Groundwork for the Metaphysic of Morals
Immanuel Kant
Copyright © Jonathan Bennett 2017. All rights reserved
[Brackets] enclose editorial explanations. Small ·dots· enclose material that has been added, but can be read as
though it were part of the original text. Occasional •bullets, and also indenting of passages that are not quotations,
are meant as aids to grasping the structure of a sentence or a thought. Every four-point ellipsis . . . . indicates the
omission of a brief passage that seems to present more difficulty than it is worth. Longer omissions are rerported
between square brackets in normal-sized type.] In the title, ‘Groundwork’ refers not to the foundation that is laid
but to the work of laying it.
First launched: July 2005
Last amended: September 2008
Contents
Preface
1
Chapter 1: Moving from common-sense knowledge to philosophical knowledge about morality
5
Chapter 2: Moving from popular moral philosophy to the metaphysic of morals
14
Chapter 3: Moving from the metaphysic of morals to the critique of pure practical reason
41
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Preface
Preface
hand, can each have an empirical part; indeed, they must
do so because each must discover the laws ·for its domain·.
For •the former, these are the laws of nature considered as
something known through experience; and for •the latter,
they are the laws of the human will so far as it is affected by
nature. ·The two sets of laws are nevertheless very different
from one another·. The laws of nature are laws according to
which everything does happen; the laws of morality are laws
according to which everything ought to happen; they allow
for conditions under which what ought to happen doesn’t
happen.
•Empirical philosophy is philosophy that is based on
experience. •Pure philosophy is philosophy that presents
its doctrines solely on the basis of a priori principles. Pure
philosophy ·can in turn be divided into two·: when it is
entirely formal it is •logic; when it is confined to definite
objects of the understanding, it is •metaphysics.
In this way there arises the idea of a two-fold metaphysic—
a metaphysic of nature and a metaphysic of morals. Physics,
therefore, will have an empirical part and also a rational
part, and ethics likewise, though here the empirical part may
be called more specifically ‘practical anthropology’ and the
rational part ‘morals’ in the strict sense.
All crafts, trades and arts have profited from the division
of labour; for when •each worker sticks to one particular
kind of work that needs to be handled differently from all
the others, he can do it better and more easily than when
•one person does everything. Where work is not thus differentiated and divided, where everyone is a jack-of-all-trades,
the crafts remain at an utterly primitive level. Now, here is
a question worth asking: Doesn’t pure philosophy in each
of its parts require a man who is particularly devoted to
that part? Some people regularly mix up the empirical with
the rational, suiting their mixture to the taste of the public
Ancient Greek philosophy was divided into three branches
of knowledge: •natural science, •ethics, and •logic. This
classification perfectly fits what it is meant to fit; the only
improvement it needs is the supplying of the principle on
which it is based; that will let us be sure that the classification does cover all the ground, and will enable us to
define the necessary subdivisions ·of the three broad kinds of
knowledge·. [Kant, following the Greek, calls the trio Physik, Ethik and
Logik. Our word ‘physics’ is much too narrow for Physik, which is why
‘natural science’ is preferred here. What is lost is the surface neatness of
the Greek and German trio, and of the contrast between natural science
and metaphysics, Physik and Metaphysik ]
There are two kinds of rational knowledge:
•material knowledge, which concerns some object, and
•formal knowledge, which pays no attention to differences between objects, and is concerned only with the
form of understanding and of reason, and with the
universal rules of thinking.
Formal philosophy is called •‘logic’. Material philosophy—
having to do with definite objects and the laws that govern
them—is divided into two parts, depending on whether the
laws in question are laws of •nature or laws of •freedom.
Knowledge of laws of the former kind is called •‘natural
science’, knowledge of laws of the latter kind is called •‘ethics’.
The two are also called ‘theory of nature’ and ‘theory of
morals’ respectively.
•Logic can’t have anything empirical about it—it can’t
have a part in which universal and necessary laws of thinking
are derived from experience. If it did, it wouldn’t be logic—i.e.
a set of rules for the understanding or for reason, rules that
are valid for all thinking and that must be rigorously proved.
The •natural and •moral branches of knowledge, on the other
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Preface
absolute necessity; •that the command: You are not to lie
doesn’t apply only to human beings, as though it had no
force for other rational beings (and similarly with all other
moral laws properly so called); •that the basis for obligation
here mustn’t be looked for in people’s natures or their
circumstances, but ·must be found· a priori solely in the
concepts of pure reason; and •that any precept resting on
principles of mere experience may be called a practical rule
but never a moral law. This last point holds even if there
is something universal about the precept in question, and
even if its empirical content is very small (perhaps bringing
in only the motive involved).
Thus not only are moral laws together with their principles essentially different from all practical knowledge involving anything empirical, but all moral philosophy rests
solely on its pure ·or non-empirical· part. Its application
to human beings doesn’t depend on knowledge of any facts
about them (anthropology); it gives them, as rational beings,
a priori laws—·ones that are valid whatever the empirical
circumstances may be·. (Admittedly ·experience comes into
the story in a certain way, because· these laws require a
power of judgment that has been sharpened by experience—
•partly in order to pick out the cases where the laws apply
and •partly to let the laws get into the person’s will and to
stress that they are to be acted on. For a human being has
so many preferences working on him that, though he is quite
capable of having the idea of a practical pure reason, he
can’t so easily bring it to bear on the details of how he lives
his life.)
A metaphysic of morals is therefore indispensable, ·for
two reasons, one •theoretical and one •practical·. One reason
comes from •our wish, as theoreticians, to explore the source
of the a priori practical principles that lie in our reason. The
other reason is that •until we have the guide and supreme
without actually knowing what its proportions are; they
call themselves independent thinkers and write off those
who apply themselves exclusively to the rational part of
philosophy as mere ponderers. Wouldn’t things be improved
for the learned profession as a whole if those ‘independent
thinkers’ were warned that they shouldn’t carry on two
employments at once—employments that need to be handled
quite differently, perhaps requiring different special talents
for each—because all you get when one person does several
of them is bungling? But all I am asking is this: Doesn’t
the nature of the science ·of philosophy· require that we
carefully separate its empirical from its rational part? That
would involve putting
•a metaphysic of nature before real (empirical) natural
science, and
•a metaphysic of morals before practical anthropology.
Each of these two branches of metaphysics must be carefully
cleansed of everything empirical, so that we can know how
much pure reason can achieve in each branch, and from
what sources it creates its a priori teaching. ·The metaphysic
of morals must be cleansed in this way, no matter who the
metaphysicians of morals are going to be·—whether they will
include all the moralists (there are plenty of them!) or only a
few who feel a calling to this task.
Since my purpose here is directed to moral philosophy, I
narrow the question I am asking down to this:
•Isn’t it utterly necessary to construct a pure moral
philosophy that is completely freed from everything
that may be only empirical and thus belong to anthropology?
That there must be such a philosophy is self-evident from
the common idea of duty and moral laws. Everyone must
admit •that if a law is to hold morally (i.e. as a basis for
someone’s being obliged to do something), it must imply
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Preface
human will as such, which for the most part are drawn from
·empirical· psychology, whereas the metaphysic of morals
aims ·at a non-empirical investigation, namely· investigating
the idea and principles of a possible pure will. Without
having the least right to do so, Wolff’s ‘universal practical
philosophy’ does have things to say about laws and duty; but
this doesn’t conflict with what I have been saying. For the
authors of this intellectual project remain true to their idea
of it ·in this part of its territory also: they· don’t distinguish
•motives that are presented completely a priori by
reason alone and are thus moral in the proper sense
of the word,
from
•motives that involve empirical concepts—ones that
the understanding turns into universal concepts by
comparing experiences.
In the absence of that distinction, they consider motives
without regard to how their sources differ; they treat them as
all being of the same kind, and merely count them; and
on that basis they formulate their concept of obligation,
·so-called·. This is as far from moral obligation as it could be;
but in a philosophy that doesn’t decide whether the origin of
all possible practical concepts is a priori or a posteriori, what
more could you expect?
Intending some day to publish a •metaphysic of morals, I
now present this •groundwork, ·this exercise of foundationlaying·, for it. There is, to be sure, no other basis for such
a metaphysic than a critical examination of pure practical
reason, just as there is no other basis for metaphysic than
the critical examination of pure speculative reason that I
have already published. [The unavoidable word ‘speculative’ (like
norm for making correct moral judgments, morality itself will
be subject to all kinds of corruption. ·Here is the reason for
that·. For something to be morally good, it isn’t enough that
it conforms to the ·moral· law; it must be done because it
conforms to the law. An action that isn’t performed with that
motive may happen to fit the moral law, but its conformity
to the law will be chancy and unstable, and more often
than not the action won’t be lawful at all. So we need to
find the moral law in its purity and genuineness, this being
what matters most in questions about conduct; and the only
place to find it is in a philosophy that is pure ·in the sense
I have introduced—see page 1·. So metaphysics must lead
the way; without it there can’t be any moral philosophy.
Philosophy ·that isn’t pure, i.e.· that mixes pure principles
with empirical ones, doesn’t deserve the name of ‘philosophy’
(for what distinguishes •philosophy from •intelligent common
sense is precisely that •the former treats as separate kinds
of knowledge what •the latter jumbles up together). Much
less can it count as ‘moral philosophy’, since by this mixing
·of pure with empirical· it deprives morality of its purity and
works against morality’s own purposes.
I am pointing to the need for an entirely new field of
investigation to be opened up. You might think that ·there
is nothing new about it because· it is already present in the
famous Wolff’s ‘introduction’ to his moral philosophy (i.e. in
what he called ‘universal practical philosophy’); but it isn’t.
Precisely because his work aimed to be universal practical
philosophy, it didn’t deal with any particular kind of will,
and attended only to will in general and with such actions
and conditions as that brings in; and so it had no room for
the notion of •a will that is determined by a priori principles
with no empirical motives, which means that it had no place
for anything that could be called •a pure will. Thus Wolff’s
‘introduction’. . . .concerns the actions and conditions of the
its cognate‘speculation’) is half of the dichotomy between practical and
speculative. A speculative endeavour is one aimed at establishing truths
about what is the case, implying nothing about what ought to be the
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Immanuel Kant
Preface
case; with no suggestion that it involves guesswork or anything like that.
Two of Kant’s most famous titles—Critique of Pure Reason and Critique of
In laying a foundation, however, all I am doing is seeking and establishing the supreme principle of morality—a
self-contained and entirely completable task that should be
kept separate from every other moral inquiry. Until now
there hasn’t been nearly enough attention to this important
question ·of the nature of and basis for the supreme principle
of morality·. My conclusions about it could be •clarified
by bringing the ·supreme· principle to bear on the whole
system of morality, and •confirmed by how well it would
serve all through. But I must forgo this advantage: basically
it would gratify me rather than helping anyone else, because
a principle’s being easy to use and its seeming to serve well
don’t prove for sure that it is right. They are more likely
merely to create a bias in its favour, which will get in the way
of its being ruthlessly probed and evaluated in its own right
and without regard to consequences.
Practical Reason —are really short-hand for Critique of Pure Speculative
Reason and Critique of Pure Practical Reason. respectively. That involves
the speculative/practical contrast; there is no pure/practical contrast.
The second of those two works, incidentally, still lay in the future when
However, ·I have three reasons
for not plunging straight into a critical examination of pure
practical reason·. (1) It is nowhere near as important to have
a critical examination of pure •practical reason as it is to have
one of ·pure· •speculative reason. That is because even in the
commonest mind, human reason can easily be brought to a
high level of correctness and completeness in moral matters,
whereas reason in its theoretical but pure use is wholly
dialectical [= ‘runs into unavoidable self-contradictions’]. (2) When
we are conducting a critical examination of pure practical
reason, I insist that the job is not finished until •practical
reason and •speculative reason are brought together and
unified under a common concept of reason, because ultimately they have to be merely different applications of
one and the same reason. But I couldn’t achieve this kind
of completeness ·here· without confusing the reader by
bringing in considerations of an altogether different kind
·from the matter in hand·. That is why I have used the
title Groundwork for the Metaphysic of Morals rather than
Critique of Pure Practical Reason. (3) A metaphysic of morals,
in spite of its forbidding title, can be done in a popular way
so that people of ordinary intelligence can easily take it in;
so I find it useful to separate this preliminary work on the
foundation, dealing with certain subtleties here so that I
can keep them out of the more comprehensible work that
will come later. [Here and throughout, ‘popular’ means ‘pertaining to
Kant wrote the present work.]
[Kant has, and uses in the present work, a well-known distinction
between •‘analytic’ propositions (known to be true just by analysing
their constituent concepts) and •‘synthetic’ propositions (can’t be known
without bringing in something that the concepts don’t contain). In this
next sentence he uses those terms in a different way—one that goes
back to Descartes—in which they mark off not two •kinds of proposition
but two •ways of proceeding. In the analytic procedure, you start with
what’s familiar and on that basis work out what the relevant general
principles are; synthetic procedure goes the other way—you start with
general principles and derive familiar facts from them.]
In the present work I have adopted the method that is, I
think, the most suitable if one wants to proceed •analytically
from common knowledge to settling what its supreme principle is, and then •synthetically from examining this principle
and its sources back to common knowledge to which it
applies. So the work is divided up thus:
or suitable for ordinary not very educated people’. The notion of being
widely liked is not prominent in its meaning.]
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Chapter 1 Moving from common-sense knowledge to philosophical knowledge about morality.
Chapter 2 Moving from popular moral philosophy to the
Chapter 1
metaphysic of morals.
Chapter 3 Final step from the metaphysic of morals to the
critical examination of pure practical reason.
Chapter 1:
Moving from common-sense knowledge to philosophical knowledge about morality
•Moderation in emotions and passions, self-control, and
Nothing in the world—or out of it!—can possibly be conceived that could be called ‘good’ without qualification except
a GOOD WILL. Mental talents such as intelligence, wit, and
judgment, and temperaments such as courage, resoluteness,
and perseverance are doubtless in many ways good and
desirable; but they can become extremely bad and harmful
if the person’s character isn’t good—i.e. if the will that is to
make use of these •gifts of nature isn’t good. Similarly with
•gifts of fortune. Power, riches, honour, even health, and
the over-all well-being and contentment with one’s condition that we call ‘happiness’, create pride, often leading to
arrogance, if there isn’t a good will to correct their influence
on the mind. . . . Not to mention the fact that the sight of
someone who shows no sign of a pure and good will and yet
enjoys uninterrupted prosperity will never give pleasure to
an impartial rational observer. So it seems that without a
good will one can’t even be worthy of being happy.
calm deliberation not only are good in many ways but seem
even to constitute part of the person’s inner worth, and they
were indeed unconditionally valued by the ancients. Yet they
are very far from being good without qualification—·good
in themselves, good in any circumstances·—for without the
principles of a good will they can become extremely bad: ·for
example·, a villain’s •coolness makes him far more dangerous
and more straightforwardly abominable to us than he would
otherwise have seemed.
What makes a good will good? It isn’t what it brings about,
its usefulness in achieving some intended end. Rather, good
will is good because of how it wills—i.e. it is good in itself.
Taken just in itself it is to be valued incomparably more
highly than anything that could be brought about by it in
the satisfaction of some preference—or, if you like, the sum
total of all preferences! Consider this case:
Even qualities that are conducive to this good will and
can make its work easier have no intrinsic unconditional
worth. We rightly hold them in high esteem, but only because
we assume them to be accompanied by a good will; so we
can’t take them to be absolutely ·or unconditionally· good.
Through bad luck or a miserly endowment from stepmotherly nature, this person’s will has no power at
all to accomplish its purpose; not even the greatest
effort on his part would enable it to achieve anything
it aims at. But he does still have a good will—not as a
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Immanuel Kant
mere wish but as the summoning of all the means in
his power.
The good will of this person would sparkle like a jewel all
by itself, as something that had its full worth in itself. Its
value wouldn’t go up or down depending on how useful or
fruitless it was. If it was useful, that would only be the
setting ·of the jewel·, so to speak, enabling us to handle it
more conveniently in commerce (·a diamond ring is easier
to manage than a diamond·) or to get those who don’t know
much ·about jewels· to look at it. But the setting doesn’t
affect the value ·of the jewel· and doesn’t recommend it the
experts.
But there is something extremely strange in this •idea
of the absolute worth of the will—the mere will—with no
account taken of any use to which it is put. It is indeed so
strange that, despite the agreement even of common sense
(·an agreement I have exhibited in the preceding three paragraphs·), you’re bound to suspect that there may be nothing
to it but high-flown fancy, and that I have misunderstood
what nature was up to in appointing reason as the ruler of
our will. So let us critically examine the •idea from the point
of view of this suspicion.
We take it as an axiom that in the natural constitution
of an organized being (i.e. one suitably adapted to life) no
organ will be found that isn’t perfectly adapted to its purpose,
whatever that is. Now suppose that nature’s real purpose
for you, a being with reason and will, were that you should
survive, thrive, and be happy—in that case nature would
have hit upon a very poor arrangement in appointing your
reason to carry out this purpose! For all the actions that you
need to perform in order to carry out this intention of nature
- and indeed the entire regulation of your conduct—would
be marked out for you much more exactly and reliably by
instinct than it ever could be by reason. And if nature had
Chapter 1
favoured you by giving you reason as well as instinct, the
role of reason would have been to let you •contemplate the
happy constitution of your nature, to admire it, to rejoice in
it, and to be grateful for it to its beneficent cause; not to let
you •subject your faculty of desire to that weak and delusive
guidance and to interfere with nature’s purpose. In short,
nature would have taken care that reason didn’t intrude
into practical morality and have the presumption, with its
weak insight, to think out for itself the plan of happiness and
how to get it. Nature would have taken over the choice not
only of ends but also of the means to them, and with wise
foresight she would have entrusted both to instinct alone.
[Kant presents this paragraph in terms not of ‘you’ but of ‘a being’.]
What we find in fact is that the more a cultivated reason
devotes itself to the enjoyment of life and happiness, the
more the person falls short of true contentment; which
is why many people—especially those who have made the
greatest use of reason—have a certain hostility towards
reason, though they may not be candid enough to admit
it. They have drawn many advantages from reason; never
mind about its role in the inventions that lead to •ordinary
luxuries; my interest is in the advantages of intellectual
pursuits, which eventually seem to these people to be also
a •luxury of the understanding. But after looking over all
this they find that they have actually brought more trouble
on themselves than they have gained in happiness; and
eventually they come not to despise but to envy the common
run of people who stay closer to merely natural instinct
and don’t give reason much influence on their doings. ·So
much for the drawbacks of well-being and happiness as one’s
dominant aim in life·. As for those who play down or outright
deny the boastful eulogies that are given of the happiness
and contentment that reason can supposedly bring us:
the judgment they are making doesn’t involve gloom, or
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ingratitude for how well the world is governed. Rather, it’s
based on the idea of another and far nobler purpose for their
existence. It is for achieving this purpose, not happiness,
that reason is properly intended; and this purpose is the
supreme condition, so that the private purposes of men
must for the most part take second place to it. ·Its being
the supreme or highest condition means that it isn’t itself
conditional on anything else; it is to be aimed at no matter
what else is the case; which is why our private plans must
stand out of its way·.
So reason isn’t competent to act as a guide that will lead
the will reliably to its objectives and will satisfy all our needs
(indeed it adds to our needs!); an implanted instinct would
do this job much more reliably. Nevertheless, reason is given
to us as a practical faculty, that is, one that is meant to
have an influence on the will. Its proper function must be to
produce a will that is good in itself and not good as a means.
Why? Because
•nature has everywhere distributed capacities suitable
to the functions they are to perform,
•the means ·to good· are, as I have pointed out, better
provided for by instinct, and
•reason and it alone can produce a will that is good in
itself.
This ·good· will needn’t be the sole and complete good, but
it must be the condition of all others, even of the desire for
happiness. So we have to consider two purposes: (1) the
unconditional purpose of producing a good will, and (2) the
conditional purpose of being happy. Of these, (1) requires the
cultivation of reason, which - at least in this life—in many
ways limits and can indeed almost eliminate (2) the goal of
happiness. This state of affairs is entirely compatible with
the wisdom of nature; it doesn’t have nature pursuing its
goal clumsily; because reason, recognizing that its highest
Chapter 1
practical calling is to establish a good will, can by achieving
that goal get a contentment of its own kind (the kind that
comes from attaining a goal set by reason), even though this
gets in the way of things that the person merely prefers.
So we have to develop •the concept of a will that is to be
esteemed as good in itself without regard to anything else,
•the concept that always takes first place in judging the total
worth of our actions, with everything else depending on it,
•a concept that is already lodged in any natural and sound
understanding, and doesn’t need to be taught so much as to
be brought to light. In order to develop and unfold it, I’ll dig
into the concept of duty, which contains it. The concept of a
good will is present in the concept of duty, ·not shining out
in all its objective and unconditional glory, but rather· in a
manner that brings it under certain subjective •restrictions
and •hindrances; but •these are far from concealing it or
disguising it, for they rather bring it out by contrast and
make it shine forth all the more brightly. ·I shall now look at
that contrast·.
·My topic is the difference between doing something from
duty and doing it for other reasons. In tackling this, I
shall set aside without discussion two kinds of case—one
for which my question doesn’t arise, and a second for which
the question arises but is too easy to answer for the case
to be interesting or instructive. Following those two, I shall
introduce two further kinds of case·. (1) I shan’t discuss
actions which—even if they are useful in some way or
other—are clearly opposed to duty, because with them the
question of doing them from duty doesn’t even arise. (2) I
shall also ignore cases where someone does A, which really
is in accord with duty, but where what he directly wants
isn’t to perform A but to perform B which somehow leads
to or involves A. ·For example: he (B) unbolts the door so
as to escape from the fire, and in so doing he (A) enables
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others to escape also. There is no need to spend time on
such cases·, because in them it is easy to tell whether an
action that is in accord with duty is done •from duty or
rather •for some selfish purpose. (3) It is far harder to detect
that difference when the action the person performs—one
that is in accord with duty—is what he directly wanted to
do, ·rather than being something he did only because it was
involved in something else that he directly wanted to do·.
Take the example of a shop-keeper who charges the same
prices for selling his goods to inexperienced customers as
for selling them to anyone else. This is in accord with duty.
But there is also a prudential and not-duty-based motive
that the shop-keeper might have for this course of conduct:
when there is a buyers’ market, he may sell as cheaply to
children as to others so as not to lose customers. Thus the
customer is honestly served, but we can’t infer from this
that the shop-keeper has behaved in this way from duty
and principles of honesty. His own advantage requires this
behaviour, and we can’t assume that in addition he directly
wants something for his customers and out of love for them
he charges them all the same price. His conduct of his policy
on pricing comes neither from duty nor from directly wanting
it, but from a selfish purpose. [Kant’s German really does say
Chapter 1
involves the ‘indirectness’ of (2) or that of (3).]
(4) It is a duty to preserve one’s life, and moreover ev-
eryone directly wants to do so. But because of ·the power
of· that want, the often anxious care that most men have
for their survival has no intrinsic worth, and the maxim
Preserve yourself has no moral content. Men preserve their
lives according to duty, but not from duty. But now consider
this case:
Adversities and hopeless sorrow have completely
taken away this unfortunate man’s relish for life. But
his fate has not made him ·passively· •despondent or
dejected. He is strong in soul, and is •exasperated at
how things have gone for him, ·and would like actively
to do something about it. Specifically·, he wishes for
death. But he preserves his life without loving it, not
led by any want or fear, but acting from duty.
For this person the maxim Preserve yourself has moral
content.
We have a duty to be charitably helpful where we can,
and many people are so sympathetically constituted that
without any motive of vanity or selfishness they •find an
inner satisfaction in spreading joy and •take delight in the
contentment of others if they have made it possible. But I
maintain that such behaviour, done in that spirit, has no
true moral worth, however amiable it may be and however
much it accords with duty. It should be classed with ·actions
done from· other wants, such as the desire for honour. With
luck, someone’s desire for honour may lead to conduct that
in fact accords with duty and does good to many people;
in that case it deserves •praise and •encouragement; but it
doesn’t deserve •high esteem, because the maxim ·on which
the person is acting· doesn’t have the moral content of an
action done not because the person likes acting in that way
but from duty. [In this context, ‘want’ and ‘liking’ and ‘desire’ are used
first that the shop-keeper isn’t led by a direct want and then that he is.
His point seems to be this: The shop-keeper does want to treat all his
customers equitably; his intention is aimed at precisely that fact about
his conduct (unlike the case in (2) where the agent enables other people
to escape but isn’t aiming at that at all). But the shop-keeper’s intention
doesn’t stop there, so to speak; he wants to treat his customers equitably
not because of what he wants for them, but because of how he wants
them to behave later in his interests. This involves a kind of indirectness,
which doesn’t assimilate this case to (2) but does distinguish it from a
fourth kind of conduct that still isn’t morally worthy but not because it
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Immanuel Kant
Chapter 1
to translate Neigung, elsewhere in this version translated as ‘preference’;
[a painful ailment made worse by alcohol and rich food] can choose
other translations mostly use ‘inclination’.]
to enjoy what he likes and put up with the consequences,
because according to his calculations (this time, anyway) he
hasn’t sacrificed present pleasure to a possibly groundless
expectation of the ‘happiness’ that health is supposed to
bring. But even for this man, whose will is not settled by the
general desire for happiness and for whom health plays no
part in his calculations, there still remains—as there does
for everyone—the law that he ought to promote his happiness,
not from wanting or liking but from duty. Only by following
this could his conduct have true moral worth.
No doubt this is how we should understand the scriptural
passages that command us to love our neighbour and even
our enemy. We can’t be commanded to feel love for someone,
or to simply prefer that he thrive. There are two sorts of
love: •practical love that lies in the will and in principles
of action, and •pathological love that lies in the direction
the person’s feelings and tender sympathies take. [Kant uses
Now consider a special case:
This person has been a friend to mankind, but his
mind has become clouded by a sorrow of his own that
has extinguished all feeling for how others are faring.
He still has the power to benefit others in distress, but
their need leaves him untouched because he is too
preoccupied with his own. But now he tears himself
out of his dead insensibility and acts charitably purely
from duty, without feeling any want or liking so to
behave.
Now, for the first time, his conduct has genuine moral worth.
Having been deprived by nature of a warm-hearted temperament, this man could find in himself a source from which
to give himself a far higher worth than he could have got
through such a temperament. It is just here that the worth of
character is brought out, which is morally the incomparably
highest of all: he is beneficent not from preference but from
duty.
To secure one’s own happiness is a duty (at least indirectly), because discontent with one’s condition—bundled
along by many cares and unmet needs—could easily become
a great temptation to transgress against duties. But quite
apart from duty, all men have the strongest and deepest desire [Neigung] for happiness, because in the idea of happiness
all our desires are brought together in a single sum-total.
But the injunction ‘Be happy!’ often takes a form in which it
thwarts some desires, so that a person can’t get a clear and
secure concept of •the sum-total of satisfactions that goes
under the name ‘happiness’. So it isn’t surprising that the
prospect of •a single satisfaction, definite as to what it is and
when it can be had, can outweigh a fluctuating idea ·such
as that of happiness·. For example, a man with the gout
‘pathological’ simply to mean that this is a state that the person is in;
from Greek pathos = ‘that which happens to a person’; no suggestion of
abnormality. His point is that being a loving person is no more morally
The
latter of these cannot be commanded, but the former can
be—and that is a command to do good to others from duty,
even when you don’t want to do it or like doing it, and indeed
even when you naturally and unconquerably hate doing it.
·So much for the first proposition of morality:
•For an action to have genuine moral worth it must be
done from duty.·
The second proposition is:
•An action that is done from duty doesn’t get its moral
value from the purpose that’s to be achieved through
it but from the maxim that it involves, ·giving the
reason why the person acts thus·.
significant than being a stupid person or a right-handed person.]
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So the action’s moral value doesn’t depend on whether what
is aimed at in it is actually achieved, but solely on the principle of the will from which the action is done, irrespective of
anything the faculty of desire may be aiming at. From what I
have said it is clear that the purposes we may have in acting,
and their effects as drivers of the will towards desired ends,
can’t give our actions any unconditional value, any moral
value. Well, then, if the action’s moral value isn’t to be found
in
•the will in its relation to its hoped-for effect,
where can it be found? The only possible source for it is
•the principle on which the will acts—and never mind
the ends that may be achieved by the action.
For the will stands at the crossroads, so to speak, at the
intersection between •its a priori principle, which is formal,
and •its a posteriori driver—·the contingent desire that acts
on it·—which is material. In that position it must be determined by something; and if it is done from duty it must be
determined by the formal principle of the will, since every
material principle—·every contingent driver of the will·—has
been withdrawn from it.
The third proposition—a consequence of the first two—I
would express as follows:
•To have a duty is to be required to act in a certain way
out of respect for law.
(1) As for what will result from my action, I can certainly
prefer or be drawn to it, but I can’t have respect for it; to
earn my respect it would have to be something the will does,
not merely something that its doings lead to. (2) Similarly,
I can’t •respect any want or preference: if the preference is
mine, the most I can do is to •endorse it; if it is someone
else’s I can even •love it—i.e. see it as favourable to my
interests. What can get respect and can thus serve as a
command is •something that isn’t (1) a consequence of my
Chapter 1
volition but only a source for it, and isn’t (2) in the service
of my preferences but rather overpowers them or at least
prevents them from being considered in the choice I make;
•this something is, in a word, law itself. Suppose now that
someone acts from duty: the influence of his preferences
can’t have anything to do with this, and so facts about what
he might achieve by his action don’t come into it either; so
what is there left that can lead him to act as he does? If
the question means ‘What is there objectively, i.e. distinct
from himself, that determines his will in this case?’ the
only possible answer is law. And if the question concerns
what there is in the person that influences his will—i.e. what
subjectively influences it—the answer has to be his respect
for this practical law, and thus his acceptance of the maxim
I am to follow this law even if it thwarts all my desires. (A
maxim is a subjective principle of volition. The objective
principle is the practical law itself; it would also be the
subjective principle for all rational beings if reason fully
controlled the formation of preferences.)
So an action’s moral value doesn’t lie in •the effect that
is expected from it, or in •any principle of action that motivates it because of this expected effect. All the expected
effects—something agreeable for me, or even happiness for
others—could be brought about through other causes and
don’t need •the will of a rational being, whereas the highest
good—what is unconditionally good—can be found only in
•such a will. So this wonderful good, which we call moral
goodness, can’t consist in anything but the thought of law
in itself that only a rational being can have—with the will
being moved to act by this thought and not by the hoped-for
effect of the action. When the person acts according to
this conception, this moral goodness is already present
•in him; we don’t have to look for it •in the upshot of
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his action.1 [In passages like this, ‘thought’ translates Vorstellung
does it conform to •duty to make a false promise? No doubt
it often is •prudent, ·but not as often as you might think·.
Obviously the false promise isn’t made prudent by its merely
extricating me from my present difficulties; I have to think
about whether it will in the long run cause more trouble than
it saves in the present. Even with all my supposed cunning,
the consequences can’t be so easily foreseen. People’s loss
of trust in me might be far more disadvantageous than the
trouble I am now trying to avoid, and it is hard to tell whether
it mightn’t be more prudent to act according to a universal
maxim not ever to make a promise that I don’t intend to keep.
But I quickly come to see that such a maxim is based only
on fear of consequences. Being truthful from •duty is an
entirely different thing from being truthful out of •fear of bad
consequences; for in •the former case a law is included in the
concept of the action itself (·so that the right answer to ‘What
are you doing?’ will include a mention of that law·); whereas
in •the latter I must first look outward to see what results
my action may have. [In the preceding sentence, Kant speaks of a
‘law for me’ and of results ‘for me’.] To deviate from the principle of
duty is certainly bad; whereas to be unfaithful to my maxim
= ‘mental representation’.]
So we have a law the thought of which can settle the will
without reference to any expected result, and must do so if
the will is to be called absolutely good without qualification;
what kind of law can this be? Since I have robbed the
will of any impulses that could come to it from obeying any
law, nothing remains to serve as a ·guiding· principle of
the will except conduct’s universally conforming to law as
such. That is, I ought never to act in such a way that I
couldn’t also will that the maxim on which I act should
be a universal law. In this context the ·guiding· principle
of the will is conformity to law as such, not bringing in
any particular law governing some class of actions; and
it must serve as the will’s principle if duty is not to be a
vain delusion and chimerical concept. Common sense in its
practical judgments is in perfect agreement with this, and
constantly has this principle in view.
Consider the question: May I when in difficulties make a
promise that I intend not to keep? The question obviously
has two meanings: is it •prudent to make a false promise?
1
Chapter 1
It might be objected that I tried to take refuge in an obscure feeling behind the word ‘respect’, instead of clearing things up through a concept of
reason. Although respect is indeed a feeling, it doesn’t come from outer influence; rather, it is a •feeling that a rational concept creates unaided; so
it is different in kind from all the •feelings caused from outside, the ones that can come from desire or fear. When I directly recognize something as
a law for myself I recognize it with respect, which merely means that I am conscious of submitting my will to a law without interference from any
other influences on my mind. The will’s being directly settled by law, and the consciousness of this happening, is called ‘respect’; so respect should
be seen as an effect of the law’s operation on the person’s will, not as a cause of it. Really, respect is the thought of a value that breaks down my
self-love. Thus it is not something to be either desired or feared, though it has something analogous to both ·desire and fear·. The only thing that
can be respected is law, and it has to be the law that we •impose on ourselves yet •recognize as necessary in itself.
•As a law it makes us subject to it, without consulting our self-love; which gives it some analogy to fear.
•As imposed on us by ourselves, it is a consequence of our will; which gives it some analogy to preference.
·This is really the only basic sense of the term ‘respect’·.
Any •respect for a person is only •respect for the law (of righteousness, etc.) of which the
person provides an example. Our respect for a person’s talents, for instance, is our recognition that we ought to practice until we are as talented as
he is; we see him as a kind of example of a •law, because we regard it as our •duty to improve our talents. ·So respect for persons is a disguised
form of respect for law·. All moral concern (as it is called) consists solely in respect for the law.
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of prudence may be very advantageous to me, though it is
certainly safer to abide by it. How can I know whether a
deceitful promise is consistent with duty? The shortest way
to go about finding out is also the surest. It is to ask myself:
•Would I be content for my maxim (of getting out of
a difficulty through a false promise) to hold as a
universal law, for myself as well as for others?
·That is tantamount to asking·:
•Could I say to myself that anyone may make a false
promise when he is in a difficulty that he can’t get out
of in any other way?
Immediately I realize that I could will •the lie but not •a
universal law to lie; for such a law would result in there
being no promises at all, because it would be futile to offer
stories about my future conduct to people who wouldn’t
believe me; or if they carelessly did believe me and were
taken in ·by my promise·, would pay me back in my own
coin. Thus my maxim would necessarily destroy itself as
soon as it was made a universal law.
So I don’t need to be a very penetrating thinker to bring it
about that my will is morally good. Inexperienced in how the
world goes, unable to prepare for all its contingencies, I need
only to ask myself: Can you will that your maxim become a
universal law? If not, it must be rejected, not because of any
harm it might bring to anyone, but because there couldn’t be
a system of •universal legislation that included it as one of
its principles, and •that is the kind of legislation that reason
forces me to respect. I don’t yet see what it is based on (a
question that a philosopher may investigate), but I at least
understand these two:
•It is something whose value far outweighs all the value
of everything aimed at by desire,
•My duty consists in my having to act from pure respect
for the practical law.
Chapter 1
Every other motive must yield to duty, because it is the
condition of a •will that is good in itself, and the value of
•that surpasses everything.
And so in the common-sense understanding of morality
we have worked our way through to its principle. Admittedly,
common sense doesn’t have the abstract thought of this principle as something universal, but it always has the principle
in view and uses it as the standard for its judgments.
It would be easy to show how common sense, with this
compass in its hand, knows very well how to distinguish
•good from •bad, •consistent with duty from •inconsistent
with duty. To do this it doesn’t have to be taught anything
new; it merely needs (Socrates-fashion) to have its attention
drawn to the principle that it already has; and thus ·we
can see· that neither science nor philosophy is needed in
order to know what one must do to be honest and good,
and even to be wise and virtuous. That’s something we
might well have assumed in advance: that the knowledge
of what every person is obliged to do (and thus also what
everyone is obliged to know) is everyone’s business, even
the most common person’s. We can’t help admiring the
way common sense’s ability to make •practical judgment
outstrips its ability to make •theoretical ones. In •theoretical
judgments, if common sense ventures to go beyond the laws
of experience and perceptions of the senses, it falls into
sheer inconceivabilities and self-contradictions, or at least
into a chaos of uncertainty, obscurity, and instability. On
the other hand, it is just when common sense excludes
·everything empirical—that is·, all action-drivers that bring
in the senses—that its ability to make •practical judgments
first shows itself to advantage. It may then start splitting
hairs, quibbling with its own conscience or with other claims
concerning what should be called right, or wanting to satisfy
itself about the exact worth of certain actions; and the great
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thing about these activities of common sense is that in them
it has as good a chance of getting it right as any philosopher
has—perhaps even a better chance, because the philosopher
doesn’t have any principle that common sense lacks and
his judgment is easily confused by a mass of irrelevant
considerations so that it easily goes astray. ·Here are two
ways in which we could inter-relate common-sense morality
and philosophy·: (1) We could go along with common-sense
moral judgments, and bring in philosophy—if at all—only so
as to make the system of morals more complete and comprehensible and its rules more convenient for use, especially in
disputation. (2) We could steer common sense away from its
fortunate simplicity in practical matters, and lead it through
philosophy into a new path of inquiry and instruction. From
what I have said, isn’t it clear that (1) is the wiser option to
take?
Innocence is indeed a glorious thing, but it is very sad
that it doesn’t take care of itself, and is easily led astray.
For this reason, even wisdom—which consists in •doing
and allowing more than in •knowing—needs science [Wissenschaft], not as something to learn from but as something that will ensure that wisdom’s precepts get into the
mind and stay there. [‘Knowing’ translates Wissen, which is half
plausible, and which refuse to give way to any command.
This gives rise to a natural dialectic—·an intellectual conflict
or contradiction·—in the form of a propensity to argue
against the stern laws of duty and their validity, or at least
to cast doubt on their purity and strictness, and, where
possible, to make them more accordant with our wishes and
desires. This undermines the very foundations of duty’s laws
and destroys their dignity—which is something that even
ordinary practical reason can’t, when it gets right down to it,
call good.
In this way common sense is driven to go outside its
own territory and to take a step into the field of practical
philosophy. It doesn’t do this because of any speculative
(= ‘theory-building’) need, which is something that never
occurs to it so long as it is satisfied to remain merely healthy
reason. [Kant’s phrase translated here as ‘common sense’ is gemeine
Menschvernunft, which contains Vernunft = ‘reason’.
Putting its bits
together it could be taken to mean ‘general human reason’, but ‘common
sense’ is about right.] Rather, it is driven to philosophy in order
to become •informed and clearly •directed regarding the
source of its principle and how exactly it differs from the
maxims based on needs and preferences. It does this so
as to escape from the embarrassment of opposing claims,
and to avoid risking the loss of all genuine moral principles
through the ambiguity in which common sense is easily
involved—·the ambiguity between the moral and prudential
readings of questions about what one ought to do·. Thus
when common-sense moral thought develops itself, a dialectic surreptitiously occurs that forces it to look to philosophy
for help, and the very same thing happens in common-sense
theoretical thinking. It is true of each kind of ordinary or
common-sense thought: each can come to rest only in a
complete critical examination of our reason.
the word translated as ‘science’, an overlap that Kant surely intended.
The ‘science’ in question here is presumably metaphysics.]
Chapter 1
·Without
that help, they are not likely to ‘stay there’, and here is
why·. Against all commands of duty that a man’s reason
presents to him as deserving of so much respect, he feels
in himself a powerful •counter-weight—namely, his needs
and preferences, the complete satisfaction of which he lumps
together as ‘happiness’. Reason issues inexorable commands
without promising the preferences anything ·by way of recompense·. It ignores and has no respect for the claims ·that
desire makes·—claims that are so impetuous and yet so
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Immanuel Kant
Chapter 2
Chapter 2:
Moving from popular moral philosophy to the metaphysic of morals
Although I have derived our existing concept of duty from
the ordinary ·commonsensical· use of our practical reason,
that doesn’t at all imply that I have treated it as an empirical
concept. On the contrary, if we attend to our experience
of men’s doings, we meet frequent and—I admit—justified
complaints that we can’t cite a single sure example of someone’s being disposed to act from pure duty—not one!— so
that although much is done that accords with what duty
commands, it always remains doubtful whether it is done
from duty and thus whether it has moral worth. That is
why there have always been philosophers who absolutely
denied the reality of this ·dutiful· disposition in human
actions, attributing everything ·that people do· to more or
less refined self-interest. This hasn’t led them to question
the credentials of the concept of morality. Rather, they ·have
left that standing, and· have spoken with sincere regret
of the frailty and corruption of human nature, which •is
high-minded enough to accept the idea ·of duty·—an idea so
worthy of respect—as a source of commands, •is too weak to
follow this idea ·by obeying the commands·, and •employs
reason, which ought to be its source of laws, only to cater to
the interests that its preferences create—either singly or, at
best, in their greatest possible harmony with one another.
It is indeed absolutely impossible by means of experience
to identify with complete certainty a single case in which
the maxim of an action—however much it might conform to
duty—rested solely on moral grounds and on the person’s
thought of his duty. It sometimes happens that we make a
considerable sacrifice in performing some good action, and
can’t find within ourselves, search as we may, anything
that could have the power to motivate this except the moral
ground of duty. But this shouldn’t make us confident that
the true determining cause of the will was actually our
•sense of duty rather than a secret impulse of •self-love
masquerading as the idea of duty. For we like to give
ourselves credit for having a more high-minded motive than
we actually have; and even the strictest examination can
never lead us entirely behind the secret action-drivers—·or,
rather, behind the •pretended action-driver to where the
•real one secretly lurks·—because when moral worth is in
question it is not a matter of visible actions but of their
invisible inner sources.
·The claim that the concept of duty is an empirical one
is not only false but dangerous·. Consider the people who
ridicule all morality as a mere phantom of human imagination overreaching itself through self-conceit: one couldn’t
give them anything they would like better than the concession that the concepts of duty have to come wholly from
experience (for their laziness makes them apt to believe that
the same is true of all other concepts too). This concession
would give them a sure triumph. I am willing to admit—out
of sheer generosity!—that most of our actions are in accord
with duty; but if we look more closely at our thoughts and
aspirations we keep encountering •the beloved self as what
our plans rely on, rather than •the stern command of duty
with its frequent calls for self -denial. One needn’t be an
enemy of virtue, merely a cool observer who can distinguish
•even the most intense wish for the good from •actual good,
to wonder sometimes whether true virtue is to be met with
anywhere in the world; especially as one gets older and one’s
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power of judgment is made wiser by experience and more
acute in observation. [Kant was 60 years old when he wrote this
work.] What, then, can stop us from completely abandoning
our ideas of duty, and preserve in us a well-founded respect
for its law? Only the conviction that
•Even if there never were any actions springing from
such pure sources, that’s not the topic. Our concern is not •with whether this or that was done, but
•with reason’s commanding—on its own initiative and
independently of all appearances—what ought to be
done.
So our concern is •with ·a kind of· actions of which perhaps
the world has never had an example; if you go purely by
experience you might well wonder whether there could be
such actions; and yet they are sternly commanded by reason.
Take the example of pure sincerity in friendship: this can
be demanded of every man as a duty; the demand comes
independently of all experience from the idea of reason that
acts on the will on a priori grounds; so it isn’t weakened in
the slightest by the fact—if it is a fact—that there has never
actually been a sincere friend.
When this is added:
•If we don’t want to deny all truth to the concept of
morality and to give up applying it to any possible
object, we have to admit that morality’s law applies
so widely that it holds •not merely for men but for
all rational beings as such, •not merely under certain
contingent conditions and with exceptions but with
absolute necessity ·and therefore unconditionally and
without exceptions·,
—when this becomes clear to us, we see that no experience
can point us towards even the possibility of such apodictic
laws. [This word, like the German apodiktisch, comes from Greek mean-
Chapter 2
like ‘utterly unbreakable, unconditional, permitting no excuses or excep-
For what could entitle us to accord unlimited respect
to something that perhaps is valid only under contingent
human conditions? And how could laws for •our will be held
to be laws for •the will of any rational being (and valid for
us only because we are such beings), if they were merely
empirical and didn’t arise a priori from pure though practical
reason?
One couldn’t do worse by morality than drawing it from
examples. We can’t get our concept of morality initially from
examples, for we can’t judge whether something is fit to be
an example or model of morality unless it has already been
judged according principles of morality. ·This applies even to
•the model that is most frequently appealed to·. Even •Jesus
Christ must be compared with our ideal of moral perfection
before he is recognized as being perfect; indeed, he says of
himself ‘Why callest thou me (whom you see) good? There is
none good (the archetype ·or model· of good) but one, i.e. God
(whom you don’t see)’ [Matthew 19:17; the bits added in parentheses
are Kant’s]. But ·don’t think that with God the father we have
at last found the example or model from which we can derive
our concept of morality·. Where do we get the concept of
God as the highest good from? Solely from the idea of moral
perfection that reason lays out for us a priori and which it
ties, unbreakably, to the concept of a free will. ·Some have
said that the moral life consists in ‘imitating Christ’, but·
imitation has no place in moral matters; and the only use of
examples there is •for encouragement—i.e. showing beyond
question that what the law commands can be done—and
•for making visible ·in particular cases· what the practical
rule expresses more generally. But they can never entitle us
to steer purely by examples, setting aside their true model
which lies in reason.
tions’.]
ing, roughly, ‘clearly demonstrated’. Kant uses it to mean something
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Well, then, there are moral concepts that are established
a priori, along with the principles of morality. Would it be a
good idea to set these out in abstract form? Given that
•there is no genuine supreme principle of morality that
doesn’t rest on pure reason alone independently of all
possible experience,
·and thus given that
•the a priori concepts and principles I have mentioned
are the whole foundation for morality·,
I don’t think there should be any question about whether
they should be presented abstractly. At any rate, there
should be no question about that if we want our knowledge
of them to be distinguished from ordinary knowledge and to
merit the label ‘philosophical’. But these days the question
may arise after all. For if we conducted a poll on the question:
Which would you prefer—•pure rational knowledge of
morality, separated from all experience and bringing
with it a metaphysic of morals, or •popular practical
philosophy?
it is easy to guess on which side the majority would stand!
Catering to the notions of the man in the street is all
very well after we have made a fully satisfactory job of
ascending to the principles of pure reason—first providing
a metaphysical basis for the doctrine of morals and then
getting it listened to by popularizing it. But it’s utterly absurd
to aim at popularity [here = ‘being accessible by the common man’]
at the outset, where everything depends on the correctness
of the fundamental principles. There is a real virtue—a
rare one!—in genuine popularization of philosophy; but the
procedure I have been describing, ·in which popularity is
sought at the outset·, involves no such virtue. It is not hard
2
Chapter 2
to be generally comprehensible if one does it by dropping
all basic insight and replacing it with a disgusting jumble
of patched-up observations and half-reasoned principles.
Shallow-minded people lap this up, for it is very useful
in coffee-house chatter, while people with better sense
feel confused and dissatisfied, and helplessly turn away.
Philosophers who see right through this hocus-pocus call
people away from sham ‘popularity’ and towards the genuine
popularity that can be achieved on the basis of hard-won
insights; but they don’t get much of a hearing.
When we look at essays on morality written in this
beloved style, what do we find? Sometimes •human nature
in particular is mentioned (occasionally with the idea of a
rational nature in general); now •perfection shows up, and
now •happiness; •moral feeling here, •fear of God there; a
•little of this and a •little of that—all in a marvellous mixture.
It never occurs to the authors to ask: Can the principles of
morality be found in knowledge of human nature (knowledge
that we can get only from experience)? If they can’t—if the
principles are a priori, free from everything empirical, and to
be found in pure rational concepts with not a trace of them
anywhere else—shouldn’t we tackle the investigation of them
as a separate inquiry, as pure practical philosophy or (to use
the dread word) as a metaphysic of morals,2 dealing with
it on its own so as to bring it to completion and make the
popularity-demanding public wait until we have finished?
·The answer to that last question is ‘Yes, we should’,
because· a completely self-contained metaphysic of morals,
with no admixture of anthropology or theology or physics
or. . . .occult qualities. . . ., is not only an essential basis for
all theoretically sound and definite •knowledge of duties,
We can if we wish divide the philosophy of morals into ‘pure’ (metaphysics) and ‘applied’ (meaning ‘applied to human nature’), like the divisions of
mathematics and logic into pure and applied. This terminology immediately reminds us that moral principles are not based on what is special in
human nature but must stand on their own feet a priori, and that they must yield practical rules for every rational nature, and accordingly for man.
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Immanuel Kant
but also a tremendously important help towards actually
•carrying out its precepts. For the pure thought of duty and
of the moral law generally, unmixed with empirical inducements, has a •stronger influence on the human heart purely
through reason—this being what first shows reason that
it can be practical—than all other action-drivers that may
be derived from the empirical field; so much •stronger that
reason, aware of its dignity, despises the empirical inputs
and comes to dominate them. In contrast with this, a mixed
theory of morals—assembled from action-drivers involving
feelings and preferences and from rational concepts—is
bound to make the mind vacillate between motives that
•can’t be brought together under any principle and that •can
lead to the good only by great good luck and will frequently
lead to the bad.3
only is it necessary in developing a moral theory but also
important in our practical lives that we derive the concepts
and laws of morals from pure reason and present them
pure and unmixed, determining the scope of this entire
practical but pure rational knowledge (the entire faculty of
pure practical reason). [What follows is meant to flow on from
that fifth point; Kant wrote this paragraph as one sentence.] This
·determination of scope · is to be done not on the basis
of principles of human reason that non-moral philosophy
might allow or require, but rather (because moral laws are
to hold for every rational being just because it is rational)
by being derived from the universal concept of rational being.
To apply morals to men one needs anthropology; but first
morals must be completely developed as pure philosophy,
i.e. metaphysics, independently of anthropology; this is easy
to do, given how separate the two are from one another.
For we know—·and here I repeat the fifth of the points with
which I opened this paragraph·—that if we don’t have such
a metaphysic, it is not merely •pointless to ·try to· settle
accurately, as a matter of theory, what moral content there
is in this or that action that is in accord with duty, but
•impossible to base morals on legitimate principles even
for ordinary practical use, especially in moral instruction;
and that’s what is needed for pure moral dispositions to be
produced and worked into men’s characters for the purpose
of the highest good in the world.
What I have said makes ·five things· clear: that •all moral
concepts have their origin entirely a priori in reason, and this
holds as much for the most ordinary common-sense moral
concepts as for ·the ones used in· high-level theorizing; that
•moral concepts can’t be formed by abstraction from any
empirical knowledge or, therefore, from anything contingent;
that •this purity ·or non-empiricalness· of origin is what gives
them the dignity of serving as supreme practical principles;
that •any addition of something empirical takes away just
that much of their influence and of the unqualified worth of
actions ·performed in accordance with them·; and that •not
3
Chapter 2
I have been asked. . . .why teachings about virtue containing so much that is convincing to reason nevertheless achieve so little. . . . The answer is
just this: the teachers themselves haven’t brought their concepts right out into the clear; and when they wish to make up for this by hunting all over
the place for motives for being morally good so as to make their medicine have the right strength, they spoil it. Entertain the thought of
an act of honesty performed with a steadfast soul, with no view towards any advantage in this world or the next, under the greatest temptations
of need or allurement.
You don’t have to look very hard to see that conduct like this far surpasses and eclipses any similar action that was affected—even if only slightly—by
any external action-driver. It elevates the soul and makes one want to be able to act in this way. Even youngish children feel this, and one should
never represent duties to them in any other way.
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In this study I have already moved
•from common moral judgment to philosophical moral
judgment,
and am now advancing by natural stages ·within the realm
of philosophical moral judgment, specifically·:
•from popular philosophy to metaphysics.
Popular philosophy goes only as far as it can grope its way
by means of examples; metaphysics is not held back by
anything empirical, and, because it has to stake out the
whole essence of rational knowledge of this kind, it will if
necessary stretch out as far as ideas ·of reason·, of which
there can’t be any examples. In making this advance we must
track and clearly present the practical faculty of reason, right
from •the universal rules that set it up through to •the point
where the concept of duty arises from it.
Everything in nature works according to laws. Only a
rational being has a will—which is the ability to act according
to the thought of laws, i.e. to act on principle. To derive
actions from laws you need reason, so that’s what will is—
practical reason. When •reason is irresistible in its influence
on the will, the actions that a rational being recognizes as
objectively necessary are also subjectively necessary; i.e.
the will is an ability to choose only what reason recognizes,
independently of preferences, as practically necessary, i.e.
as good. But when •unaided reason isn’t enough to settle
the will, the will comes under the influence of subjective
4
Chapter 2
conditions (certain action-drivers) that don’t always agree
with the objective conditions—in short, the will is not in
complete accord with reason. In this case (which is the
actual case with men) the actions that are recognized as
•objectively necessary are •subjectively contingent, and if
such a will is determined according to objective laws that
is because it is constrained. . . .i.e. is following principles of
reason to which it isn’t by its nature necessarily obedient.
When the thought of an objective principle constrains
a will, it is called a ‘command’ (of reason), and its verbal
expression is called an ‘imperative’.
All imperatives are expressed with an ‘ought’, which
indicates how an objective law of reason relates to a will that
it constrains. An imperative says that it would be good to do
or to refrain from doing something, but it addresses this to a
will that doesn’t always do x just because x is represented to
it as good to do. Practical good is what determines the will
by means of the thoughts that reason produces—and thus
not by subjective causes but objectively, on grounds that are
valid for every rational being just because it is rational. This
contrasts with the thought that it would be nice to act in a
certain way; the latter influences the will only by means of a
feeling that has purely subjective causes, which hold for the
senses of this or that person but not as a principle of reason
that holds for everyone.4
When the faculty of desire is affected by feelings, we speak of what the person •prefers, which always also indicates a •need. When a contingently
determinable will is affected by principles of reason, we say that it has an •interest. Interests are to be found only in a dependent will, one that isn’t
of itself always in accord with reason; we can’t make sense of the idea of God’s will’s having interests. But even the human will can have an interest
without acting on it. The interest that one merely has is a practical interest in the •action; the interest on which one acts is a pathological interest in
the •upshot of the action. [See the note on ‘pathological’ on page 9.] Whereas the former indicates only the effect on the will of principles of reason
•in themselves, the latter indicates the effect on it of the principles of reason •in the service of the person’s preferences, since ·in these cases· all
reason does is to provide the practical rule through which the person’s preferences are to be satisfied. In the former case, my focus is on the action;
in the latter, it is on whatever is pleasant in the result of the action. We saw in chapter 1 that when an action is done from duty, attention should be
paid not to any interest in its upshot but only to the action itself and the law which is its principle in reason.
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Chapter 2
this but ·I don’t care, because· my conduct is guided by
other maxims that are opposed to the objective principles of
practical reason).
A hypothetical imperative merely says that the action
is good for some purpose that one could have or that one
actually does have. In the •former case it is a problematic
practical principle, in the •latter it is an assertoric one.
The categorical imperative, which declares the action to
be objectively necessary without referring to any end in
view. . . .holds as an apodictic practical principle.
Anything that could come about through the powers of
some rational being could be an end ·or goal or purpose· for
some will or other. So ·there are countless possible ends, and
therefore· countless hypothetical imperatives, i.e. principles
of action thought of as necessary to attain a possible end in
view. Every science has a practical segment in which
•some purpose is set forth as a problem, and
•imperatives are offered saying how that purpose can
be achieved.
So we can give these imperatives the general label ‘imperatives of skill’. The practical part of a science is concerned
only with •what must be done to achieve a certain purpose;
it doesn’t address the question of •whether the purpose is
reasonable and good. The instructions to a physician for how
to make his patient thoroughly healthy, and to a poisoner for
how to bring certain death to his victim, are of equal value in
that each serves perfectly to achieve the intended purpose.
Since in early youth we don’t know what purposes we may
come to have in the course of our life, parents •try above
all to enable their children to learn many kinds of things,
and •provide for skill in the use of means to any chosen
end. For any given end, the parents can’t tell whether it will
actually come to be a purpose that their child actually has,
but ·they have to allow that· some day it may do so. They are
Objective laws of the good would apply to a perfectly good
will just as much to as to any other; but we shouldn’t think of
them as constraining such a will, because it is so constituted
that it can’t be determined to act by anything except the
thought of the good. Thus no imperatives hold for God’s
will or for any holy will. The ‘ought’ is out of place here,
for the volition is of itself necessarily at one with the law.
Thus, what imperatives do is just to express the relation
of •objective laws of volition •in general to the •subjective
imperfection of the will of this or that •particular rational
being—the will of any human, for example.
All imperatives command either •hypothetically or categorically. The •former expresses the practical necessity of
some possible action as a means to achieving something
else that one does or might want. An imperative would be
categorical if it represented an action as being objectively
necessary in itself without regard to any other end.
Since every practical law represents some possible action
as •good, and thus as •necessary for anyone whose conduct
is governed by reason, what every imperative does is to
specify some action that is
•necessary according to the principle of a will that has
something good about it.
If the action would be good only as a means to something
else, the imperative is hypothetical; but if the action is
thought of as good in itself and hence as
•necessary in a will that conforms to reason, which it
has as its principle,
the imperative is categorical.
The imperative thus says of some action I could perform
that it would be good, and puts the practical rule into a
relationship with my will; ·and it is no less an imperative if·
I don’t immediately perform the ·commanded· action simply
because it is good (I don’t know that it is good, or I do know
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so focused on this that they commonly neglect to form and
correct their children’s judgment about the worthwhileness
of the things that they may make their ends.
But there is one end that can be supposed as actual
in all rational beings to which imperatives apply, i.e. all
rational beings that are dependent [see footnote 4 above]; and
thus one purpose that they not only can have but that we
can assume they all do have as a matter of natural necessity.
This purpose is happiness. The hypothetical imperative
that declares some action to be practically necessary for
the promotion of happiness is an assertoric imperative. We
should describe it not as
•necessary to a problematic purpose, one that is merely
possible,
but as
•necessary to a purpose that we can a priori and with
assurance assume for each person, because it belongs
to his essence.
Skill in the choice of means to one’s own greatest welfare
can be called ‘prudence’ in the narrowest sense.5 Thus
the imperative that refers to the choice of means to one’s
own happiness (i.e. the precept of prudence) is still only
hypothetical; it commands the action not outright but only
as a means to another end.
·After those two kinds of hypothetical imperative· we come
at last to one imperative that commands certain conduct
•immediately, and not •through the condition that some
purpose can be achieved through it. This imperative is
5
6
Chapter 2
categorical. It isn’t concerned with what is to result from
the conduct, or even with what will happen in the conduct
(its •matter), but only with the •form and the principle from
which the conduct follows. What is essentially good in the
conduct consists in the frame of mind—·the willingness to
obey the imperative·—no matter what the upshot is. This
may be called ‘the imperative of morality’.
Volition according to these three principles is plainly
distinguished by the dissimilarity in the pressure they put
on the will. As an aid to getting this dissimilarity clear, I
believe we shall do well to call them, respectively,
rules of skill,
advice of prudence,
commands (laws) of morality.
For it is only law that carries with it the concept of a necessity (·‘This action must be performed’·) that is unconditional
and objective and hence universally valid; and commands
are laws that must be obeyed even when one would prefer
not to. Advice also involves necessity, but it’s a necessity
that can hold only under a subjectively contingent condition
(i.e. whether this or that man counts this or that as part
of his happiness). Whereas the categorical imperative isn’t
restricted by ·or made dependent on· any condition. As
absolutely (though practically) necessary, it can be called a
‘command’ in the strict sense. We could also call the first
imperatives ‘technical’ (relevant to arts and skills), the second
‘pragmatic’ (relevant to well-being), and the third ‘moral’
(relevant to any free conduct whatsoever, i.e. to morals).6
The word ‘prudence’ may be taken in two senses, that of (1) ‘worldly prudence’ and that of 2 ‘private prudence’. (1) refers to a man’s skill in influencing
others so as to get them serve his purposes. (2) is the insight to bring all these purposes together to his own long-term advantage. Any value that (1)
has ultimately comes from (2); and of someone who is ‘prudent’ in sense (1) but not in sense (2) we might better say that he is over-all not prudent
but only clever and cunning.
This seems to me to be the right meaning for the word ‘pragmatic’. For constraints are called ‘pragmatic’ when they don’t strictly flow from the law of
states as necessary statutes but rather from provision for the general welfare. A history is composed ‘pragmatically’ when it teaches prudence—i.e.
instructs the world how it could look after its advantage better (or not worse) than it has in the past.
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Chapter 2
•if I fully will the effect, I must also will the action
The question now arises:
•How are all these imperatives possible?
This question doesn’t ask, for any kind of imperative,
•How can the action that the imperative commands be
performed?
Rather, it asks,
•How are we to understand the constraint that the
imperative puts upon the will in setting it its task?
·We shall see that there is not much of a problem about this
for the first of the three kinds of imperative, and the same is
true—though with slight complications—of the second·.
(1) How an imperative of skill is possible requires no
particular discussion. If someone wills an end, and if reason
has decisive influence on his actions, then he also wills
any steps he can take that are indispensably necessary for
achieving that end. What this proposition implies about the
will is analytic, and here is why:
When I will x as to-be-brought-about-by-me, I already
have—·as a part of that act of will·—the thought of
the means to x, i.e. the thought of my causality in the
production of x. And the imperative extracts from the
concept of willing x the concept of actions necessary
for the achievement of x.
(Of course, truths about what means are necessary for
achieving x are synthetic propositions; but those are only
about how to achieve x and not about the act of the will.)
·Here’s an example of this interplay between analytic and
synthetic propositions·. Mathematics teaches that
•to bisect a line according to an infallible principle,
I must make two intersecting arcs from each of its
extremities;
and this is certainly a synthetic proposition. But if I know
that that’s the only sure way to bisect the line, the proposition
necessary to produce it
is analytic. For •conceiving of something as an effect that I
can somehow bring about is just the same as •conceiving of
myself as acting in this way.
(2) If only it were as easy to give a definite concept of
happiness, the imperatives of prudence would perfectly correspond to those of skill and would likewise be analytic. For
then we could say that, with prudence as with skill, whoever
wills the end wills also (necessarily according to reason)
the only means to it that are in his power. Unfortunately,
however, the concept of happiness is so indefinite that,
although each person wishes to attain it, he can never give
a definite and self-consistent account of what it is that he
wishes and wills ·under the heading of ‘wanting happiness’·.
The reason for this is that
all the •elements of the concept of happiness are
empirical (i.e. must be drawn from experience),
whereas
the •·completed· idea of happiness requires ·the
thought of· an absolute whole—the thought of a maximum of well-being in my present and in every future
condition.
Now it is impossible for a finite being—even one who is
extremely clear-sighted and capable—to form a definite ·and
detailed· concept of what he really wants here ·on this
earth·. ·Consider some of the things people say they aim
for·! •Wealth: but in willing to be wealthy a person may bring
down on himself much anxiety, envy, and intrigues. •Great
knowledge and insight: but that may merely sharpen his eye
for the dreadfulness of evils that he can’t avoid though he
doesn’t now see them; or it may show him needs ·that he
doesn’t know he has, and· that add to the burden his desires
already place on him. •Long life: but who can guarantee
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Immanuel Kant
him that it wouldn’t be a long misery? •Health: but often
enough ill-health has kept him from dissolute excesses that
he would have gone in for if he had been perfectly healthy!
In short, he can’t come up with any principle that could
with complete certainty lay down what would make him truly
happy; for that he would need to be omniscient. So in his
pursuit of happiness he can’t be guided by detailed principles
but only by bits of empirical advice (e.g. concerning diet,
frugality, courtesy, restraint, etc.) which experience shows to
be usually conducive to well-being. It follows from this •that
imperatives of prudence can’t strictly speaking command
(i.e. present actions objectively as practically necessary);
•that they should be understood as advice rather than as
commands of reason; •that the problem:
Settle, for sure and universally, what conduct will
promote the happiness of a rational being
is completely unsolvable. There couldn’t be an imperative
that in the strict sense commanded us to do what makes for
happiness, because happiness is an ideal not of reason but
of imagination, depending only on empirical grounds. ·This
means that whether a person will achieve happiness depends
on countlessly many particular facts about his future states·;
and there is absolutely no chance of picking out the actions
that will produce the right infinite totality of consequences
that will constitute happiness. If the means to happiness
could be stated with certainty, this imperative of prudence
would be an analytic practical proposition, for it would then
differ from the imperative of skill only in ·the way described
in paragraph (1) above, namely·: the imperative of skill is
addressed merely to a purpose that a person may have,
while the purpose of the imperative of prudence—·namely
happiness·—is given for every person. That leaves them the
same in this respect: each commands the means to something that the person is assumed to have as a willed purpose,
Chapter 2
so each commands the willing of the means to someone who
wills the end; and so each is analytic. So there is no difficulty
about how such an imperative is possible. [Both here, and at
the start (2) of the discussion of imperatives of prudence, Kant makes
it pretty clear that such imperatives are not actually analytic because of
the indeterminateness about what happiness amounts to, though they
would be analytic otherwise. He evidently thinks that if there is only this
barrier to their being analytic, their status as nearly analytic (so to speak)
makes them unproblematic.]
(3) On the other hand, the question of how the imperative
of morality is possible does call for an answer, for this
imperative is not hypothetical, and so what it presents as
objectively necessary can’t be based on any presupposed
purpose as in the case of hypothetical imperatives. But don’t
lose sight of the fact that it can’t be shown empirically—can’t
be shown by producing an example—that there are any
imperatives of morality; perhaps every imperative that seems
to be categorical is tacitly hypothetical. For example,
Someone says ‘You oughtn’t to promise anything
deceitfully’ and we ·take this to be categorical; we·
assume •that an action of this kind must be regarded
as in itself bad and thus that the imperative prohibiting it is categorical. (The alternative is to think
•that the necessity involved in this prohibition is mere
advice about how to avoid something else that is bad,
along the lines of ‘You oughtn’t to promise falsely, in
case people find out about it and your credit rating is
wrecked’.)
But we can’t point with certainty to any example in which
the will is directed by the law alone without any other
action-drivers, ·i.e. in which the will obeys a categorical
imperative·. In a given case this may appear to be so, but
it’s always possible that a fear of disgrace and perhaps also a
dim sense of other dangers may have had a secret influence
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Immanuel Kant
on the will. ·We can’t rule this out on empirical grounds·:
who can prove by experience that something doesn’t have a
cause ·of a certain sort· when experience can only show us
that we don’t perceive such a cause? In such a case—·i.e.
when other incentives are secretly affecting the will·—the
so-called ‘moral imperative’, which appears to be categorical
and unconditional, is in fact only a pragmatic injunction that
calls on us to attend to our own advantage.
it) involves the necessity that we require of a law.)
·I have spoken of one thing we are up against when trying
to show the possibility of categorical imperatives, namely
that we must do this a priori, without being able to appeal
to any empirical evidence that such imperatives do actually
exist·. Now for a second point about getting insight into
the possibility of a categorical imperative or law of morality,
namely: there’s a very solid reason why it will be hard to
do this, because this imperative is an a priori synthetic
•practical proposition.7
·We know already that· it is hard to see that •theoretical
propositions of this sort—·i.e. ones that are synthetic and
known a priori ·—are possible, so we must be prepared for at
least as much difficulty when it comes to •practical ones.
In approaching this task, let us first ask:
Doesn’t the mere concept of a categorical imperative
provide us with the form of words expressing the
proposition—the only ·kind of· proposition—that can
be a categorical imperative?
·Don’t think that answering Yes to this ends our task·. For
even when we know •how the imperative sounds—·i.e. how it
is worded·—the question of •how such an absolute command
is possible will require difficult and special labours to answer;
I shall get into these in the final chapter.
When I have the general thought of a hypothetical imperative, I can’t tell just from this thought what such an
imperative will contain. To know that, I have to know what
the condition is. But when I have the thought categorical
With each of the other two kinds of imperative, experience
shows us that imperatives of the kind in question do exist,
and the inquiry into their possibility is the search only for
•an explanation of them, not for •evidence that they exist. It
is not so with categorical imperatives. Our investigation of
their possibility will have to proceed purely a priori—starting
with no empirical presuppositions, and in particular without
the advantage of the premise that such imperatives actually
exist. ·That they do exist is one of the things we may hope to
establish through our inquiry into their possibility·. (In the
meantime—·though this is an aside·—this much at least may
be seen: the categorical imperative is the only one that can
be taken as a practical law, while all other imperatives may
be called principles of the will [here = ‘movers of the will’] but not
laws. This is because what is merely necessary-for-attainingsome-chosen-end can be regarded as itself contingent, ·as
can be seen from the fact that· when we give up the end in
question we get rid of the instruction stated in the imperative.
In contrast with this, an unconditional command leaves the
will no freedom to choose the opposite, so that it (and only
7
Chapter 2
·When I affirm a categorical imperative·, I connect the action with the will a priori, and hence necessarily, without making this conditional on the
person’s preferring to achieve this or that end. (Though I do this objectively, i.e. under the idea of a reason that has complete control over all its
subjective motivators.) So this is a practical proposition that doesn’t analytically derive the willing of an action from some other volition already
presupposed (for we don’t have the perfect will that would be needed for there always to be such a volition, ·namely a volition to obey the moral law·)
Rather, the proposition connects the action directly with the concept of the will of a rational being as something that •isn’t contained in it ·so that
the connection •isn’t analytic·.
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Immanuel Kant
imperative, I know right away what it will contain. For all
the imperative contains is
the law, and
the necessity that the maxim conform to the law;
and the law doesn’t contain any condition limiting it
(·comparable with the condition that is always part of a
hypothetical imperative·). So there is nothing left for the
maxim to conform to except the universality of a law as
such, and what the imperative represents as necessary is
just precisely that conformity of maxim to law.8
So there is only one categorical imperative, and this is it:
·Act only on that maxim through which you can at the same
time will that it should become a universal law·.
Now if all imperatives of duty can be derived from this one
imperative as a principle, we’ll at least be able to show what
we understand by the concept of duty, what the concept
means, even if we haven’t yet settled whether so-called ‘duty’
is an empty concept or not.
The universality of law according to which effects occur constitutes what is properly called nature in the most
general sense,. . . .i.e. the existence of things considered as
determined by universal laws. So the universal imperative
of duty can be expressed as follows: Act as though the
maxim of your action were to become, through your will,
a universal law of nature.
I want now to list some duties, adopting the usual division
of them into •duties to ourselves and •duties to others, and
into •perfect duties and •imperfect duties.9
8
9
Chapter 2
(1) A man who has been brought by a series of troubles
to the point of despair and of weariness with life still has his
reason sufficiently to ask himself: ‘Wouldn’t it be contrary
to my duty to myself to take my own life?’ Now he asks:
‘Could the maxim of my action ·in killing myself· become a
universal law of nature?’ Well, here is his maxim:
For love of myself, I make it my principle to cut my
life short when prolonging it threatens to bring more
troubles than satisfactions.
So the question is whether this principle of self-love could
become a universal law of nature. If it did, that would be
a nature that had a law according to which a single feeling
•created a life-affirming push and also •led to the destruction
of life itself; and we can see at a glance that such a ‘nature’
would contradict itself, and so couldn’t be a nature. So
the maxim we are discussing couldn’t be a law of nature,
and therefore would be utterly in conflict with the supreme
principle of duty.
(2) Another man sees himself being driven by need to
borrow money. He realizes that no-one will lend to him
unless he firmly promises to repay it at a certain time, and
he is well aware that he wouldn’t be able to keep such a
promise. He is disposed to make such a promise, but he
has enough conscience to ask himself: ‘Isn’t it improper and
opposed to duty to relieve one’s needs in that way?’ If he
does decide to make the promise, the maxim of his action
will run like this:
A maxim is a subjective principle of acting, and must be distinguished from the objective principle, which is the practical law. The maxim contains
the practical rule that reason comes up with in conformity with the state the person (the subject) is in, including his preferences, his ignorances, and
so on; so it is the principle according to which the subject acts. The law, on the other hand, is the objective principle valid for every rational being,
and the principle by which the subject ought to act; that is, it is an imperative.
Please note that I reserve the ·serious, considered· division of duties for a future metaphysic of morals, and that the present division is merely one I
chose as an aid to arranging my examples. . .
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Chapter 2
as a rational being, he necessarily wills that all his abilities
should be developed, because they serve him and are given
to him for all sorts of possible purposes.
(4) A fourth man, for whom things are going well, sees
that others (whom he could help) have to struggle with great
hardships, and he thinks to himself:
What concern of mine is it? Let each one be as happy
as heaven wills, or as he can make himself; I won’t
take anything from him or even envy him; but I have
no desire to contribute to his welfare or help him in
time of need.
If such a way of thinking were a universal law of nature,
the human race could certainly survive—and no doubt that
state of humanity would be better than one where everyone
chatters about sympathy and benevolence and exerts himself
occasionally to practice them, while also taking every chance
he can to cheat, and to betray or otherwise violate people’s
rights. But although it is possible that that maxim should
be a universal law of nature, it is impossible to will that it
do so. For a will that brought that about would conflict with
itself, since instances can often arise in which the person in
question would need the love and sympathy of others, and
he would have no hope of getting the help he desires, being
robbed of it by this law of nature springing from his own will.
Those are a few of the many duties that we have (or at
least think we have) that can clearly be derived from the
single principle that I have stated on the preceding page.
We must be able to will that a maxim of our action become
a universal law; this is the general formula for the moral
evaluation of our action. •Some actions are so constituted
that their maxim can’t even be thought as a universal law
of nature without contradiction, let alone being willed to be
such. It’s easy to see that an action of that kind conflicts
with stricter or narrower (absolutely obligatory) duty. •With
When I think I need money, I will borrow money
and promise to repay it, although I know that the
repayment won’t ever happen.
·Here he is—for the rest of this paragraph—reflecting on
this·: ‘It may be that this principle of self-love or of personal
advantage would fit nicely into my whole future welfare, ·so
that there is no prudential case against it·. But the question
remains: would it be right? ·To answer this·, I change the
demand of self-love into a universal law, and then put the
question like this: If my maxim became a universal law, then
how would things stand? I can see straight off that it could
never hold as a universal law of nature, and must contradict
itself. For if you take a law saying that anyone who thinks he
is in need can make any promises he likes without intending
to keep them, and make it universal ·so that everyone in
need does behave in this way·, that would make the promise
and the intended purpose of it impossible—no-one would
believe what was promised to him but would only laugh at
any such performance as a vain pretence.’
(3) A third finds in himself a talent that could be developed
so as to make him in many respects a useful person. But
he finds himself in comfortable circumstances, and would
rather indulge in pleasure than take the trouble to broaden
and improve his fortunate natural gifts. But now he asks
whether his maxim of neglecting his gifts, agreeing as it does
with his liking for idle amusement, also agrees with what is
called ‘duty’. He sees that a system of nature conforming
with this law could indeed exist, with everyone behaving like
the Islanders of the south Pacific, letting their talents rust
and devoting their lives merely to idleness, indulgence, and
baby-making—in short, to pleasure. But he can’t possibly
will that this should become a universal law of nature or
that it should be implanted in us by a natural instinct. For,
25
Groundwork
Immanuel Kant
other actions, the maxim-made-universal-law is not in that
way internally impossible (·self-contradictory·), but it is still
something that no-one could possibly will to be a universal
law of nature, because such a will would contradict itself.
It’s easy to see that an action of that kind conflicts w...
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