‑grown gardens and under avenues of trees, past great parks and public buildings, processions moved. Some were decorous: old people in long stiff robes of mauve and grey, grave master workmen, quiet, merry women carrying their babies and chatting as they walked. In other streets the music beat faster, a shimmering of gong and tambourine, and the people went dancing, the procession was a dance. Children dodged in and out, their high calls rising like the swallows’ crossing flights over the music and the singing. All the processions wound towards the north side of the city, where on the great water‑meadow called the Green Fields boys and girls, naked in the bright air, with mud‑stained feet and ankles and long, lithe arms, exercised their restive horses before the race. The horses wore no gear at all but a halter without bit. Their manes were braided with streamers of silver, gold, and green. They flared their nostrils and pranced and boasted to one another; they were vastly excited, the horse being the only animal who has adopted our ceremonies as his own. Far off to the north and west the mountains stood up half encircling Omelas on her bay. The air of morning was so clear that the snow still crowning the Eighteen Peaks burned with white‑gold fire across the miles of sunlit air, under the dark blue of the sky. There was just enough wind to make the banners that marked the racecourse snap and flutter now and then. In the silence of the broad green meadows one could hear the music winding through the city streets, farther and nearer and ever approaching, a cheerful faint sweetness of the air that from time to time trembled and gathered together and broke out into the great joyous clanging of the bells.

Joyous! How is one to tell about joy? How describe the citizens of Omelas?They were not simple folk you see, though they were happy. But we do not

say the words of cheer much any more. All smiles have become archaic. Given description such as this one tends to make certain assumptions. Given a descrip‑tion such as this one tends to look next for the King, mounted on a splendid stallion and surrounded by his noble knights, or perhaps in a golden litter borne

From Ursula K. Le Guin, The Wind’s Twelve Quarters, 1975, HarperPrism, pp. 347–357

The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas

by Ursula K. Le Guin(1929– )

2 The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas

But even granted trains, I fear that Omelas so far strikes some of you as goody goody. Smiles, bells, parades, horses, bleh. If so, please add an orgy. If an

35 orgy would help, don’t hesitate. Let us not, however, have temples from which issue beautiful nude priests and priestesses already half in ecstasy and ready to copulate with any man or woman, lover or stranger, who desires union with the deep godhead of the blood, although that was my first idea. But really it would be better not to have temples in Omelas—at least, not manned temples. Religion yes,

40 clergy no. Surely the beautiful nudes can just wander about, offering themselves like divine soufflés to the hunger of the needy and the rapture of the flesh. Let them join the processions. Let tambourines be struck above the copulations, and the glory of desire be proclaimed upon the gongs, and (a not unimportant point) let the offspring of these delightful rituals be beloved and looked after by all. One

by great‑muscled slave. But there was no king. They did not use swords, or keep slaves. They were not barbarians. I do not know the rules and laws of their society, but I suspect that they were singularly few. As they did without monarchy and slavery, so they also got on without the stock5 exchange, the advertisement, the secret police, and the bomb. Yet I repeat that these were not simple folk, not dulcet shepherds, noble savages, bland utopians. They were not less complex than us. The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil 10 interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else. We have almost lost hold; we can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of joy. How can I 15 tell you about the people of Omelas? They were not naive and happy children—though their children were, in fact, happy. They were mature, intelligent, passionate adults whose lives were not wretched. O miracle! but I wish I could describe it better. I wish I could convince you. Omelas sounds in my words like a city in a fairy tale, long ago and far away, once upon a 20 time. Perhaps it would be best if you imagined it as your own fancy bids, assuming it will rise to the occasion, for certainly I cannot suit you all. For instance, how about technology: I think that there would be no cars or helicopters in and above the streets; this follows from the fact that the people of Omelas are happy people. Happiness is based on a just discrimination of 25 what is necessary, what is neither necessary nor destructive, and what is destructive. In the middle category, however—that of the unnecessary but undestructive, that of comfort, luxury, exuberance, etc.—they could perfectly well have central heating, subway trains, washing machines, and all kinds of marvelous devices not yet invented here, floating light sources, fuelless 30 power, a cure for the common cold. Or they could have none of that: it doesn’t matter. As you like it. I incline to think that people from towns up and down the coast have been coming in to Omelas during the last days before the Festival on very fast little trains and double‑decked trams, and that the train station of Omelas is actually the handsomest building in town, 35 though plainer than the magnificent Farmers’ Market.

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The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas 3

What else, what else belongs in the joyous city? The sense of victory, surely, the celebration of courage. But as we did without clergy, let us do without soldiers. The joy built upon successful slaughter is not the right kind of joy, it will not do; it is fearful and it is trivial. A boundless 5 and generous contentment, a magnanimous triumph felt not against some outer enemy but in communion with the finest and fairest in the souls of all men everywhere and the splendor of the world’s summer: this is what swells the hearts of the people of Omelas, and the victory they celebrate is that of life….. 10

Most of the processions have reached the Green Fields by now. A marvelous smell of cooking goes forth from the red and blue tents of the provisioners. The faces of small children are amiably sticky; in the benign grey beard of a man a couple of crumbs of rich pastry are entangled. The youths and girls have mounted their horses and are beginning to group 15 around the starting line of the course. An old woman, small, fat, and laughing, is passing out flowers from a basket, and tall young men wear her flowers in their shining hair. A child of nine or ten sits at the edge of the crowd, alone, playing on a wooden flute. People pause to listen, and they smile, but they do not speak to him, for he never ceases playing and 20 never sees them, his dark eyes wholly rapt in the sweet, thin magic of the tune.

He finishes, and slowly lowers his hands holding the wooden flute. As if that little private silence were the signal, all at once a trumpet

sounds from the pavilion near the starting line: imperious, melancholy, 25 piercing. The horses rear on their slender legs, and some of them neigh in answer. Soberfaced, the young riders stroke the horses’ necks and soothe them, whispering, “Quiet, quiet, there my beauty, my hope. . . .” They begin to form in rank along the starting line. The crowds along the racecourse are like a field of grass and flowers in the wind. The Festival of 30 Summer has begun.

Do you believe? Do you accept the festival, the city, the joy? No? Then let me describe one more thing.

In a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar of one of its spacious private homes, there 35 is a room. It has one locked door, and no window. A little light seeps in dustily between cracks in the boards, secondhand from a cobwebbed window somewhere across the cellar. In one corner of the little room a couple of mops, with stiff, clotted, foul‑smelling heads, stand near a rusty bucket. The floor is dirt, a little damp to the touch, as cellar dirt usually is. 40 The room is about three paces long and two wide: a mere broom closet or disused tool room. In the room a child is sitting. It could be a

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boy or a girl. It looks about six, but actually is nearly ten. It is feeble‑minded. Perhaps it was born defective, or perhaps it has become imbecile through fear, malnutrition, and neglect. It picks its nose and occasionally fumbles vaguely with its toes or genitals, as it sits hunched in the corner farthest from the bucket and the two mops. It is afraid of the mops. It finds them horrible. It shuts its eyes, but it knows the mops are still standing there; and the door is locked; and no‑body will come. The door is always locked; and nobody ever comes, except that sometimes—the child has no understanding of time or interval—sometimes the door rattles terribly and opens, and a person, or several people, are there. One of them may come in and kick the child to make it stand up. The others never come close, but peer in at it with frightened, disgusted eyes. The food bowl and the water jug are hastily filled, the door is locked, the eyes disappear. The people at the door never say anything, but the child, who has not always lived in the tool room, and can remember sunlight and its mother’s voice, sometimes speaks. “I will be good,” it says. “Please let me out. I will be good!” They never answer. The child used to scream for help at night, and cry a good deal, but now it only makes a kind of whining, “eh‑haa, eh‑haa,” and it speaks less and less often. It is so thin there are no calves to its legs; its belly protrudes; it lives on a half‑bowl of corn meal and grease a day. It is naked. Its buttocks and thighs are a mass of festered sores, as it sits in its own excrement continually.

They all know it is there, all the people of Omelas. Some of them have come to see it, others are content merely to know it is there. They all know that it has to be there. Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children, the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their mak‑ers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers of their skies, depend wholly on this child’s abominable misery.

This is usually explained to children when they are between eight and twelve, whenever they seem capable of understanding; and most of those who come to see the child are young people, though often enough an adult comes, or comes back to see the child. No matter how well the matter has been explained to them, these young spectators are always shocked and sickened at the sight. They feel disgust, which they had thought themselves superior to. They feel anger, outrage, impo‑tence, despite all the explanations. They would like to do something for the child. But there is nothing they can do. If the child were brought up into the sunlight out of that vile place, if it were cleaned and fed and comforted, that would be a good thing, indeed; but if it were done, in that day and hour all the prosperity and beauty and delight of Omelas would wither and be destroyed. Those are the terms. To exchange all the goodness and grace of every life in Omelas for that single, small improvement: to throw away the happiness of thousands for the chance of the happiness of one: that would be to let guilt within the walls indeed.

The terms are strict and absolute; there may not even be a kind word spoken to the child.

The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas �

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Often the young people go home in tears, or in a tearless rage, when they have seen the child and faced this terrible paradox. They may brood over it for weeks or years. But as time goes on they begin to realize that even if the child could be released, it would not get much good of its freedom: a little vague pleasure of warmth and food, no doubt, but little more. It is too degraded and imbecile to know any real joy. It has been afraid too long ever to be free of fear. Its habits are too uncouth for it to respond to humane treatment. Indeed, after so long it would probably be wretched without walls about it to protect it, and darkness for its eyes, and its own excrement to sit in. Their tears at the bitter injustice dry when they begin to perceive the terrible justice of reality, and to accept it. Yet it is their tears and anger, the trying of their generosity and the acceptance of their helplessness, which are perhaps the true source of the splendor of their lives. Theirs is no vapid, irresponsible happiness. They know that they, like the child, are not free. They know compassion. It is the existence of the child, and their knowledge of its existence, that makes possible the nobility of their architecture, the poignancy of their music, the profundity of their science. It is because of the child that they are so gentle with children. They know that if the wretched one were not there snivelling in the dark, the other one, the flute‑player, could make no joyful music as the young riders line up in their beauty for the race in the sunlight of the first morning of summer.

Now do you believe in them? Are they not more credible? But there is one more thing to tell, and this is quite incredible.

At times one of the adolescent girls or boys who go to see the child does not go home to weep or rage, does not, in fact, go home at all. Sometimes also a man or woman much older falls silent for a day or two, and then leaves home. These people go out into the street, and walk down the street alone. They keep walking, and walk straight out of the city of Omelas, through the beautiful gates. They keep walking across the farmlands of Omelas. Each one goes alone, youth or girl, man or woman. Night falls; the traveler must pass down village streets, between the houses with yellow‑lit windows, and on out into the darkness of the fields. Each alone, they go west or north, towards the mountains. They go on. They leave Omelas, they walk ahead into the darkness, and they do not come back. The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible that it does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.

Youth participants will take in a special art installation by Janet Echelman, a Henry Crown Fellow, who will be at the Action Forum.

The Story of Fire A Sufi Tale

5 Once upon a time, a man discovered how fire could be made. His name was

Nour. He decided to travel from one people to another showing his discovery. He gave the secret to many tribes. Some people took advantage of what he taught them. Others drove him away thinking he must be dangerous. These didn’t even wait to see how valuable fire was. Finally a certain tribe became so frightened that they killed him, 10 thinking he was an evil spirit.

Many years passed. In one tribe the knowledge about fire remained a secret known only to the priests. The priests were prosperous while the ordinary people froze. In a second tribe, the art of making fire was forgotten, but people continued to worship the tools of fire-making. A third tribe worshipped a statue of Nour himself, 15 because he had taught them about fire. A fourth tribe kept alive the story of making fire. Some people believed the story, others did not. A fifth tribe really used fire in an everyday way, keeping warm, and cooking their food.

A wise man and his students were travelling through the land of these tribes. The students were amazed at all the ceremonies they discovered, and one of them 20 said, “These ceremonies all have to do with the making of fire and nothing else. Let us teach these people the truth.” The wise man said, “Very well. Let us start. By the end of this adventure, those of you who survive will know the real problems involved.”

When they reached the first tribe, they were received in a friendly way. The priests invited them to attend their main religious ceremony, the making of fire. When 25 it was over, the wise man said to his students, “Does anyone wish to speak?” One student said, “In the name of truth, I must speak to these people.” “You do so at your own risk,” said the master. The student stepped forward and said to the chiefs of the tribe, “I can also make fire, which you think is a miracle only the priests can perform. If I show you that I can do this too, will you admit that you have been wrong all these years?” But the 30 priests broke in and said, “Take this man to prison.” He was taken away and never seen again.

The wise man and his students then travelled to the lands of the second tribe, the one which worshipped the tools of fire-making. Again, another student offered to tell the truth to this tribe. He said, “I speak to you as reasonable people. You spend your 35 time worshipping something instead of using it. You are not even worshipping the thing itself, fire, but the tools by which it is made. You stand in the way of progress. I know the truth about your ceremony.” The people of this tribe were more reasonable. They said, “You are welcome as a stranger in our midst. But, because you are a stranger, you cannot understand our customs. You are mistaken. Perhaps you are even trying to take 40 away our religion. We will not listen to you.” The wise man and his students were forced to leave.

When they arrived in the land of the third tribe they found a statue of Nour, the firemaker, in front of every house. A third student spoke to the chiefs of this tribe. He said, “This statue is the statue of a man. It stands for a power which can be useful 45 to everyone.” “This may be so,” said the worshippers of Nour, “but the discovery of the secret is only for the elite.” The student then said, “You are refusing to face facts.” The priests answered, “You are not a priest of Nour, you do not even speak our language well. Go away.” The wise man and the students left.

They continued their journey and arrived in the land of the fourth tribe, the 50

one which kept alive the story of the discovery of fire. A fourth student stepped forward and said, “This story of the making of fire is true, and I myself know how to do it.” Confusion broke out in the tribe, and they split up into groups opposed to one another. Some said, “This story may be true, and if it is, we ourselves want to find out how to make fire.” Many of those who wanted to find out about making fire were eager for 5 personal advantage and not for human progress. Most ordinary people continued to believe the old stories about fire. They did not think fire was an everyday thing. The ones who thought these stories could show people how to make fire were often mentally unstable. They could not have made fire themselves, even if someone showed them how.

Other people in the tribe said, “We prefer our old stories. They give us something 10 to believe together. What will happen to our community if we stop believing in them?” There were many other points of view also. The wise man and his students left. The wise man and his students had nothing to teach them.

They finally reached the lands of the fifth tribe where fire was in common use. These people were concerned about other things. 15

Thinking back over their trip, the wise man said to his students, “You have to learn how to teach, for men do not want to be taught. But first you have to teach people how to learn. Yet, even before that, you have to teach them that there is still something to be learned. People imagine that they are ready to learn, but they want to learn what they imagine must be learned, not what really should be learned. When you 20 have learned this yourselves, then you can learn how to teach. Knowledge of something is different from knowledge of how to teach it to another.”

The Youth Camp program includes attendance at the Action Forum plenary sessions.

Horse Play by Ayyappa Paniker

Four gallant horses galloped forth.

One was white, one was black, one was red, one was brown. 5

One had four legs, one had three, one had two, and the fourth had one leg. 10

The one-legged horse said to the others : the time for dance has come, sweet friends, 15let's dance on a single hoof !

All of them liked the idea, and the dance began. The four-legged horse fainted outright, 20the three-legged horse slipped and fell, the two-legged horse limped to a fall : only the one-legged one danced on and on.

We look forward to seeing you in July!

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The Woodcarver

by Chuang Tzu(c. 369 B.C. – c. 286 B.C.)

Khing, the master carver, made a bell standOf precious wood. When it was finished, All who saw it were astounded. They said it must beThe work of spirits.The Prince of Lu said to the master carver:“What is your secret?”

Khing replied, “I am only a workman:I have no secret. There is only this:When I began to think about the work you commandedI guarded my spirit, did not expend itOn trifles, that were not to the point.I fasted in order to setMy heart at rest.

“After three days fasting,I had forgotten gain and success.After five daysI had forgotten praise or criticism.After seven days I had forgotten my bodyWith all its limbs.

“By this time all thought of your HighnessAnd of the court had faded away.All that might distract me from the workHad vanished.I was collected in the single thoughtOf the bell stand.

From Thomas Merton, ed., The Way of Chuang Tzu, New Directions, New York, 1965, pp. 110–111

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“Then I went to the forestTo see the trees in their own natural state.When the right tree appeared before my eyes,The bell stand also appeared in it, clearly, beyond doubt.All I had to do was put forth my handAnd begin.

“If I had not met this particular treeThere would have beenNo bell stand at all.

“What happened?My own collected thoughtEncountered the hidden potential in the wood;From this live encounter came the workWhich you ascribe to the spirits.”