Why did Aristotle view leisure as a fundamental aspect of a well-lived life?

 

Leah Goldrick answers the question posed above in this guest essay. The essay was first published on Common Sense Ethics, Leah’s excellent blog.

Leah writes:

I've just finished reading Aristotle's Way: How Ancient Wisdom Can Change Your Life, by classicist Edith Hall. It's a great book that I would recommend for my readers, as Hall capitalizes on popular interest in ancient philosophy and substantive self-help. Aristotle addresses the issue of how to live a good life in his Politics, and Nicomachean Ethics, written in the fourth century BC. In Aristotle's Way, Hall codifies Aristotle's most important ideas on how we should live, addressing topics such as happiness, love, communication, and mortality, among others. 

Chapter Seven of Aristotle’s Way is all about Aristotle’s philosophy of leisure, which I think is one of the most interesting chapters, and that's what I'll be writing about in this post. If you want to read a review of the entire book, I recommend this one by Donald Robertson, since I'm focusing on only a part of it here. 

​Aristotle’s philosophy of leisure is tied to his broader understanding of human flourishing. Aristotle thought that most people tend to misuse leisure time if they haven’t learned how to spend it meaningfully, preferring instead to spend their non-working hours on trivial pleasures and amusements. However, learning to use leisure time for growth oriented pursuits can greatly improve our lives. Let's examine that idea in depth in the next sections.  
​

What is Aristotelian Leisure?

​Aristotelian leisure encompasses not just what we might think of as recreational activities today like hobbies and sports, but rather, everything broadly we do outside of work. This includes relaxation after work, eating and fulfilling other bodily functions, and amusements to avoid boredom. It also includes forming relationships with others, enjoying the arts, spending time on exercise and intellectual contemplation, crafts, civic association, and other beneficial and meaningful activities. For Aristotle, leisure isn’t simply about taking breaks or escaping from work; it's a fundamental aspect of a well-lived life.

At the core of Aristotle’s ethics is the concept of eudaimonia, translated as "flourishing" or "well-being." The ultimate human goal is living in accordance with reason and achieving a life of virtue. To reach eudaimonia, one must engage in activities that are fulfilling, meaningful, and promote personal growth. Leisure, in this context, is not a passive activity but is deeply connected to the active cultivation of one's intellect and virtues. In the Nichmeachean Ethics (Book X, 1176b) Aristotle writes: “To be always seeking after amusement is a sign of levity and not of a serious purpose.”

In today’s world, where leisure is often viewed as idle entertainment or seen merely as a break from work, the concept of Aristotelian leisure offers a richer and more profound understanding of what we should be doing with our time; leisure involves reflection, growth, and the pursuit of intellectual and moral development, not just passive distraction. Aristotle argues that leisure is the time in which we can engage in these activities, which allow us to connect to the highest aspects of our human nature. This could include philosophical conversation, artistic creation, or scientific inquiry. These activities are seen as valuable in themselves—not just as means to an end.

In essence, Aristotle’s view of leisure encourages us to think of it as time for self-improvement, exploration, and the cultivation of virtues, rather than merely a time to "rest" from work. Aristotle also believes that leisure is essential for cultivating friendships, which are vital for living a good life. In a sense, leisure time allows for the development of meaningful relationships, as people have time to engage in shared activities that promote mutual flourishing.

Work, Leisure and the Good Life

Aristotle obviously acknowledged that work and productive labor are necessary for survival, and most people in the ancient world that Aristotle inhabited worked tremendously hard. Aristotle also thinks that work can be virtuous if done with the right intentions.

Still, work is secondary to leisure in the Aristotelian sense. Moreover, work should not dominate a person’s life to the point where there is no room for leisure, because without leisure, a person is unable to engage in the activities that lead to personal fulfillment and virtue. Thinking about leisure this way can be a helpful antidote to the burnout many experience in the modern, work-centered culture.

From an Aristotelian perspective, you need not be defined by your job or career, but rather by what you choose to do with your non-working hours. This is good news for several reasons. First, the reality is that only a minority of people are lucky enough to be able to make a living doing what they love. Most of us will have work to get by, but it’s leisure that is truly important for a good life. So, it doesn’t matter if you aren’t totally satisfied with your career.

Best of all, even if you work a lot, you likely have more leisure time available to you than the average person in Aristotle's day. In ancient Greece, everything, even basic chores, had to be done by hand. By contrast, most people in the developed world today enjoy access to modern appliances and conveniences which free up more of our time for meaningful leisure.  

To wrap up the post here, Aristotle thought that how we spend our non-working hours defines who we are, the kind of life we will have, and the type of society we build. From this perspective, our leisure choices are more significant than we may realize. Spending our leisure time meaningfully helps us make sense of the world, experience growth, and contribute to something larger than ourselves. 

If you'd like to learn more about Aristotle's ideas on how to live well, I highly recommend reading Aristotle's Way.  

What does Don Lavoie tell us about the implications of the knowledge problem for the plans of political entrepreneurs?

One of the questions that I have been contemplating in recent months is whether the tariff policies of President Trump could be part of a coherent economic plan. Can his policies be rationalized in terms of revenue raising objectives, the optimum tariff argument, provision of appropriate incentives to manufacturing industries to meet defence or employment objectives, or the pursuit of foreign policy objectives? Is it possible that he is assigning policy instruments to objectives in a manner consistent with a rational plan?

The presumption underlying such questions is that it is preferable for political entrepreneurs to endeavor to ensure that their economic plans are coherent rather than unprincipled, unpredictable, and capricious. Although that may be a reasonable presumption, there is another other option that should be considered. Perhaps it is appropriate for political entrepreneurs to refrain from engaging in economic planning.

I was reminded of that while reading Don Lavoie’s book, National Economic Planning: What is Left?  Don Lavoie was an economics professor at George Mason University, where he taught from 1981 until his death in 2001. This book was originally published by the Cato Institute in 1985 and was reprinted by the Mercatus Center in 2016.

In this book Don Lavoie explains, among other things, that political entrepreneurs are confronted with a fundamental knowledge problem when they seek to plan economic activities, The epigraph quoted above (from page 181) encapsulates an important implication of the knowledge problem.

Lavoie’s explanation of the information problem begins with the insights of F. A. Hayek. The data that a planning agency would require to engage in rational economic planning resides in the separate minds of millions of people. The data exists only in a dispersed form that cannot be fully extracted by any single agent in society. The only way that knowledge can be used effectively is by relying on competitive struggles in a market system.  (p. 56)

The most obvious implication is that it is impossible for markets to be replaced by comprehensive economic planning. However, more modest attempts to steer the market towards particular outcomes also obstruct the source of knowledge which is essential to rational decision-making. (p. 56-7)

Lavoie points out that the only way we can know whether we are squandering resources by over- or underinvesting in microprocessors or steel, for example, is via “the messages contained in the relative profitability of rival firms in these industries”. He adds:

“But this is precisely the information we garble when we channel money toward one or another of the contenders. Deprived of its elimination process, the market would no longer be able to serve its function as a method for discovering better and eliminating worse production techniques. Without the necessity of responding to consumers’ wants or needs, businesses would never withdraw from unprofitable avenues of production.” (p.181)

Lavoie notes that advocates of industry policy disagree on the directions in which the market should be steered. For example, Felix Rohatyn wanted to funnel aid to sunset industries while Robert Reich wanted to funnel it to sunrise industries. He sums up:

“It is the main conclusion of the argument that I have called the knowledge problem … that there are no rational grounds on which Reich could ever convince Rohatyn or vice versa on such matters as are involved in economic change. As a result, such battles are sure to be fought with weapons other than carefully reasoned argument.” (p. 200-201)

Lavoie notes that Rohatyn and Reich both argued that it is the responsibility of a strong leader to coordinate the actions of the rest of us. (p.190) The coordination they had in mind seems to be more akin to the coordination that military leaders impose by giving orders to subordinates than the coordination among individuals that occurs voluntarily and spontaneously in a free market.

Lavoie argues that economic planning is inherently militaristic: “The practice of planning is nothing but the militarization of the economy”. In making that point he notes that the theory of economic planning was from its inception modeled after feudalistic and militaristic organizations. (p. 230)

Some would argue that a degree of militarization is a price worth paying, or even desirable, to achieve a range of national objectives. Indeed, the conventional theory of democracy seems to entail top-down direction. Prior to elections, political leaders tell voters about their plans for education, health, social security etc. and are expected to implement those plans after they are elected.  

I am not aware of anything that Lavoie wrote that discusses the legitimacy of the concept of national objectives and the question of whether planning (and militarization) may be necessary in the pursuit of social objectives. However, he provided a highly relevant discussion of the concept of democracy in a book chapter entitled, ‘Democracy, Markets, and the Legal Order: Notes on the Nature of Politics in a Radically Liberal Society’. (The book is: Ellen Frankel Paul, Fred D. Miller, Jr., and Jeffrey Paul (Eds.) Liberalism and the Economic Order, Cambridge University Press, 1993.)

In that chapter Lavoie notes that Western liberals tend to view democracy and markets “as in some sort of necessary tension with one another”. We tend to think that “taking democracy too far undermines markets and that taking markets too far undermines democracy”. He attributes that view to “liberalism’s gradual drift into compromises with conservatism and socialism”.

Lavoie argues that liberalism needs to reinterpret its notions of markets and democracy so that they are seen to be essentially complementary. Our economics needs to take account of the cultural underpinnings of markets and our politics “needs to move beyond the model of the exercise of some kind of unified, conscious democratic will and understand democratic processes as distributed throughout the political culture”. The force of public opinion is best perceived as the distributed influence of political discourses throughout society rather than as “a concentrated will”.

Lavoie suggests that what we should mean by democracy is a distinctive kind of openness in society rather than a theory about how to elect the personnel of government:

“Democracy is not a quality of the conscious will of a representative organization that has been legitimated by the public, but a quality of the discursive process of the distributed wills of the public itself.” (p.111).

It seems to me that those who see merit in Lavoie’s view of democracy have good reasons to be skeptical about the worth of top-down planning to achieve national objectives. Individuals have different priorities and objectives that deserve to be recognized. National plans cannot solve the knowledge problem entailed in giving appropriate recognition to individual differences. 

Is it too soon to be asking in what part of the world will the next golden age be located?

 

The question posed above occurred to me as I was reading the final pages of Johan Norberg’s latest book, Peak Human: What We Can Learn from the Rise and Fall of Golden Ages.

Johan Norberg is a senior fellow at the Cato institute. He is a historian of ideas and a prolific author. If Norberg has a fan club, I might qualify for honorary membership. I have written about some of his previous books on this blog (here and here) and have read others.

Norberg explains what he means by a golden age in these terms:

“A golden age is associated with a culture of optimism, which encourages people to explore new knowledge, experiment with new methods and technologies, and exchange the results with others. Its characteristics are cultural creativity, scientific discoveries, technological achievements and economic growth that stand out compared with what came before and after it, and compared with other contemporary cultures. Its result is a high average standard of living, which is usually the envy of others, often also of their heirs.”

The author suggests that the most important precondition for a golden age is “an absence of orthodoxies imposed form the top about what to believe, think and say, how to live and what to do.” He doesn’t present the golden ages he has identified in utopian terms. He acknowledges that countries concerned all practiced slavery, denied women basic rights and “took great delight in exterminating neighbouring populations”.

As implied in the epigraph, Norberg argues that civilizations decline when they lose cultural self-confidence. He suggests that episodes of creativity and growth are often terminated because of the perceived self-interest of people who fear change and feel threatened by it. Free speech is replaced by orthodoxies and free markets are replaced by increased economic controls. The fears of those seeking stability and predictability often become self-fulfilling.

 In my view, Norberg has done an excellent job in explaining why golden ages have emerged and disappeared at different times in different parts of the world.

However, I think there may be an omission in the author’s identification of golden ages. I will briefly discuss that before focusing on the question of whether the Anglosphere is in decline.

Identifying golden ages

Norberg discusses seven golden ages in his book. Since he doesn’t provide a summary timeline showing their duration, I asked ChatGPT to construct the following:

• Athens: 480–404 BC
• Rome: 27 BC–AD 180
• Abbasids: 750–950
• Song dynasty: 960–1279
• Renaissance Italy: 1490–1527
• Dutch Republic: 1609–1672
• Anglosphere: c. 1688 onward.

If that timeline is broadly correct, it suggests that the largest gap between golden ages occurred between the end of the golden age of Rome and the beginning of the golden age of the Abbasids. What was happening at that time? Although the golden age of Rome may have ended around 180, following the death of Marcus Aurelius, the decline and fall of the Roman empire took a few more centuries. The last emperor of the Western Roman empire was deposed in 476. Plato’s Academy in Athens apparently continued to function until 532, when the seven last philosophers left to seek refuge with the Persian king. Interest in Greek philosophy grew in Persia during the 6^th and 7^th centuries, partly because of the presence of scholars associated with schismatic Christian sects.

As I was pondering what was happening between 180 and 750, I began to wonder whether India’s golden age might have been worth discussing in this book. While visiting India last year I read William Dalrymple’s book, TheGolden Road: How Ancient India Transformed the World. As well as discussing India’s impact on religion and culture throughout much of Asia, Dalrymple. points out that over the period from about 250BC to AD 1200, India was an important centre of commerce and trade, and an innovator in fields such as astronomy and mathematics.

India was the source of the numerical system with 10 digits including zero, that we use today. Norberg mentions that important contribution, but Dalrymple discusses it at greater length.

Another fascinating topic discussed by Dalrymple is the close relationship between the merchant classes of early India and the Buddhist monastic movement. Dalrymple emphasizes the importance of trade between India and the Roman empire. He notes that as the Roman empire crumbled, India’s trade with Europe was replaced by expansion of its trade with south-east Asia.

Is the Anglosphere in decline?

The Anglosphere refers to those nations where the English language and cultural values are dominant. Few would dispute that over the last couple of centuries the Anglosphere, first led by Britain and then the United States, played a leading role among nations in demonstrating the benefits of liberal democracy, free markets, technological innovation, and free international trade. Life in the Anglosphere has been far from ideal even in respect of those criteria, but there can be no doubt that we have been living in an age of widespread prosperity that is without historical precedent. As Norberg points out, the whole world has benefited from the spread of golden-age conditions fostered by the Anglosphere, with global extreme poverty declining from 38 to 9 percent in just the period since 1990.

However, Norberg notes that “many ominous signs of decline are clearly present in our time”. He mentions the “hubristic overreach” of U.S. attempts to reshape the Middle East through military interventions in Afghanistan and Iraq, the financial crash of 2008, and the growth of “crippling public debt”. He suggests that a series of crises, including the Covid pandemic, have fostered “a sense that the world is dangerous and that we need to protect ourselves from it”. He writes:

“Most worryingly, rich counties have experienced a major backlash against globalization and trade, and immigrants have become scapegoats, just as they were in so many other eras of decline, potentially shutting us out from our most potent source of constant revitalization.”

Norberg notes that both China and Russia “have recently taken a totalitarian turn and are working hard to devastate neighbours”. He suggests, nevertheless, that Russia and China will have a hard time trying to challenge the Anglosphere-led world order because it will be difficult for them to find reliable friends among advanced states. 

Unfortunately, in the short time since the book was written, the government of the United States has adopted an international stance that seems to be inconsistent with the continued existence of an Anglosphere-led world order. Countries that have long regarded themselves as allies of the U.S. are now forced to contemplate seriously how they can best protect their own interests if the U.S. pursues isolationist policies.

The book ends on a somewhat optimistic note. The author observes that there are roughly fifty prosperous, open societies around the world. If one of them fails, “that will not stop others from picking up the torch”. He adds:

“That prompts the question of where the next golden age will come from.”

After considering various possibilities, however, he suggests that “perhaps this is the wrong way to look at it because we now have a “truly global civilization” in which every literate person anywhere in the world can draw upon the accumulated knowledge of humanity and learn skills in any field. In that context, “no one country can hold a monopoly on the ideas that can make them prosper”.

I agree with the general thrust of that argument. The technology required for future golden ages is not deposited in a library that can be easily destroyed. However, the geographical location of societies that are open and prosperous is still an issue worth considering. It isn’t much consolation for citizens in the United States, Britain or Australia to know that their children and grandchildren may be able to draw upon the accumulated knowledge of humanity and learn skills in any field, if institutional change impinges adversely on their incentives to do such things. Opportunities for human flourishing depend on whether political entrepreneurs will restore and maintain sufficient economic freedom.

It is in that context that I ask: Is it too soon to be asking where the next golden age will be located?

I suggested an optimistic answer to that question in Chapter 6 of Freedom, Progress, and Human Flourishing. Looking beyond looming economic crises, I am still optimistic that the governments of most liberal democracies will eventually introduce institutional reforms to enable the drivers of progress to restore growth of opportunities.

What does the Milgram experiment tell us about human nature?

 

I can remember feeling shocked when I first heard about the Milgram experiment. Some psychology students told me about the experiment about 60 years ago, while I was at university.

At that time, the findings of the experiment caused me to question my view of human nature. I was brought up to hold the view that it is natural for humans to be kind and humane. That view is consistent with the derivation of the words, “kind” and “humane”. It is also the view I hold now. The findings of the Milgram experiment seemed to suggest, however, that a less positive view of human nature might be more accurate.

In this post I will summarize the Milgram experiment briefly before explaining why I have changed my mind about what it tells us about human nature.

The experiment was conducted by Stanley Milgram, a psychologist at Yale University. His aim was to explore whether individuals would obey instructions to harm another person when an authority figure told them to do so. The first results of the experiment were published in 1963.

Participants in the experiment were led to believe that they were assisting in a learning experiment in which they were “teachers” who had to administer electric shocks to a "learner" who made mistakes. The electric “shocks” were fakes. The “learners” were actors. They made audible protests in response to the fake shocks. As the voltage increased, the “learners” protested more.

The main finding of the experiments was that a very high proportion of subjects fully obeyed the instructions - 65% were willing to apply the highest shock level. The experiment was replicated several times with similar outcomes being obtained.

When I first heard about the study, the message I took from it was that most humans are horrible. People claim to have regard for the well-being of others, but when it comes to the crunch, most people lack sufficient empathy and/or moral fortitude to refuse to inflict pain on others. The worst part of it was that I wasn’t confident that I would have been one of the minority who refused to apply the highest shock level.

However, when I recently read an article about the study I modified my view of the participants. They didn’t lack empathy for the victims. It was obvious from their behaviour, including symptoms of stress, that they were uncomfortable following the instruction to inflict pain. Every participant paused the experiment at least once to question whether they should continue. In interviews following the sessions, participants frequently described feeling tormented by what they believed they were doing.

Participants only continued because the instructor insisted that they do so. The instructor began by asking the participants politely to “please continue”. If they continued to object, they were told: “The experiment requires you to continue”. If they still objected, they were told three times that they “must continue”.

Milgram’s subsequent experiments showed that obedience was affected by a range of factors e.g. the uniform of the instructor, the location of the experiment, and the presence of social support. In one experiment, two confederates in the room refused to administer high levels of shocks. In that context, only 10% of participants were willing to administer the highest level of shock.

On the basis of his findings, Milgram suggested that the obedient participants were in an “agentic state” where they had allowed others to direct their actions and then passed off responsibility for the consequences to the person giving the orders.

Alexander Haslam and Stephen Reicher have suggested another factor that may explain the behavior of the obedient participants. Rather than simply caving in to orders, they may have believed that they were contributing to a worthy scientific cause.

My conclusion

I am no longer surprised that 65% of participants in the Milgram study ended up doing what the instructor told them to do. They had good reasons to respect the authority of the instructor. They believed they were taking part in a scientific experiment being conducted at a reputable university.

The outcome of the experiment reflected excessive respect for authority rather than a lack of empathy with other humans.

The main point I take away from the findings is that people need to recognize that if they want to behave honorably towards others, they may sometimes need to disregard instructions from authority figures.

The findings of the experiment do not provide a reason to question the view that empathy for others is a characteristic of human nature which is suppressed only under extraordinary circumstances.